kilapsaww

[kilapsaww]

death in the newsroom

one morning in january

a comrade falls

one short pause in chat groups

a shared crying emoji

our collective breakdown, suppressed

to make way for today’s headlines

[kilapsaww]

What’s up?

I know it’s unfair that I only go here when I’m either super sad or super happy, but I don’t want to bombard my secret Instagram accounts with bad energy anymore. 

These past few weeks have been difficult for me and I thought it was just because of my period. To my surprise, the bad feeling stuck around till after. I’m taking it as the repercussion of me creating a ~perfect work girl~ image of myself that I instantly stopped functioning when I realized I’m not and will never be perfect in what I do. I cannot talk to anyone about this at work because I feel like every single one them knows exactly what they’re doing. I can’t even make up for my past mistakes because I end up making new ones instead. I don’t want to please anyone anymore, I just miss the feeling of having something to look forward to. Once I get out of here, I will never let myself be in a position where I call the shots ever again.

#ihatetheheadlinesandtheweather

[kilapsaww]

oh my gosh i’m so tired of myself

[kilapsaww]

Stage fright

I become very much aware of my existence when I'm at Starbucks, forced to make eye contact to get my point across. And by point I mean my desired ratio of coffee to milk. What happens when I let my cravings get the best of me? I stutter in front of the cashier as if my drunk version has just been asked to recite the preamble.

As a child whose only dream was to join Little Miss Philippines, I never thought I would grow up shy. Shy does not even feel adequate a word, but I have been working on it since time immemorial. Not a Nutrition Month went by without me dressing up as an eggplant as I cajoled my fellow gradeschoolers into eating their damn vegetables. Eventually I upgraded to dancing Pussycat Dolls. To me, the stares either meant it was inappropriate for my age, or “Why don't you just try singing, Winona?"

So I did. My name was a staple in all chorale competitions back in high school. I was also a choir member until I could no longer afford to use God to overcome my stage fright. Every church song felt like my father’s funeral—so packed I wish I could just tweet my eulogy. When I invited a former lover to watch me sing onstage back in college, I was secretly the happiest when he did not show up.

If there’s a pill for this, please, I’m tired of the non-non-fat milk venti caramel macchiato for “Donna,” “Miona,” “Fiona,” and all the other coffee shop versions of my name I never bothered to correct.

[kilapsaww]

There are many reasons I should get back to playing music: A new acoustic guitar, a piano, a looper (a LOOPER! This was all I wanted back in college, when Kimbra was my musical patron saint), and some fresh sets of picks and strings. My musician stepfather thinks I'm still the same Winona who stayed up late memorizing the chords to my favorite Taylor Swift songs. But for years now I have maintained long fingernails. My uke has developed its own ecosystem out of cobwebs. My electric guitar strings have gone brittle. I'm not ready to admit I've outgrown the hobby.

[kilapsaww]

Our home has become my second home since I started working in 2018. I only get to enjoy the privilege on weekends, with my Saturday rest even disrupted for hours due to other work commitments. I have become a guest to my own house but it was never difficult for me to make my presence felt. It’s not intentional though--how I leave a piece of me at random places. Next thing I know, my keys are resting on the altar, my phone charger squeezing itself in the sofa, and my almost-dirty jacket having the time of its life on my brothers’ bed. I can almost hear my Mom say if my nose weren’t attached to my body, it would long be gone. In my defense, I know where I place my stuff. I oddly have all the misplaced memorized. In short, I maintain an organized mess. Does that even make sense? Nope. 

To more kalat this 2020. Will update you once I’ve changed.

[kilapsaww]

Of hands and roaches

Some six pairs of hands operate in this iota of an old condominium unit in Mandaluyong. I say some--because at least two pairs are of domestic advantage to other homes most of time. The six pairs are usually trimmed to four--all operational only after 10 p.m. on weekdays.

The scarcity of pairs to religiously keep it all neat is evident in the many roaches that welcome me when I get home. I catch a bunch of them running for their lives as soon as I switch the lights on. Party is over for the tiny ones. But the grownups are less intimidated, they just crawl around while I clean myself, brush my teeth, or sort my clothes. It's a mortal sin to leave newly washed plates outside the cupboard for hours, as that would send a dishwasher back to square one.

The roaches are getting out of hand, and I'm finally using my pair to look for a new place in other pockets of this city. Any recos?

[kilapsaww]

Confessions of an armchair journalist

MY THIRD article for the day involves a scuffle between President Rodrigo Duterte and Vice President Leni Robredo. The chief executive is insisting to have the latter take charge of his anti-drug campaign. The veep, backed by her vocal supporters, takes time to accept the random offer. If her retaliation was quicker and had read something like, “Bring it on,” there would be less room for the DDS to call her “duwag,” “tamad,” “Leni lugaw,” et cetera. I weave together the statements of the two highest officials of the land while munching on some stale pan de sal at my office in Mandaluyong.

I could call it a day except I am running late to a story conference for my other job. I prepared more than five story proposals just in case my executive producer comes in late again: Brexit delays, Trump’s looming impeachment, the Hong Kong turmoil, the simultaneous unrests in Chile, Lebanon, and Bolivia, and the deadly earthquakes that jolted parts of the Philippines just so I could squeeze in my corner of the world to the weekly global newscast I produce for.

I should be going home after securing my story assignments for the show, but I have so far pleased only three out of four bosses. That’s how my Wednesdays go: I cry a river of digital content while producing a morning talk show, scour for raw news clips from the Associated Press’s video bank, and then play a virtual tug-of-war on Viber with my anchor for a radio show that airs on Saturdays. Sometimes I wonder how I get things done and still manage to sleep, and then I remember I am just in the comforts of a dim-lit, airconditioned, rumored-to-be-close-to-bankruptcy office.

The jobs I juggle as a fresh graduate are a stark contrast from what I envisioned. While close to a thousand students belted the university hymn on our graduation day, I was busy daydreaming of seeing my byline on any of the three major dailies in the country. I have always wanted to become a print journalist. It was probably an inherited interest from my father, who unfortunately died too early to stop me from walking the same dangerous path he did. But I had constantly convinced myself that the mole on my right foot meant the Lord had pre-assigned me to scrape the field for exclusive stories, except my mother would say it only symbolized my being “layas.”

I left the office just before the sun flirted with the gigantic “M” that points to McDonald’s. My condo unit is just roughly 100 steps from the fast food chain. I got myself some burger and fries before proceeding to the dilapidated building I call home.

“Wahaha di mo kc kaya LENI LUGAW.. BBM is real vp..”

“Kapag hindi effective ang war on drugs ibig sabihin di ito umepekto XD di b Leni Lugaw?”

“Tatay digong we love u here from Saudi.. ”

My article this morning has so far lured some two hundred comments, most of them written by seemingly the same person. I would educate all of them about ad hominem, or at least how to type like a human being, but that would be beyond my pay grade. I devoured my evil combination of a meal and then browsed further into the deepest parts of my company’s Facebook page. By deepest I mean the troll department, or the comment section, or the wrestling ring where Duterte devotees, the dilawans, and those neither make the most of their internet connections defending their political patron saints. I scanned the whole thing, made faces, then decided to call it a day.

***

I came unusually early for the feature talk show I write for the next day. It was one of the few episodes we tackled something newsy, hence close to my heart. We had a former Agriculture secretary clashing with the department’s current spokesman. I have been writing about rice farmers’ plight under the heavily-criticized rice liberalization law for months now. After the hour-long banter, my anchor proceeded to pooling his staff together to talk about the story outlook for the week. No praise, or at least mention, of this morning’s newsy episode. I do not think my anchor is journalist enough.

But neither am I.

Early into college, I encountered the term “armchair journalism” from my news writing professor, who was probably the most grumpy and aggressive person to introduce the term to aspiring newsmen like me. He passionately bashed the practice, saying journalists should not be labeled one sans direct interaction with sources, or the scorching heat in the field, or the slim chance of exhausting an exclusive off pressers in this era of pack journalism. It was among the few lectures that stuck to me after graduation, precisely because I had vowed to dodge it the best way I could. Except here I am now—writing hundreds of stories without meeting my sources in flesh.

Do not get me wrong, I am all for the upgraded accessibility and convenience courtesy of the fast-changing media landscape. Plus, my current job definitely puts food on the table. But although I am always just a bold decision away from taking on a fieldwork, I dread the lack of financial safety net that everyone—literally everyone in the print industry I am friends with right now—has been warning me about. After all, journalism is public service. What matters most is how it drives a society into acting on pressing issues.

I dressed up the last few paragraphs of my article on the Duterte-initiated drug war’s new czar, pacified my radio anchor who kept insisting his Tokyo car show tour was newsy, updated my LinkedIn profile, then took the last sip of my Starbucks staple.

[kilapsaww]

hey

So unusual of me to write something on a Monday, but here it is lol. Life has been a-okay lately (or as what I’m trying to convince myself haha). Got myself a new laptop, which means I should be all-out in summoning my long-lost creative juices. I’d like to think I’ve been doing good in school, hence my grad school ganaps merit a separate Tumblr post :p anyway here are some fun things I did recently:

-went on a 4-day vacation in Taiwan

-started producing for radio shows on cars and motorcycles. how cool is that?

-started writing for an international news show

-showed myself some self-love by purchasing a signed jessica zafra book

-watched carly rae jepsen live :O

-signed up for a St. Peter plan where I get a metal casket for a cheap price HAHA 

that would be all for now. see ya.

[kilapsaww]

Kung walang ibang makaiintindi, bakit pa isusulat?

[kilapsaww]

Silk Tongue

The first time I heard mother

curse, I felt betrayed

For she raised me my words

filtered: This mouth was not to call father

bad, the boys in my class

gross, our neighbor's dog

ugly. This tongue was never to taste

liquor nor cigarette smoke.

I wonder how much it took mom

to swear before my ears

while she traced the thinning

footsteps of dad–

That fucking shit.

[kilapsaww]

Growing Apart

I wake up to a mountain of clothes still clinging to their hangers since Sunday laundry. On the kitchen sink, dishes from last night remain unwashed, reeking of sweet sauce from the plate of spaghetti a neighbor had shared with us. A waft of cigarette smoke greets me as I step out, intending to leave the house as it is. Has any of my siblings started smoking? I wouldn’t know—I’m asleep when they’re awake, they’re awake when I’m asleep, they’re away when I’m awake. It’s been weeks since last Skype with Ma. Our calendar is stuck on February.

[kilapsaww]

He orders me a bottle of beer even before I arrive at the place. Of course we’re always going to talk about the split. I ask of his plans or any regrets but I’m not sure what to make of the information other than let it fade with Rico Blanco’s Antukin in the background. Sometimes, in the middle of conversations like this, I realize I’m that friend who gives the least helpful love advice. But I can offer memes. Or I can be the meme. I struggle to finish my drink as I think of another set of jokes to lighten the mood. He pulls out his phone and stares at it forever.

[kilapsaww]

A familiar sound locks a few people at a small room in Katipunan. With a shy laugh, you dismiss every awkward eye contact with that band member. You examine his fingers as they crawl on his worn-out Fender, his sweat forming meager islands on his chest. Outside, he hands you a beer and allows you a cigarette puff. A sincere laugh is shared. You are now among his muses.

#not a true story

[kilapsaww]

I met Tin on my way home from school last night. I was dragging myself into the village gate when a girl, probably of my age, approached me. I immediately recognized her as someone I took the same jeepney with a few minutes ago. She was cute and had a wide smile.

“Are you from UST?” she asked. I knew she knew I was because I was in my AB uniform. We had a small talk and I found out that she was a Thomasian, too, a medtech fresh graduate who was planning to pursue med proper next year.

Anyway, I must confess that our conversation went rather awkward because I often stuttered. I could not recall the last time I attempted to make new friends, or at least tried talking to new people. But I’m glad I met Tin. I’ve been living here for three years but it was the first interaction I had with someone from the neighborhood. Congrats to me? Here’s to defeating my never-a-people-person side!

[kilapsaww]

I don’t know if anyone in the family–aside from myself–remembers that it’s Papa’s 8th death anniversary. We haven’t talked about visiting the cemetery today, or even lighting a candle or two in front of our house to confirm we’re aware it’s March 16. Is this it? Have we finally moved on?

I recall how during his funeral most of his friends would walk up to me to comfort my young soul. It was too early for me to be father-less, but I would eventually move on, they said. I was only 12 and I could barely accept the fact that he would not even see me wear my high school uniform for the first time. I never thought this day would come that I would be able to talk about him so loosely with my friends and siblings. 

I guess I have partly moved on.

[kilapsaww]

Hello

This is my sixth first Tumblr post. I’ve been meaning to handle a stable blog since 2013 but I kept deleting and creating new accounts instead. I struggled to consistently record my thoughts because I was, uhm, lazy and forgetful. I guess it was me repeatedly trying (and failing) to set new standards for myself out of but a short-term motivation. 

Anyway, life has been monotonous lately and I’m not taking it as a bad thing. I’m still in disbelief that, so far, I have been able to juggle work and acads without dying lol. I am only three semesters away from graduation and I think it would be nice to write down the remaining time before adulthood kicks in. Yas, cheers!