eight-twenty

[eight-twenty]

Eight Things: freeing the headspace

Every year for my birthday I try to buy myself the nicest brand new pair of shoes I could find. I say brand new in bold letters because I shop in thrift stores by default. I never take shoe-buying so lightly because I only ever give up on shoes when they’re worn down to the sole. And I never take my birthdays so lightly because that’s the one day of the year when it does not feel like a sin to be selfish.

It’s still too early in the year and somehow if I really want to, I can simply just buy the shoes I have bookmarked in my head, and it bears no consequence to my finances. It feels unnerving to have something I want for myself simply within my reach.

This is in no way to subtly say I have reached financial independence by the way. I am well into my 30s and still just into my first year of having actual savings. I hate that this has to turn into something about money and I hate to admit that the lack of it for so long has been what’s kept me going. I feel like I’m more thankful for the lack of it than the abundance of it. How do I say that without sounding so ungrateful?

But the thought of buying something luxurious for myself when it's not my birthday feels like a sin I am capable of doing.

I now understand why people get sad on their birthdays. It’s so much easier to be hopeful than to actually be…happy.

—

I have been reading the novel version of the catholic bible lately for entertainment rather than enlightenment.

I’ve been digesting it the way I’ve read through Edith Hamilton’s Greek myths—because I don’t think there’s any harm in saying that the bible’s words have more myth than facts in it and that it is so cool how it has so much influence on history, architecture, and the present. understanding it away from the lens of what my catholic upbringing has taught me. Am I in any way more faithful now than I was, yes and no. Is there really a thing such as being more or less faithful; and is there a way of saying it without it equating to good or bad? 

—

I never fell short on romance (sorry!) though I have written or posted about it less. So many things I feel like I've taken for granted because I never really wrote about it, but the privacy of it finally feels comforting for someone who always felt like screaming the love i have to the ends of the earth. It has been nice. So much intimacy in the mundane such as leaving the lights on because one is still reading or taking turns in paying for groceries. And there are times when we cackle in laughter together remembering how toxic we were at certain eras in our relationship - it wasn’t on my list of intimate things to gush about but it certainly is a core memory. That's a special kind of bond right there. I love the boring kind of love so much.

—

okay, so that then feels like a natural segue to something I’ve long been holding in— I love Normal People so much that I would defend it against its haters (by defend I mean just block); yes it is boring, yes it intimate scenes were necessary and awkward and unsexy, yes they clearly lack communication, yes they are toxic (to each other and others), yes it should end that way because that is how normal people are (okay, Paul Mescal and Daisy Edgar-Jones may have god-like features and chemistry); commenting about how they should be this or that or attempts to try and fix what they are and what they have makes them perfect people, not Normal People no?

--

lately, it has felt so nice to be referred to as a creative (a noun, not an adjective).

and I will bask in that. maybe that will have to just be my personality. my creativity has always been hinged on what has existed versus what is to exist. I think that stems from my scarcity/poverty mindset, that I'll have to make do with what I currently have. thus, collages, personal essays, and concepts for low-budget ad campaigns.

--

speaking of ~personality~, I am now an e-reader, thanks to my husband who bought me a kindle for he may have been prompted by the sight of me slicing a big book in half with a knife because bringing the whole book was too big for me to carry on my daily commute. I still love tangible books so much #LongLivePrint, but the convenience of e-reading is just *a chef's kiss. I've finished a trilogy in less than 3-weeks and the Kindle (I call it Kindle Jenner) may be to blame.

--

I love/hate how we have words for everything now--and that these words are not just trends or lingo but they factor into lifestyles and it alters the brain chemistry more than we allow it to. #GirlDinner #GirlMaths #CleanGirl #BedRotting and don't get me started on therapy speak. I also recently just blocked the words 'eldest daughter' on my timelines because it is getting annoying at this point.

--

fantasizing about: the three tattoos I've been itching to have. One is a reference to Icarus, one is about writing, and one is a word that adds more meaning the more it repeats itself. why I'm talking in riddles about this, I really don't know.

[eight-twenty]

Most days in my head i am a coming of age main character in a county in Ireland; smoking cigarettes i hate, with fringe bangs too short, a mentality too mature for people my age, still swallowed by catholic guilt. And this is an entry to her diary.

This is a work of fiction—a creative exercise if you will—and I mean no disrespect to the Irish language, I admire it so much in fact. Sure I only sound more defensive saying that.

———————————

3rd Sunday of August.

Ah, today’s a Sunday, but I dodged church, blaming it on period cramps, much to me mother’s dismay. I haven’t missed it yet. Not technically as I’m writing this. Ma’s always keen on being an hour early to church. She already left. Normally she would have called out my bluff and would’ve said a homily’s worth about how the Lord only asks an hour of my day. But today she surprisingly was calm about the idea of her only daughter potentially heading to hell.

I’m feeling to knackered to practice my faith today—I haven’t been devout for long. It shouldn’t be so exhausting to sin, considering I’m less Catholic by the day. Should feel less buggered to Skip holy the Sabbath day. Bah. It’s more sin to be a hypocrite in church. If anything, I should feel less guilty about it.

I only go church to please me Ma. Sorry, God, but I reckon I worship me mother more, even if we rarely see eye to eye. We don’t necessarily fight. But we don’t also talk about boys I fancy over a cup of tea. My mother is a fucking saint. So regardless of me being a good daughter by the book (really good grades, no drugs, home by reasonable hours, hormones in control, etc.), I am always a hair out of place closer to hell in her standards. This week most especially.

Me mother found me pack of cigarettes. She did not know I’ve been smoking—at least not in her presence just yet. She found it while she was sorting my pile of clothes for laundry last Friday. I forgot I stashed one in the front pocket of my jacket. Could’ve blamed it on Madison (Ma always thought I was too good to be her friend), but I was too exhausted to lie. I feel the disappointment in her, the way she placed it on me bedside table (placed, not thrown. On the table, not garbage bin) and walked out of the room (she did not close the doors, she did not also slam it shut).

The pack is there on the table exactly the way she left it. Pretty sure there was a lighter in the pockets. Wonder what she has done with that. If she used it to burn my clothes, fair enough. But they’re drying under the sunlight outside. I’m not sure if her disappointment stems from the idea of her daughter trying to kill her self with every pack smoked or if she’s disappointed because I turned out to be just like me dad.

I don’t even like smoking because it reminds me of dad. I don’t even think it’s cool. I am not trying to be poetic about it. But I hate being stuck in social situations more, and the excuse to smoke has been my only reprieve. I guess I’d literally rather off myself than admit I hate going out with me mates. There’s a difference between hating the social situations you’re forced to be in to fit in versus hating the people. I love ‘em, but rather unfortunate or me that their idea of having fun involves a dance floor and bursting one’s eardrums out. Like me faith I guess, I do believe in a being bigger than me (than all of us), but do I really have to display it so dutifully in pews and choir songs.

I’ve been using smoke breaks as an excuse to break away from it all while still participating to be part of the gang. Disappearing without the need to declare my exit and to reappear only when I felt the need to. “Oh she’s out for a smoke.” “Oh she may not be coming back”

It started when I went out from the club because I couldn’t stand Marianne’s cousin breathing down my neck. Instead of decking him, I went out in the guise of a ‘smoke break’. Thank the lord he does not smoke—had a case of asthma I heard. Maybe I should’ve pressured him for a smoke.

I merely wanted to just give my selves a few minutes of outside air. I pretended I was looking for a pack in my empty pockets. But like some angel in disguise, a hand offered me a pack “have some” like it were a pack of gum. “Thanks” I said and it was lit up while I tried to put the stick in my mouth. Surprisingly, I did not cough up. I was actually good at it. Being good at something (even if it is smoking) is addictive.

Had a grand time in the smoker’s area. No one felt the need to talk to me, I didn’t feel obligated either. There was a communal exchange of light and the consentual exchange of poisonous air. A safe haven of people who just want to bugger off. It felt nice. Felt worth burning me lungs for this respite.

Maybe that was my church. Because church pretty much had the same aesthetic, smoke from the incense and the communal religious experience of escaping from the real world.

I pray mother knows that I’m not doing this to anger her, not specifically. But god did I feel so guilty. The 4th commandment didn’t exactly say Honor Your Mother and Father by not smoking. But it feels like it does.

Bless me mother for I have sinned, I meant for you to find me pack of smokes so you’d expect less of me and see more of me as a person who only looks like me dad but is hell-bent not to become the person he is (or was).

Ever wonder if I’d l believe in the concept of sin if I wasn’t raised catholic?

Feck this catholic guilt. No this isn’t catholic guilt. I’m not feeding more into the institution’s ego. It’s me being me ma’s good daughter. Feck it, I’m off to church.

#Spotify

[eight-twenty]

Eight things: (The Lack of) Life Lately

the world is shite rn. but we are expected to live life normally somehow. so here's life.

Finding the fountain of youth I just turned 31 and a month, and the fading youth is starting to show. From the whites on my hair, the slowing metabolism, and the crackles from joints I never knew existed and the dimming lights on my eyes. When I was young (literally just more paychecks and a year ago) I used to find youth in trendy ampoules of skincare and habits guised under #selfcare. Now I've been finding it thru the consumption of things I used to (and should've enjoyed) as a kid, healing the inner child per se. In case it has not been sprawled out in my online spaces, I have been devouring Anime*, DraMione fan fiction**, Windows 2000 games, library trips, and for a brief moment of pure bliss I've been intentionally away from being online. 10/10 will recommend. Ironically, I've started this extra anti-aging routine thru the discovery of "The Life Lessons with Uramichi Oniisan", a limited anime series about a 31 year old children's host (I do children's parties on the side too!) who struggle behind the scenes work and his own bleak life. The consumption of childish media has put my mind in such a numbing state and I've somehow learned to take life less seriously--the hand drawn characters on screen can do the hardcore living for me. *Currently, the state of the world is giving off Marleyan and Eldian energy yeah? **Started by testing the waters through Manacled that it left a whole in my chest in the end, and found healing through DMATMOOBIL (the best after-cure of Manacled's dark themes) and Remain Nameless (the perfect combination of above titles). Escapism at its best. Living the cringe but free thirties indeed.

2. Relearning to be comfortable with visibility. Lately, I have been so careful about visibility, at least online. Lately, every piece of content I give away to the internet feels like creating a horcrux. Preserving my being through self expression online didn't use to feel so painful until of late. The online space used to be my refuge, the space where my irl personality could shine through because all I ever need to show up for it are words; it also used to be the place I can comfortably showcase my so-called income generating 'talents' (okay, not so-called, I know I'm capable) to make up for the lack of popularity and nepo connections. However, I have such a love-hate relationship with being recognized. Having an ounce of validation makes me want to squirm into a cave. Having too little recognition also makes me feel I'm doing my god-given skills a disservice. It takes a certain amount of privilege to not have to put your self out there, especially for someone who needs (and wants) and audience to shine through in their areas of passion. I am continuously learning and coming to terms that my work would never speak for itself without me calling attention to it. It's actually quite arrogant of me to think that people will just flock to my work--and to assume appreciating me for the raw talent without self-promoting makes me better than anyone. As a wise philosopher of my generation once said:

3. Inexisting is a fantasy that keeps me going.

Visibility being said, being invisible irl sounds so good rn. Being away from it all but without having to die or without having to be obliviated from existence has become a concept I've loved toying with lately I know I can't be invisible, but I can be inside a Pikachu mascot for a day, and that's the closest I can ever get to inexisting--and I kind of want that.

photo from reddit

Having to participate in society has become so daunting.

4. I've been going to church on Sundays again Hozier, my lord and saviour, once sang "If there was anyone to ever get through this life with their heart still intact, they didn't do it right." to which I also say "If you've been through catholic school all your life with your faith still intact, you didn't do it right"

Without the outside pressure of guilt, going to church on your own terms feels like therapy; the idea that someone else who is bigger and better than you is to be blamed for your misfortunes (and luck) feels nice. 5. Random wedding detail nobody asked for: I am a girl dad's gworl. I purposely didn't have a father-daughter dance at my wedding (as per tradition) because I hated the idea behind it, of it symbolizing the father giving his daughter (or responsibility) to the now husband. Why can't people just get married without the thought of having to be given away--or having give up the life you loved living. marriage built on other people's beliefs is so weird, man.

Husband

General piece of advice that nobody also asked for: Marry based on your idea of what a marriage entails, even if it's not practiced by many. Do it to create your definition, not by tradition.

6. The fear of "utang na loob" will ultimately be my downfall in this country life. Everything they say (by they i mean sitcoms) about Canada is true. People in Canada are awfully nice and are painfully so sincere about wanting to help. And perhaps the reason I'm struggling more than necessary is because not only do I now know/want to ask for help, but also because I don't know how to receive help without feeling like my life is to be built in returning the favor upon acceptance.

7. A charcuterie board of cheesy feelings I am also reaccepting how I am a super cheesy person at the core. I simply can't be cynical and detached (i have tried). I like reaching out first, i like sharing paragraphs about my latest obsession, i like take cares and nice meeting yous, sweetness and earnestness. I like giving warmth and affection. i think it's cool to.

I never really understood the idea of self-preservation. I never learned to quantify generosity when it comes affection (love, trust, even money). To quantify emotions and feelings (e.g. subscribing to the idea of not knowing how to love anymore because you've given to someone who didn't deserve it) is like believing in the concept of virginity—that a woman becomes 'less than' once it has been given. it's silly and outdated. To borrow from my (not a philosopher) old tweets filed under the thread "concepts and ideals that we need to stop preaching because the world is entirely different now"

the world continues to be entirely different the last time i thought it was different (taking at a worse turn i believe). send a paragraph long message of nothing to someone. that will surely mean everything. 8. Consistency remains to be a concept I struggle with, and that I believe is the solution to my being. Consistency to me is stripping away sincerity in exchange, and I have always preferred the latter.

[eight-twenty]

Eight Things: July in the rain

It’s raining while I’m typing these thoughts down. It’s simply a song lyric. It’s not that deep. Pretty much like the rest of what I’ll be typing down.

In the grand scheme of things—by things, I mean social media—I realize I am never gonna be ‘cool’ in it (I may not even be cool irl). What I want to say is I can never really be cryptic, mysterious, and nonchalant (I get that some people just dgaf sincerely). I am a chalant girl in a nonchalant world (though it's giving not like other girls vibe). I’m a long paragraph caption person, an oversharer, I find delight in the exchange of raw ideas and emotions. I am other girls. In that sense, maybe I am just chronically online and hyperaware. I get that I may never leave social media because the career path I’m in demands I sell my soul to it. As if my crippling self-awareness isn’t enough to feed my demons.

Self-awareness being said, I've noticed I post things about the 'grind' too often—being very millennial of me. But introspection tells me it has been my way of coping with the sense of guilt, like a part of me knows happiness is only achieved when it comes from struggle. Life has given me so many reasons to be contented about, but my efforts don't seem to justify that. It's hard to teach this brain that the universe can just be nice to you for no reason at all. I hope it does not come out as glorification of the grind. And even if it did, why should I care. Why am I even explaining it now. I should be explaining how happiness, satisfaction, and contentment and three similar but also different words. And I don't know which of those I am. But I know I am one of those, if not all. Or none at all.

3. If my offline brain were a person, it would be Daniel Sloss. I’ve never realized the real meaning of sapiosexual ‘til words came out of this person’s mouth, as is with many other comedians in my opinion; but Daniel Sloss just took my brains out unfiltered and somehow made money from it. Maybe seeing a touring comedy show for the first time (and from my favorite one no less) has been one of life’s latest highlights, and perhaps a mark of age. I just know 27 year old me would never pay tickets to see a man just talk, that money is well-spent on concerts of artists I may only know the A-tracks of.

Howevers: ☝🏻. The collective ‘Hahas’ in a theatre room full of people meant there are people as unhinged as I am to be laughing at certain topics of the show

☝🏻. The collective ‘Hahas’ of people meant I’m inhaling exhaled laughters in the air. My post-covid era brain was on alert. Immediately the next day, my voice sounded hoarse. “This is COVID, I know it” to which my irl husband said “kinsa ma’y di ma pagaw nga sige man ka’g shagit gabii.” Suffice to say, I did enjoy every bit.

For the nth time, I feel so vulnerable saying this, but watch ‘Dark’ or ‘Jigsaw’ on Netflix and let me know what you think. If it’s simply not your cup of tea, go on with your life. I love you for trying. But, if you disliked it with so much passion in a ‘is it supposed to be funny’ kind of way, do email me. And if you do happen to like it but are too scared to admit it because it somehow exposes you—email me eitherway. Let’s start an email thread of unhinged thoughts.

4. When I say I don’t like asking for help, it’s not an ego thing. It means I do not want my problem to be other people’s burdens. I fear inconveniencing others, that’s it. It’s never about the ego. stop shoving that narrative. Stop fueling my anxiety and my people pleasing tendencies because I will then resort to accepting help inorder to not be perceived as arrogant; or I will ask for help if the idea of being able to help pleases you, and that my asking for help is actually more to your benefit than it is to mine. So, thank you. Let me help you help me. 5. Barbenheimer. Of course, as a functioning person of society—but also thanks to Scene+ points for the free moves—we get to participate in the Barbenheimer phenomenon and we watched it in the way god intended to — back to back with only 5 minutes to spare inbetween movies.  I feel like I'm Barbenheimer to the core, having been raised by barbie dolls and war genre novels. I'm fully aware I've had a privileged childhood based on the toys I grew up with--barbie dolls, doll houses, polly pockets, cabbage patch kids, robots, trains, playstation 1s and an access to the internet at 8 years old which mean access to MyScene dot com.

I was a Nolee & Chelsea bias

6. Unsurprisingly, I don't feel so heartbroken about not getting tickets to the Eras tour. Maybe because my Swiftie-ness is simply just rooted on her way with words (and her celebrity personality!). The rest I believe is just really really good PR & marketing. Don't cancel me. This is accurate though:

I still stand by the things that she does on the mattress version (ok, maybe cancel me) 7. I'm about to turn a year older! Specifically the final number on the calendar (31). Again, always excited about birthdays regardless of age. And again, it always paves way for deep dives into my eras. I'm thankful to have been so cringe, because I've led my self to believe that I've let all the cringe out of my system. I'm glad I did loud and proud young, I'm glad I was never not my self no matter how bad the choices I made were. Sure, she could have been better, and sure she did things even if she knew better. But hey, you can only be young and cringe once. I'm closer to 40 than I have been 20. Shit. I promised my self that when I'm still alive by 40, I'll make change happen. For now, I still have 9 more years of simply allowing change to just happen. Exciting. 8. I honestly think I will miss school, in the most type A kind of way. I will miss the routines, learning something new, relearning something I thought I knew, feeling young, making friends in a classroom setting, accomplishing research papers, and just the idea of academia. Something I never really respected during my university days back home, but maybe because it never really felt they respected us students as well (it was a catholic school). Anyway, here's to hoping I find writing here a way to create a continuity in the routine; and more to hoping I continue to find happiness, satisfaction, and contentment in converting my thoughts & experiences into words to share with you, internet person.

[eight-twenty]

What does the "perfect date" with Chanyeol look like?

Thank you for that delusional question. It's giving:

but I would also say the perfect date is during the Aries season to complete the superior Fire Sign energy (kase Sagittarius siya, Leo ako--incase the world needs to know #facts); specifically on March 27th kase birthday yan ni Kuya Rems. Thank you.

[eight-twenty]

Hi ate, how do you say goodbye to your 20s

You don't leave your 20s. You don't get to start over, no.

You simply say hello to your 30s instead and take your 20s with you arm to shoulder. You don't treat it as the third friend who had to walk behind because the sidewalk is too narrow.

Your 20s is the space in your home that's a replica of your childhood bedroom back in your parent's house—the one that wasn't always how you wanted it, but when you do return to it, you somehow hope it still is the way you left it. Your 20s is your plus one so you can be comfortable at a stranger's party where your 30s is the stranger—or else 20s shows up uninvited & unwelcome screaming your name across the hall. You don't say goodbye in hopes you could put on the idealized, the aspirational, and the never-ending cycle of pretending perfection. You take your 20s with you, perhaps drunk on your shoulder, as you knock 30s' door; "you should have known better", it says, and it welcomes you anyway. you can only hope they do know better.

[eight-twenty]

Hi, I've Been Writing. And This Does not Have to be Relevant. Or Celebratory.

I am writing to you from the floor, my back hunched, in a place that's just an address to me. I moved from Southeast Asia to Northern America, and I've been far from home for almost a year—writing about it adds to the reality of it, it makes it feel all too real. And in some ways, I have deviated from doing so.

As a child of livejournal-dot-com, my brain has been wired to believe that my life needs to be documented through words for anyone to read. It does not. Nobody really cares. But I will write it anyway. I have long been meaning to.

I am thinking about ways to restructure and repair my relationship to writing & the internet, or shall we say 'content creation' in ways I can share with you. Thinking of ways to truly center publishing as a form of expression, not glorification, monetization, and consumption.

I don’t have the answers to how I can do that sustainably yet. It's not new. This expression of feeling that my relationship with writing has been corrupted. 

I've been avoiding writing on my Substack more than I hoped I would because a little voice in my head tells me it's too intrusive. I don't want my writing to be perceived as 'influencing'—by that, I mean something that is reactionary rather than authentic; preachy than it is just a chronicle of a personal experience; curated than it is effortless.

Ironically, I know deep down why I haven't written in so long is because I have been anxiously trying to put my writing in this 'strategic box' (because that's been my career); my writing has been so rooted in the invisible standards set about by age and this capitalist society.

Writing means so much to me in a way that only I and my 9-year-old self could understand. What I lacked in my IRL personality (thanks to anxiety), I made up for words on a blank page.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I do miss the peak of LiveJournal, WordPress blogs, and Tumblr. That was the most authentic I've felt the world was in a long while.

But this is also why I'm writing now. I've been trying to find joy in having no idea with what I'm doing. I have been trying to celebrate curiosity. And I hope that curiosity leads me to find things worth my time, commitment, and energy. And even if it doesn't, at least the journey toward it will be full of bliss and lessons worth sharing.

And I hope you find the same too.

----------

I've been long meaning to write about nostalgia--that in this hyperconnected yet divided world, the yearning for 'the good old times' is what truly binds us; from the reading sections of National Bookstores, running home to watch Meteor Garden, to huddling together to watch Showtime on a 'China Phone'. Feelings that are all unique yet similar.

I also have this working theory where 'the Housing Financial Crisis of 2008' was when Christmas celebrations all went downhill from there. Coincidentally, ABS-CBN's Star Ng Pasko was released in 2009.

I am always up for a brainstorm.

[eight-twenty]

Postcards from a short walk

Current state: Finally understanding why so many songs are inspired by the season of fall.

....is it beautiful because it’s fleeting, or is it short because beautiful things are not meant to last so long. Does beauty have to fade with time.

I’ve read that the red on leaves act as a protective sunscreen, helping leaves stay on the trees for longer so more nutrients can still be harvested from them. The fiercer the red, the harder it is trying to stay alive.

I try to check the time. I was measuring my walks based on full-length albums. I see we are down to the 11th song of The 1975’s recently released album. I once read that this specific song is a continuation of “Robbers”. I am reminded that we are nearing the Tumblr renaissance, with The 1975, Carly Rae Jepsen, and Taylor Swift (ft. Lana del Rey) about to dominate our well-beings again.

I would be lying if I didn’t say that these comebacks do not scare me. Because it reminds me so much of my people-pleasing era lol. For quite a time I've been on a Taylor/Lana (basically the tumblr era) withdrawal because I want my feelings to feel valid in the sense that they're unswayed by lyrics and words I wish I wrote.

I have been so protective of what I consume, less concerned about what I publish; and that’s a good thing; I suppose, as a writer. Am i still one though?

My mama bought stuffed animals and sent this photo of what she says are my dogs (Silver and Gol-d, with my nephew); it is now one of my favorite photos. Walking through neighborhoods with polished lawns and houses too big, it often feels criminal to be here—to not have the people you’ve worked half your life for to share the life they too, deserved.

When your dreams are for someone else, specifically your parents, you realize you're in a race with time—and mortality. For now, I allow my self to just walk.

[eight-twenty]

Good Karma, Maybe.

Today is thanksgiving in Canada, a holiday I only happen to see celebrated in special episodes of sitcoms. I’ve been living life in the backdrop of scenes I only used to see on TV screens—the colors of fall, reading books at a park, walking so carelessly on a sidewalk. It's all too good, too kind, too easy. It is so easy to be grateful when you’ve been in a place where you had nothing (and had nothing to lose). Ironically, it has been hard to list down things I’m grateful for because having more than nothing feels overwhelming. I’m finding the words to strike the balance between empathy without undermining my joys; without having to feel bad about feeling good; without having to treat misery as a creative currency. When you’re so used to having to work for the things you want, it becomes difficult to accept anything else that does not come from your tired hands. It’s hard not to come off as ungrateful. At some point I think it's a matter of pride—that I have become unwilling to accept anything good unless the credit goes entirely to me. Every time I encounter a circumstance that is kind or easy, I should stop thinking that easy is not something I have to pay off soon. Or that easy is not helping me grow or build character. I have to believe that when things are kind and easy it’s because I deserve kind and easy.

It is Thanksgiving day today. I am thankful today and on all other days. That i have had the opportunities to be where i am now; that there’s spare change in my pockets somehow. that I don't have kids to worry of and to share limited resources with; that I have access to a library where I could borrow books; that my husband still brings me books; that there's food in the fridge; that my parents are well; that i have people i get to call friends; that i have a bed to sleep on with dreams yet to be accomplished; that I still have time; that I am exhausted—because that means I can feel so good about being in a place that is kind and easy.

[eight-twenty]

The Fates

#greek myth art #greek mythology #mythologyedit #myth #collage #art #digital collage

[eight-twenty]

Eight Thirty

I've long prepared to bid adieu to the 20s in the best way I know how—through an unsolicited long online essay. Yet, the universe had its plans, and as always, it has turned to be better than I could've hoped for.

For now, there is cheap cake peeking through my tote bag. For now, I am happy. For now, I've realized that the feeling of being left behind in life only means there is life to look forward to. For now, I am 30. And for now, I am young.

[eight-twenty]

Metro Manila Musings

Things I miss and moments I crave for; written in a format I know Manila to be: chaotic, congested, rushed, hopeful, nostalgic, free.

The Morning Rush. Everyone in Manila is always late for something. I reminisce holding my taho and choice of sidewalk kakanin as I walk on whatever is left of EDSA’s sidewalks every morning. I am accompanied with good music and the distinct smell from the Ricoa factory—so you probably now know where in the stretch of the highway I am. I swear passersby may have seen me do a little dance sometime. Last minutes. forgetting appointments and commitments that oftentimes it’s a panic pack and then suddenly you’re on a bus ride to Zambales or somewhere beyond the Metro Manila map you’re used to—not exactly sure how to go home. taking comfort at the sight of the MRT track—because for as long as you know where the tracks are, you know where you are. the moment of validation and question where you’ve been to more places in the metro than those who’ve actually lived there—basically everyone is just as lost as you are. you will never get directions in Glorietta right. there is always a new milktea shop to try.  coffee shops are almost always too crowded.  shops close before you get a chance to visit. more international brands are coming in. there is always a local business to support. some cities will make you feel nostalgic and hopeful. some cities you just happen to pass by and never step foot on. some days you forget where you are. some nights are too good to remember. the karaoke confidence. tipsy walking to the nearest Mcdo like it were a mirage in the middle of the dessert. it’s always so blurry how you got home and how you held up your vomit in the elevators; Saturday mornings are spent cleaning up empty bottles and Sunday nights lying in existential dread. heading home in the prettiest dress but layering it on with the worst tote and paper bags for the extra clothes you thought you’ll change into. dragging your high heels to 7/11, carrying loads of camera equipment, taking whatever you can for the road. the early morning call times. the social batteries dying as evidenced on the silent trip home. The getting to know you’s and me’s; being asked my zodiac sign before my name—and then saying “my zodiac sign is the best”, and I will then assume they know it’s Leo. The forgetting peoples names. the asking for a press release copy everytime you come in and out of an event. the exchange of instagram accounts from people you know you’ll never meet again irl. the text ka pag naka uwi kana’s. meeting celebrities even before recognizing how big of a deal they actually were. the entertainment scene. PETA theater and the fighting for the good fight; the creative souls extinguished by burn out and public transpo. the petsa de peligros that taste of mini stop chicken that often become the best meals with the people who share the same paycheck to paycheck life as you. The landing. that brief moment when the plane lands on NAIA and you are once again full of hope and promise — only ‘to be sucked away at the claustrophobia-inducing Magallenes tunnel traffic; then you emerge to be bathed in the blinding lights of traffic jams and advertising billboards. The dreaming. the holding on to the resignation letter you couldn’t send just yet (it has been half a year already). clinging on to the passions you couldn’t pursue. there’s always so many things to do in this city. so much untapped potential. so many deadlines to chase and breaks you couldn’t take. Metro Manila takes the best of us, breaks the most of us, and leaves the rest of us longing, and hopeful, and tired. We tried. And I just know Metro Manila is trying, and is tired, too.

[eight-twenty]

I Talk to my Dog in Heaven Sometimes, and Today I Would Like to Talk About Her

I’ve long been meaning to put into words how much my life has changed since I’ve had a dog. Like all things Erika and Remil ever decided on, we got Chelsea on impulse. I have drafts on the things I’ve googled and learned about dogs; little anecdotes on how I talk to my dog (often in TikTok language) and that how my dogs are better humans than me. 

It has been difficult to write because there aren’t enough words to describe the joy; and unexpectedly, it has become a topic more difficult to discuss since we lost Chelsea from a terrible disease--I still cry to this day. But this is me writing it in a way that’s as crazy-chaotic as a husky, but in the most golden retriever way I know how.

On my regular walks with Chelsea, The Best Day (by Taylor Swift) played on random. Our short walks usually take about 5 songs. That day she only managed to finish one before we stopped because she was already too tired. But I was happy because we haven’t had those walks in a while. 

I usually take her to walks to make her happy. That walk specifically was her making me happy. That was our last walk together.

🎶Don't know how long it's gonna take to feel okay but I know I had the best day with you today 🎶

It has been a year. During one of my leisurely walks downtown, I happen to see a husky that very much reminded me of Chelsea--the height, curvature of the tail, the flufiness of the fur. “Awwe Chelsea”, I audibly say under my mask. 

I was too distracted by the husky that I crossed the wrong street. So, I took a turn to an unfamiliar corner that was supposed to still take me where I want to be; then, I saw books behind a window to which I am normally drawn to. The shop was closed, so I took a picture instead; and there are no words to describe how it felt when I saw the shop’s name thru the camera screen:

Chelsea :’) 

They say one human year is equal to 7 dog years. Chelsea only lived for 7 months in this world. I hope there is something profound from the analogy; like 7 meant heaven--something I now have to believe in because where else would she be.

When she died, I talked to my husband about the concept of rainbow bridges—this special place in heaven where the dogs that left us are perfectly healthy and happy playing with the other dogs while waiting for the loved ones they left behind on earth.

I never really found this comforting because “she was happy here”, I say selfishly. I say this with a guilt in my chest because she left this earth in the worst way dogs should—that is, not having her humans present. “But she was happy here”, I insisted, because she was and we wanted her to be.

“Maybe when we get there on the rainbow bridge, it only feels like we were gone for a day on Chelsea’s perspective”, my husband says as I was sobbing days after we buried her. “So it feels like we gave her a full day of freedom with the full knowledge that she still has us to come home to.” That was unexpectedly...profound.

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One of the ways I’ve coped with the loss of Chelsea was through an online support group on Facebook called: The Rainbow Bridge Pet Loss and Grief Support. It was a Facebook group of pet owners who have lost their pets, and the collective grieving was validating as it was comforting. Too often I found my self being the one giving comfort rather than seeking for it. There have been many comforting pieces I wish I took more screenshots of but I can only find this one:

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In the weeks of grieving and crying at the slightest triggers (dog hairs, a leash, or accidental scroll of photos), I forget that Remil was grieving too whilst giving me all the space to bawl. We grieved differently—Long-story short, it took two dogs (whom we love just as much!) to cope with the loss. 

They say Joji’s “Glimpse of Us” is for pet owners who lost a pet and have found comfort in a new one. But I don’t think it’s in a replacement way per se, but in a way that love can exist for many things, people, and dogs unquantifiably.

All this to say that dogs have made me more human; a better one at that. Hug your pets today.

[eight-twenty]

Standard Book of Spells

This piece was written like it were my Hogwarts graduation speech. This is a part of the re:written series

Standard Book of Spells: Alumni Edition (published: March 2015) Not much is told about the Hogwarts graduation—of how the ceremony ended with leaving the castle via the enchanted boats (exactly the ones that took us into Hogwarts for the first time in our first years!).

I remember my first train ride. I remember packing my things after my first OWL exams because I was pretty sure I’d get a ‘Troll’ on every magic-related test and that I'd be expelled for it. 

I remember spending most of my existence in the Ravenclaw common room, with its midnight blue carpets and an enchanted ceiling donned with the night stars. The walls were lined with books and the corners were adorned with instruments like they were forgotten museum artifacts.

 I remember not ever wanting to get out of the common room for two reasons: one, it was the closest thing to home; and two, I’m afraid of never being able to answer the eagle’s questions by the door.

I remember how my first common room password question took me almost an hour to wait for someone to answer it for me. "What caused the inter-country apparition to be banned?", the eagle on the door asked. "because they need to have a passport?" I answered in the most muggle way. I was *this* close to googling it, and then I remembered how muggle devices go haywire in the castle. The answer was extreme flinching, by the way.

I remember faking a prediction in Divination class like I faked my illness on the day we had to practice on slugs during Transfiguration. I just can’t with slugs. I remember staying up ’til midnight on Wednesdays because Wednesday nights mean Astronomy classes and I just couldn’t get enough of the cosmos – magical or not.

I remember having to polish the candelabra on the great hall as my detention because I was consistently late for my first-period classes (which was almost always Defense Against the Dark Arts). I never had the chance to discover the escape routes of the Detention chamber which I would’ve gladly shared.

And I also remember gaining house points because I was outstanding in Muggle Art (an extracurricular activity) – by simply creating caricatures of witches and wizards (something which muggles artists can always do better at). I say Muggle art because Art in Hogwarts’ context consisted of magical tools and paint.

I remember how the validation made me double proud as it contributed to winning the house cup in my third year. I remember the night we celebrated every house victory, how our common room stank of butterbeer, and of how we woke up on the common room floors the next day. I couldn’t count the number of times someone slipped on the staircases to the dormitories because they transformed into slides quite a lot that night (this happens when the opposite sex tries to enter the opposite sex’s dorm rooms, FYI).

I remember the screams we cheered on every quidditch match, I remember how they grew louder when there was an inter-school game. Though I’m positively convinced they were mostly fan-girl screams for the Durmstrang guys. I remember how I only had eyes for the Gryffindor prefect in our 5th year (hi, Remil!).

And I remember how Hogsmeade trips break me financially, but I’m glad I always had a friend to share Honeydukes expenses and goods with (Hi, Jatin!); I remember buying socks to send them to my dad, I didn’t know they screamed when they get too smelly. Imagine the heart attack it gave my mama and papa.

 I remember helping a lost first-year Hufflepuff, Anne Marielle, and how that encounter made me feel like a leveled-up student.  I remember making new friends over Tomen and scrolls: Kaitlin the happiest Slytherin girl, Charmaine Inah who reads too much she must be a Ravenclaw, Raisa who gave us Zonko’s treats (I should check if they’re safe), Ashley the proud Hufflepuff; Cherie, and Patrice both over-achieving prefects – of which I never really knew their houses..and a lot more whose faces I only knew.

I remember how meeting up with the lot on Diagon Alley at Forlean and Fortescue’s became a routine before we head to our respective houses as the term starts. I remember the familiar faces with the same fascination I have with Scribbulus – the wizard writing implements shop; I remember always having to pick secondhand wardrobes – and I’m not even complaining.

I couldn’t thank Hogwarts enough for making me the person I am today, although I never really excelled in its craft and I never figured out Arithmancy. I was almost always cramming spells over breakfast 'til my 7th year. I never really got used to ghosts floating through walls, as I will never get used to leaving a place that has been more than home.

I remember hugging everyone (regardless of house) on that fine graduation day; of fifth helpings of treacle tart and having our moving pictures taken. I remember how we raised and lit up our wands with respective house colors and threw our caps in the air as we sang the Hogwarts hymn on that final day.

And of course, the obligatory grad photo. “Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus”

I remember the castle fading into view, I remember refusing to take one last look behind as I got out of the enchanted boat.

Because I was pretty sure I’d only see an old ruin with a sign over the entrance saying ‘DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, UNSAFE.’ 

Because it makes me remember how only those who have not received their Hogwarts letter can see what I refused to see.

[eight-twenty]

RE:writing, :publishing, :miniscing

In case you’re new here, hi! I’ve been online and writing out in the open since I was 12, circa: livejournal.com. I fondly recall writing about the release of Harry Potter Goblet of Fire on the big screen as my first LiveJournal entry. 

18 years later and here I am—new to Tumblr, in a society with TikTok short video attention spans. 

So, why are we reminiscing, rewriting, republishing?

 Because for a time, I’ve been spending so much energy suppressing, cringing, and “curating” myself. 

I’m turning 30 in a few months, and I feel like this is my ceremonial adieu. My closure to the glorified 20s—my road to #CringeButFree30s

Ultimately, it feels like joining forces with the young me—the one who needed a mentor figure. All these to say I became the person she needed at that time--aww!

There’s no denying who I was—The girl who was heavily influenced by the era of Thought Catalog pieces, the Red album, and slam poetry. The look stupid, love loudly, live passionately (my holy trinity of toxic traits) girl who thought her life was a John Green novel. 

And of course, in the onslaught of rerecordings and owning our narratives, this is very much inspired by Fearless (TV) and Red (TV)—the two albums that covered the whole emotional spectrum of being young (and in love). It only made sense to be at peace with who I was.

Allow this to be my inventory of time, my self-collaboration, my shameless plug, my excuse to write, my public display of self love, and my gratitude to you.

I fondly call the re-writes my “greatest hits” because of the feedback and engagement they’ve received from the time they were published (I miss that warm little community).

So to you, who have been reading my words, ignored the typos, and have been so kind enough to comment, message, or even reshare my pieces—many of you turned out to be friends for keeps—thank you. 

 Many of you who were writers in your own rights too. I hope to see your words again—but only in a time that makes sense to you.

And because many of you are new here, hi! This was me.

Re: Writes

(links to be updated upon republish) 1. “Us”

2.  Do not date a Forward staff (inspired by the “Date a Girl Who Writes” era) 3. I Wouldn’t Want to Carry the Weight of Someone’s First Love 4. Standard Book of Spells 5. The Circumstances I Wish We’ve Met and Began Again 6. Un-Grad Speech 7. To When it Feels Like Letting Go 8. An Honest Letter to Anyone Who Was There Before Me 9. A List of I’s 10. Her 11. In Another Life 12. About 

[eight-twenty]

“Us”

Us was written about Remil (my now husband lol) and I’s re-encounters--what we now fondly recall as the first date. This is a part of the re:written series

“US”

(published October 2012)

We were in our uniforms; We were part-strangers back then. There was never an ‘us’. There was just you, me, and an escape.

It was in the October of 2012. It was the first time I heard you sing a song on the radio (it was Whistle by Flo Rida). You didn't know how to whistle. I did. We once knew so much about each other. And then we didn’t.

And now we don’t know where we were headed to. All I knew was we were kilometers apart from where I was supposed to be (or where you were supposed to be, too). We walked up a hill to get a decent view of the place. You talked of how you have once been here with your friends. Your stories of adventure and misdemeanor always got me hooked. It’s like I were a part of it somehow. Like time was never lost between us. 

You talked vividly of how you wanted a house atop a mountain with you sipping your coffee on your dream balcony with a scenic view similar to what we had at that moment.

In silence, I wondered if we could have adventures of our own. I wondered if I’d have the chance to sip coffee with you on that made-up balcony of yours. It was silly of me to think of that back then.

We seated ourselves away from people, away from it all, with our backs against the city and all the responsibility. 

There was not a hint of civilization from our point of view, no building and no city lights in sight, just a few untouched parts of nature. The clouds were too perfect at that time, or maybe clouds were always perfect and I never noticed it until then. Maybe they reflected on how perfect everything seemed and felt at that time.

We never talked of ‘us’, because we know it was too sudden, too awkward, or perhaps too wrong. You had a girl on your mind, I had a promise at the back of mine. Even that wasn’t enough to spoil what was once and would’ve been a rare chance.

Instead, we talked of ourselves. Of how your dad scares you sometimes, or how you always wanted to go back to your life as a kid in Inayawan. I wondered if you ever shared pieces of information with someone else before. Selfishly I hoped you never did because I never had shared mine with anyone else not until that afternoon. Of how I thought my life sucked and how I adored everything at the same time. We exchanged pieces of ourselves, friends, family, and life musings. We caught up on our lost time, it was as if we knew each other too as if we never left where we once left.

The amount of comfort allowed the non-stop free-flow of ideas and petty thoughts into actual words, and I liked that. All I wanted was to catch up with a friend, but I guess my feelings caught up with me way ahead.

And as the skies in front of us transit to a shade darker, we were slowly reminded of how temporary the moment would be. The firefly was the only distraction – the perfect distraction to hit us that it was all real, that we still live in the world we chose to leave momentarily that afternoon.

We parted ways, and perhaps I’d SMS you my ‘thanks’ and you’d reply with your ‘welcome’ and we wouldn’t know where it would take us next. 

It could be the last of it. I never asked how you felt that day, because I knew you couldn’t explain it too well, and because I was at a loss of words for it too.

You went on with your life, I went with mine. 

And maybe, just maybe, we’d talk about ‘us’ someday.

[eight-twenty]

I feel like hugging my 2013 self for having written the post above. So here is a warm embrace to her in the way we both know and accept hugs to be—through words: 

We’ve made it, Kai. The things we thought were unfair all made sense. 

I have extra cash for cake, books, a jeepney fare, and fancy pens—I wish I could give them to you—although at some point we may have stopped sketching and creating the things we love. However, we are finally paying for a decent internet connection at home and that home now has a TV that connects to the internet (amazing, I know). Sure, we may not have had our courses and graduation as we preferred, but that course and delayed graduation paid for your sister's dream college degree. And we are proud of her whatever she makes of it.

I am happy to report that we have a growing list of friends that deserve the world, some who are breadwinning just as you are; but in some way, we can afford fancy meals in restaurants or a little splurge here and there. You may see each other less and less, but they do make life more and more meaningful. 

Thank you for dreaming the simplest of things and keeping in the highest of hopes. Thank you for pouring your heart and screaming your thoughts out even when it felt like no one would hear you. I’m listening, and it’s all that matters—I should know. Because on most days, I try to be you again. And thank you for being brave enough to scream into the void. Because here I am still, trying to manifest just as loudly, dream so fiercely, and love so fearlessly in hopes that someday, future us would be here to reassure us that we’ve made it. Again. And again. 

I just wished you wished to be able to afford sunscreen as young as you were.   PS: It still takes me several attempts to spell privilege right.

You don't know about me, but I'll bet you want to Everything will be alright if we keep dancing like we’re, 2022 you.

Also, I’m sorry to say that we’re in college yet again (and hair still unkempt) after all these years. But you’ll be surprised to know where. I’m still surprised my self.  *wink wink (we still don’t know how to wink irl too)