Workspaces: Nueva Ecija

NuevaEcija1 Feb
All set, let’s go.

My first sortie¹ was this trip to Nueva Ecija, February 2016. Continue reading “Workspaces: Nueva Ecija”



It’s been so long since I’ve logged into this account, that I had to trial and error a couple of accounts to access this site.

Anyway, I’m back. From the dead, from confinement, from wherever I’ve been. And for good, hopefully.


The past year has been, to say the least, eventful. Nothing extraordinary, but I’ve been to places I never thought I would be. I would like to share them with you one of these days, perhaps an entry or two on a couple of them, just so I can get back to my writing. I would have sat down immediately to write about them then, but time has been elusive; I have been elusive.

Every time I get the feeling that I want to jot everything down, I get discouraged. I think, “Someone else has written about this, but better. Why bother?” But then I think about all the things I’ve seen and been through, the places that left a mark in my mind. Why did I ever stop at all?

As usual, so many questions. We never run out, do we. But let’s try to answer them one by one. Hopefully I start from when I got on that plane to ___.

I’ll see you again in a bit. Let me just get my stuff together.


Darling needle, sew all dear

I keep saying, One day at a time. The stress of my day job usually means I have to take things with a positive eye, or else.

A good day would entail: The boss is in a good mood, not feeling nauseous on the ride to the venue, no slurs to bring you down during the event proper. A good day would entail being home before 9pm, cozying up in a blanket with someone, watching a movie. A good day meant I could rest easy that night, without the phone buzzing every 10 minutes or so, it meant I could sleep soundly because crisis was averted.

But these days, it’s hardly that.

These days, people are always angry on social media. Logging in to any platform is taxing, exhausting, excruciating even. If anything, I’ve learned that you can’t really please people, no matter how good you think your intentions are. They will let be.

These days meant having to go through the emotional rollercoaster ride for 5 or so hours every morning, while you wait for your inevitable doom to set. It all depends on the weather, they say; and even if you say it’s good, it’s hardly ever that close to really being good. Sometimes it means: Shit did not hit the fan. Or: For now, we are safe. Or: He is saving it for later.

These days also meant holding close to your heart the things that matter, like your muse, like your pen and paper, like your voice. It is so easy to lose them, take it from me. They fly, fleeting with their little wings, far away, because the fires of the world consume it until there is nothing left to burn but your skin.

I am so consumed by the hustle of everyday that my boots have worn out.

But instead of giving up, it is easier to say: One day at a time, and then one day more, and another, until the days are gone and good at last, and nothing is left but to heed and lick the wounds. It is easier to recite a poem: Darning-needle dragonfly, have done with eye, ear, lip and tooth; finish them, sew dark, mound dust, heap with slumber sleep; now tie all knots ever so neat, pump silence in blood like sand in river deep. 

The hands that spin

Another week of running around until we run out of road, only to be swept off, landing in another city.

It has been exactly a month since I left to work/travel in another State, a month since I joined the writing rounds, a month since I hopped on that black helicopter with open doors, and the feeling still remains: I am but a leaf, swirling here and about, riding the wind.

And yet, in exactly a month, I’ll be counting days until I need to find a new job. In a month, it will only be days until our fates are decided: Do we stay or do we go?

What are we really doing here that is right, that is wrong? They say, only Time can tell. They say that Time is the one true god. That Time heals all wounds. That it will pass us by, and we won’t even notice because we are so full with our bliss. That time does not wait for us, that Time is not in our hands — then where is it? How are we always lost in it?

We are spun and circling about its hands, being played by it, and we are lost in its beat and tempo. We keep running until we run out of road, riding the winds, that only it can tell where it will land us.

Who are we to ask for all things to stop for our own?