Matapos basahin ang isang tula ni Richard Siken

Anong ninanasa? Pagsintang may lalim, lawak, lawig, at gaan, sapat para hikapin ang kalooban, lumangoy papalapit at papalayo, magbalik nang alam na may babalikan, at lumutang sa mga tingin at ngiti nang may kumpiyansang hindi pababayaang malunod.
*
May mga gabing bumabaling ang aking pansin sa aking pulso, at nadarama ko muli ang sakit ng ilang taon.
*
Isang araw aking nabatid na sa aming dalawa, ako lang ang kumakapit, kumapit, nang may pagtangi at pag-asa, sa kabila ng lahat ng pagod at lungkot, ilang beses mang mangawit. Bakit? Hindi kailangang parusahan ang sarili nang ganito. Isang araw, may masasakyang pag-ibig na maglalaan ng upuan, at hindi ako hahayaang sumabit lang.
*
Kung ako ay kanyang minahal, hindi ko alam.
*
Hanggang kailan ako magsusulat nang ganito?
*
Lagi kang mag-iisa, tapos ikaw ay mamamatay.” Ganoon lang ba ang buhay?
*
Kaginhawaan: paulit-ulit na uliting, “Ang lahat ay lumilipas, ang lahat ay may hangganan.”
*
Patawarin ang sariling labis na nagmahal. Patawarin siyang hinayaan kang magpatuloy nang ganito sa mahabang panahon. Damhin ang sakit nang hindi iniisip na ikaw lang ang nasasaktan, o na walang puwang para sa iyong kalungkutan sa mundong ito, kung saan nag-uumapaw ang hinagpis, walang kabuluhang dalamhati.
*
Pagbitaw bilang paglaya. Pag-iyak bilang paglaya. Maniwalang ang kinabukasan ay magdadala ng saya at hinahon.
*
Masyadong madamdamin ang tunog nitong mga pangungusap sa tabas ng sariling wika.
Advertisements

I came here in the last week of August

IMG_20170923_124134-01.jpeg

and just like that, a month has passed, quicker than I can think to say “dōjeh” instead of “mh’goi.” There remains not much to tell except that I am well — that nothing’s up, I’ve little progress to report, but I am managing the quotidian in a way that gives me little reason to welcome disruptions to my everyday. I wear this new life like a skin by slipping into a mantle of old habits: buying the same kinds of goods off supermarket shelves, making coffee with a French press in the morning, practicing yoga when I can, wearing black to work. I have been making friends and learning how to swim and how not anxiously to be in the water, or in love. I try not to stay in the office too late, to wake up with the rising of the sun and to sleep before midnight, but in these I have been failing. There is always so much to do. I read too slowly and squander minutes, and feel always at a loss over lost time. Elsewhere, autumn colors the trees and the pavements in fire; this morning my view from the window was sleet gray with residential towers and rain. Still, there are spaces for joy–as when I dive into the pool and lose sense of sound and see only refractions of light in the blue water. When I take my washing from the tumble dryer and feel my clothes clean and warm in my arms. When I walk back to the dorm late at night, bopping to The 1975. When I think of him smiling as he opens a book or a door, when I hear his voice, smooth and mellow, like milk tea, calling my name.

 

IMG_20170923_183744-01.jpeg

in the mood for blowing water

IMG_20170829_101423

One rainy morning, in the common room of the 8th floor of Hall G, a girl I shared the washroom with asked me if she could join me at the table for tea. She said her name was N., that she was from Pakistan, that she was also in her first year of MPhil studies, researching on the social psychology of driving behaviors. This, I have long noted, is de rigueur for introductions by research postgraduate students: Name, Research Topic, Institution, maybe Country of Origin, though some tend to state their research topics first. Finally she asked, How have you been adjusting to life in Hong Kong? I said, Just fine, and you? And she talked about being culture-shocked: the weather, the language, the food, the customs, the people are alien to her. Isn’t it so for you?

Cantonese is an incomprehensible tongue, but signage is written in English too. While I do not eat pork, so common in Chinese cuisines, dimsum and noodles are familiar to me. Like Hong Kongers, I bathe and wash my hair at least once a day and do not throw tissue paper into the toilet. Hot, humid weather and strong typhoons are part of our lifeworld in my country that’s one of the most vulnerable to climate change. I’d already made a few local friends before coming to live here, since I studied for a short while at this university before. What I am not quite adjusting to, but simply accepting: the searing heat, the briskness and efficiency and orderliness of Hong Kong people, their careful attention to and observance of rules that actually make sense (there’s effective governmentality for you). In Hong Kong, I wouldn’t think of jaywalking, or eating in the bus or the train. I celebrate the convenience afforded by the Octopus card, though I rue the difficulty of finding scented rubbing alcohol (70% isopropyl, with tea tree extract and moisturizer), sweet crunchy peanut butter, a French press.

IMG_20170822_124154

My parents decided to fly with me to HK and stay here for a few days. They wanted to see my university, do some sightseeing around Central, a little shopping in Mong Kok. We spent a day in Tuen Mun, an evening in Tsim Sha Tsui, an afternoon in Ocean Park. I wanted to take them to Victoria Peak, but then Typhoon Hato struck. We spent more time watching TV and ordering room service in the hotel than going around. And that was fine, they said, because what they wanted more than to go around was to spend time with me. As they left, my father handed me a couple of hundred-dollar bills. Make sure you go home in December, he said. He knows too well my penchant for leaving, for being away. But as I grow older, I wonder if I weren’t catching a quaint yearning for home—not just a headquarters, or a base camp, but a fixed, certain state or place, a compass of meaning, a stable point of return—to a house perhaps, or to a person or persons. I am getting older, my parents are aging too fast, I will likely die alone.

IMG_20170829_173518-01.jpeg

Don’t think of moving to Hong Kong as departure, a friend said to me. Think of it as transferring to another city, like Makati, from QC. After all, Hong Kong is just a little over two hours away from Manila. Baguio is even farther in terms of travel time.

But I like to think of it as departure, actually, to have a greater sense of narrative leap, of plot or character development, between departure and return. I have been getting so very bored.

What I watched, stuck in a room during the height of Hato, when T10 was hoisted in Hong Kong for the first time since 2012: Wong Kar-Wai’s Chungking Express (1994) and In the Mood for Love (2000). They’re the kind of films that are so well-composed and visually stunning (cinematography by Christopher Doyle), I wanted to screenshot every frame. I didn’t manage that, but here are a few stills:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’d write a meditation on love, betrayal, missed chances, and time, but I’ve been avoiding thinking about such poignant fancies (as I am, as you know, wont to do). Maybe the briskness of this place is ideal for me; even when watching In the Mood for Love, I do not feel like indulging in melancholy.