“From this suok is vague enough, specific enough and random enough to apply to any and all things I could write about.”
– Me to The Love, January 5, 2018
As mentioned in the first post, a lot of thought went into the creation of this blog. I’ve had blogs before and as much as I love writing and pouring my thoughts onto paper (or, in this case, onto the screen), I have quite the commitment issue when it comes to maintaining a blog.
However, the dire need for a creative outlet outside of my own head and room urged me to create this page and is leading me to actually committing to this page. The dire need to save oneself as we continue to live through this mad world has contributed to finally move from ‘I want to’ to ‘I did it’.
This will be filled with my notes and thoughts on books, fandoms, coffee, wine, music. There is a want to ensure that everything on this page will be positive but still allowing space to show the light and dark that exists in all things. There will be attempts at being poetic (of which I will surely fail at but leave me be). There will be random posts about random thoughts. Posts that will both be miles long and one-liners. All from my perspective. From this corner of the world. From this neck of the woods. From this nook of my home and hometown. From this suok of my head.
One month into officially finding out I have colon cancer – it’s been a trip.
Also, to make sure we’re all on the same page: your colon has much to do with your bowel movement – your shit, your dumpage, if you will.
[If you want to know more about it, you can send me a message or use your tools maybe and Google. (I don’t want to have to go into those details here. They’re not exactly pleasant.)]
I don’t know how. I don’t know why, but for some reason, while I was in the hospital, the thing that would wake me up was the dumpage. It’s become a fixed body sched now.
This said first order of business royal dumpage would then determine how my energy is for the day. Whether I’d be glowing and up for anything (kidding, this doesn’t happen to me with or without cancer – I’m far too lazy as a human being) or lethargic and feeling the need to commit arson but too lethargic and lazy to do so.
That’s how I start my day. Lovely, isn’t it?
All the symptoms that the doctors asked me about before I had the colonoscopy are now very much present. They weren’t, prior to all this. They’ve been sneaky. Hence, me not realising what I had.
My boss asked me a while back if I was in pain.
I wouldn’t say this is pain. I mean, I know pain (hello, intense monthly period cramps for a whole week without taking any medication for it!!! Where my bleeding people at????).
What I am experiencing isn’t exactly pain. It’s more like varying degrees of discomfort.
There are two things that bother me daily:
First, there’s this gnawing feeling all over my back that feels as if there’s acid running around and culminates in my lower back. It’s similar to having a really heavy flow while you’re having your period and your lower back feels… heavy.
[I have now officially experienced this WHILE having my period and I don’t know what to say except, yes, I want to commit arson. Yes, I am lazy. Yes, I have a lot of anger.]
Second, there’s a stinging and / or tearing feeling in parts of my stomach.
Now, these two aren’t always ‘on intensely’, but when they want to be noticed, I can’t really do anything. I need to either sit or lie down and wait for the discomfort to pass. [Again, extra magical during that time of the month.]
Oh, wait! There’s a third one: soft food diet.
Look, I grew up a fat kid who got to eat whatever, whenever. Food and I have always been tight and food has always brought me happiness. My relationship with food may not have been healthy but we made it work.
Then, imagine, if you will:
You are feeling thoroughly unwell. You’d had to fast for hours so they could run tests on you. You’d just realised what you have is cancer.
You turn to look at your food tray for some semblance of hope…
… And it’s soup.
The realisation of how much happiness and energy food can give hit me while I was in the hospital.
I know. I know. It’s such a spoiled brat problem to have, I’ll admit that. I know I shouldn’t complain but, damn it, it’s tough. It makes everything feel extra bleak.
This past month, I realised – even more – what a warrior my father was. I witnessed him go through advanced stages of this disease but he never showed us how uncomfortable he was.
We all knew he was in pain but we never saw it… He was being… Dad.
On top of all this, I can feel it spreading, this cancer.
I can feel it taking over parts of my stomach which were previously fine. I’m feeling new aches and pains.
I can feel it taking a toll on me – not only physically, but also – mentally and emotionally. I’ve had days where I’ve genuinely felt so beat tears were so extra easy to come by (and if you know me, you know that’s saying something).
There moments at night when all is quiet – there’s nothing to distract me from anything – and all the discomfort I’ve ignored all day comes through and I feel all of it.
I’ve had days where I’ve felt genuine fear over how I’ll overcome this.
Yes, you read that right. This Kerly – stubborn, sarcastic, dark humoured, will laugh at serious moments Kerly – is scared now.
‘It’s not fair, you know? I think I’m just now starting to figure out how to live my life.’
Jerry Vogel, A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood
I have cancer.
Specifically, colon cancer.
Similar to what my father had.
I found out officially on the evening of May 28th when the biopsy results became available but I knew, in my heart of hearts what it was, at least a week before.
I knew because I witnessed everything that happened to my pops when he battled cancer a second time when the cancer reoccurred some 20 odd years later in the same spot.
I could tell from how the doctors were acting. To the words they used. The images they got from the colonoscopy. How I felt – everything. I simply knew.
The night before I finally went to the hospital, I’d written the beginnings of a poem. It’s called, ‘If I Die Tonight’.
I’d written it cos I didn’t want anything to be left ‘unsaid’. I tried, to the best of my abilities, to be as succinct as possible and capture what I wanted to capture at what felt like a near end. Cos… It felt like I was at another near end.
The feeling of near end was brought about by my severe anemia. I knew my hemoglobin levels where at a low again but… You know… Stubborn me. Wouldn’t accept defeat.
My stomach pains, which had gotten worse weeks prior, didn’t help at all. I felt stinging, tearing pains in parts of my stomach. Pain that was something else. Pain that would knock the wind out of me.
Not exactly nice when you’re already low on oxygen as a human being.
And so on May 18th, The Love brought me to the hospital. To his great relief cos I’d finally stopped being all stubborn about getting checked and, also, to his great frustration cos it always takes near-death to get me to agree about going to the hospital.
[See, I’m the one who doesn’t want to be checked. I grew up a sickly kid who frequented hospitals. This is where the stubbornness and aversion towards hospitals and doctors came from: I’d seen / experienced enough of them as a kid to last me a lifetime.]
We got there. Went for the ER. Covid-19 precautions and all. I started to relax when they gave me oxygen, my official new favourite thing in the world. Then the doctors started checking me and the tests started happening.
The first few days meant putting in as much blood as they could in me cos my anemia had gotten to an all time low. Those days also meant me having to go through rigorous tests to try and figure out what was happening to my stomach.
It wasn’t until the 4th day when I got to have my colonoscopy. I was asleep the whole time but when I’d woken up, I saw the food the doctors had requested for me had changed to soft food. Curious. But I wasn’t too bothered. More annoyed that I couldn’t have what my niece would categorise as ‘happy food’ (food that makes you feel… Well… Happy to be alive and all that).
Doctors came and tried to skate around what they saw in my colon during the colonoscopy but… They weren’t fooling me.
That evening I noticed my stomach had bloated out. When I’d gotten admitted, my stomach had been flat except for that part that had pain.
That night it all clicked.
That night I knew.
A week before the biopsy results came out.
I knew.
I’ve been around this. I knew.
That night, I told The Love what I knew it to be. We had a moment. What’s weird is… I wasn’t emotional over it.
I was stuck on the term one of the residents used when trying to soften the blow. He’d started by asking if we had cancer in the family. This is always tricky cos… Where do we even start? My pops? My sister? My cousins? My uncles? My aunt? Then he said that there’s a thing called, ‘Genetic mirroring’. And I went, ‘Yeah… My father had it the first time when he was around my age’.
I was then informed I’d need to undergo surgery and then, ‘if’ malignant, chemotherapy.
The day after all this, billing had called to inform us we’d already maxed out my insurance coverage. My insurance won’t renew until October.
Mad, isn’t it?
I was hit with the ridiculous realisation of how much mortality lies on what one can afford. I know money doesn’t solve all things but at least you get a good shot at everything.
The Love kept telling me not to get broken down by the finances. That it shouldn’t be my focus. My focus should be mentally preparing myself for the surgery and chemotherapy when we’ve put up the money.
The Love and my sister had asked if I was ready to go through surgery. My genuine answer was always, ‘I think I am… But my adult brain understands the whole financial parts of it’.
The thing is, my father survived his first run in with colon cancer because he had incredible insurance where he was working. They covered everything. All he had to focus on was his reason for living: his family.
Since we’d maxed out the insurance coverage, I got scheduled for discharge. However, we’d gotten over the coverage so much we didn’t have the cash to cover the rest… It was mad.
I cried more over the financial stuff than I did over the cancer – is that weird? Cos… That’s what happened.
I ended up spending an extra week in the hospital. Not needed there anymore but, everyday, incurring charges cos we couldn’t leave due to the overage. Again, it was mad.
This meant I was still in the hospital the day the biopsy results came out.
On that evening of May 28th, the resident who’d brought up ‘genetic mirroring’ confirmed it: I have colon cancer.
I’m not going to lie. I cried a lot after the resident left. It hits different when it gets confirmed.
That night, I didn’t tell anyone about it except The Love. I cried some more. He encouraged me to focus on the things we can do. Not to dwell on the problem but to find a solution.
He told me to not give up. That I was and am loved.
We finally got to put up enough to get me out of the hospital and left on May 31st.
I want to highlight that we got to put up the money with A LOT of help from our friends and family.
This comes on the heels of me feeling as if I didn’t have anyone except The Love and family. Not that I was ever made to feel that way but I guess you could say this is the downside of being such an introvert like I am. You’re involved but not really. You have friends but also still feel like you don’t want to bother or burden them.
And yet, there they were. People who care about me. Offering what they could. Not only financial help but, more importantly, comfort.
I will never be able to thank them enough for what they’ve done.
Am I ready to die?
Honestly? I don’t mind. To quote my father after he was told he’d only have 4-6months to live when his cancer reoccurred, he said, ‘That’s life’.
That’s life.
Death is part of life.
But goddammit – I still want to live.
There’s still so much more to do. So much more to live for. So many places to explore. So many different delicacies to taste. So many more memories to make.
I still have so many songs, stories, poems to write. They may not be good but dammit, they’re mine.
I can’t and I won’t go with all of these weird, beautiful ideas still living inside me.
For now, I have to chill. Behave. Eat only soft food. While we put up the money for the surgery and chemotherapy and / or wait for my insurance to renew. Whichever comes around first.
I have cancer.
Specifically, colon cancer.
Like my father did. I will fight this. I will survive this.
Windowsill is the horizontal structure or surface at the bottom of a window. Windowsills serve to structurally support and hold the window in place. The exterior portion of a windowsill provides a mechanism for shedding rainwater away from the wall at the window opening.
We were weird, artsy kids who finally found our tribe. We became fast friends and, somewhere along the way, family.
We’ve laughed (ALOT), cried, sung, danced, made music together. We’ve seen the beginnings of romances, heartbreaks, weddings, deaths, births. Conversations have shifted from living the dream of making music and being absolute rock stars to grown up things (injuries, illnesses, medications, babies, families). We’ve gone from pulling all-nighters for the fun of it to cutting gatherings short cos some have babies to go home to (and cos… We can’t really pull all-nighters anymore).
We’ve lived so attached to each other and, as life goes, apart. But we always come back together.
We met when we were in our late teens and early 20s. Now, we’re in our 30s. We’ve been in each others lives for 14 years now (I had to use the calculator but, yeah, I did the math!). I don’t know how else to put it.
We were weird, artsy kids who finally found our tribe. We became fast friends and, somewhere along the way, family.
P. S. I did the thing I’ve always wanted to do with these gatherings of ours: I recorded the sound of it all.
‘Oh… You know… Developed a sensitive stomach, the pandemic plus me – a high functioning severely depressed being going through some intense things… It’s been lovely.’
Me to a friend
Facts.
I lost weight – a good 80 or so pounds from what my feeble-in-maths mind can calculate – but I am in no way shape or form any healthier now than I once was.
Ever since The Love and I started dating, his thing has always been, ‘I don’t want you to lose weight for the sake of losing weight. I don’t mind the weight. What I want is for you to be healthy’. There have been arguments aplenty over him trying to get me to have a healthy lifestyle. He finally got through on the first three quarters of 2019.
We both went on the Keto diet. I know this diet has mixed reviews but it actually worked for me.
This was the thing that made me realise how it’s truly a reevaluation of your understanding of food and your relationship with it that can help jump start that weight loss everyone seems to always chase after.
If you haven’t redefined your relationship with food, no diet can ever get you anywhere.
So, Keto worked. I had energy. I wasn’t craving things I would normally crave for. And I was losing weight.
Then I got sick – okay, wait, I’d been sick for a long time without bothering to have myself checked.
Turns out I’m severely anemic. So severe that I could’ve died had I not finally caved (cos… You know… Born and raised in a 3rd world country where part of adulting means you can’t be sick… Also… I’m stubborn… I don’t like admitting defeat) and gone to a hospital where I required blood transfusion (quite the experience but that’s for another blog).
Naturally, I had to start taking iron supplements after. Now, iron supplements on their own does things to your tummy.
This led to me having such a bad tummy ache December of 2019 that I had to go to the hospital again and admit to yet another defeat cos my stomach just couldn’t live with me anymore… Or something like that.
That whole episode left me with a sensitive stomach, no longer allowed to consume spicy food, dairy and, really, everything that makes life beautiful, meaningful and exciting. On top of all that bleakness – the most life-altering one – I could no longer have coffee (can you believe this shit?!?!).
I welcomed 2020 knowing I couldn’t consume the way I used to with a need to redefine my relationship with food yet again (this time, without coffee… Cry with me now).
On top of that, 2020 brought upon some major life changes – pandemic aside. When I say major life changes, I mean major life changes. The kind that take you out of your comfort zone and leave you filling out multiple journals with anger, frustration, resentment, defiance, tears… Amongst other things.
I went through the first half of 2020 with hardly any appetite for anything. Food. Drinks. Nothing. I didn’t want to consume anything. I felt no need to. Yet I knew I needed to eat. I would eat incredibly tiny portions enough to get me through the day.
The Love would do whatever he could to get me to eat but then even when I did eat, I could only stomach so much.
This whole time, people around me were saying that whatever was happening to my stomach might be caused by stress. I kept saying, ‘No… Cos… That’s not how I am with stress… This is not stress’.
Meanwhile, this whole period, my creative brain was thriving. I was constantly writing and making things.
Fortunately, May 2020 brought about the beginnings of a new horizon.
For the first time in nearly six months, I decided to give coffee a try. Feeling somewhat confident that I’d gained some of my old self back. Yes, it was 3in1 but, goddammit, it was coffee.
(This first mug of coffee after six months activated my soul so much that I began working on one of the best poems I’ve ever made. I’m so proud of it. Thank you, coffee. Seriously.)
The 2nd half of 2020 was me recovering and rediscovering my appetite for food again.
Throughout my recovery, I spent the entire time thinking that my weight loss was simply due to my ever changing relationship with food. I was constantly getting to know my body – what I could and couldn’t take. I was happy with this theory and walked into 2021 knowing I understood the physical journey I was on in 2020.
Then… The Love, with his beautiful brain and his capacity to know me better than I know myself, came in with a shocker.
One night, as we were having our usual existential conversations, he said, ‘I know now what happened to you last year and why you weren’t eating… It was your depression’.
It was my depression.
Everything clicked.
The thing is, as unhealthy as my relationship with food had been, I’ve always understood parts of it:
I’m a stress eater – Put me in a high-stress environment, I will eat like there’s no tomorrow.
But… Depressed? I don’t eat. I hardly consume anything.
I learned this about myself after I lost my father. I lost so much weight that that Kerly was the ‘skinniest’ Kerly.
Well, second only to the Kerly now.
I’ve had to work and do ‘adulting’ for over 12 years of my life now that I’ve become such a high-functioning depressed human being that when depression decided to come down hard on me – with all the changes in my life, the pandemic, the big pause that this pandemic gave that left me to finally deal with my grief over my father and a close friend (well, sort of deal with it a little bit) – that I didn’t recognise it for what it truly was and what it was doing to me. It had taken away my appetite for life.
I couldn’t be bothered to fight to live.
The Love fought hard to keep me but I couldn’t be bothered to help myself because depression is one hell of a monster.
A monster that comes in waves. Where, even a year later, I have moments when the waves come crashing down and moments when everything’s calm.
I repeat, this Kerly now is no healthier than the Kerly before. If anything, this Kerly now is even unhealthier. Entering my 30s mean my body doesn’t function like it used to. The phrase, ‘Youth is wasted on the young’, has quite a different meaning now that I feel extra aches and pains.
What irks me throughout this journey though is how quick people are to compliment you when you’ve lost weight. It’s as quick as they are to mock you once you’ve gained weight. I’ve seen both sides now and it’s infuriating how we’re so comfortable passing judgement over someone’s weight as if it’s all they are – their weight.
This is something that we are all on the receiving end of but women, most especially, are under scrutiny of.
I’ve had a man say I could apply for pageants now. My only thought was, ‘Whatever gave you the impression that I’m one for pageants?’
I’m a firm believer in the fact that women aren’t meant to be some decorative thing to be looked at. Women are so much more than that. Women, if we wanted to, were made to fuck you up.
I will not be some pretty thing to be looked at.
I will continue to create.
I will continue to write. I will continue to learn. I will continue to sing and make songs. To make things out of raw materials. Create something out of nothing.
My ultimate goal is to go back to dance.
Oh, I cannot tell you how that’s the thing that makes me want to get up and get to know this new body I have so I can harness it and create and express with it. My heart could burst at the thought of it.
But I’ve to build myself up to get back to that. Gain strength. Bring some oxygen to my blood and lungs.
I will dance again.
I knew posting my new profile photo would gain a reaction. Hardly anyone has seen me for over a year. The reason for changing it was cos the old photo was no longer true – I no longer have those chubby cheeks nor that green hair. I wanted to say, ‘This is 32 and this is me now’.
I’ll tell you what my favourite thing has been though: it’s all my female friends, not necessarily complimenting the weight loss but, encouraging the new journey. A journey they too are familiar with. Women supporting women.
This is why I wanted to share my story. The dramatic and trivial parts of it. It’s necessary to know what lies beyond a photo.
There’s more to us than being a being to be looked at.
You thought you were getting away without a farewell essay from me, yeah? Well, tough luck. This one might be weeks late but you’ve been a lot to process so it’s taken some time.
You’ve been ALOT to grapple with and goddammit we’re still in the middle of wrestling with this chaotic hurricane you’ve brought upon humanity and my personal life.
You took me out of my comfort zone. Literally, figuratively, and all other forms ‘out of my comfort zone’.
You’ve broken my heart more than 2019 did (and that’s saying something) by slapping more harsh truths across my face and sprinkling suckerpunches here and there.
You’ve dragged a lot childhood heroes down from whatever dewy-eyed, childish pedestal I might have had them on.
You’ve shown me the levels of my own naivete and how much I’ve allowed societal norms and traditions to take over my own life. How I was never really in control but have always been controlled by somewhat – a reality has been overwhelming to look at and try and make peace with.
You’ve made me realise the levels of my own aging humanity. Having been a sickly kid and growing into an even sicklier adult, I’m overwhelmingly well-aware of my mortality even prior to and, of course, during this gloriously well-spread global pandemic. (Where my high-risk peeps at?!)
You’ve given me some intense anxiety-riddled sleepless nights-into-days-and-days-into-nights-what-even-is-time-anymore dealing with all the personal drama you’ve exposed but – wait, there’s more! – you had to be even more extra by adding geopolitical, socio-economic and environmental madness on top of all that.
You’ve been awesome like that. Magnifying how fucked up everything is and always has been and how we, as humans under the constant assumption that we will always have time and be invincible, have allowed everything to be fucked up so bad that I genuinely don’t know how we’ll come back from ALL of this.
You’ve felt like a epic collection of all the instances one would have the dire need of a mental health break for spread across an entire year.
2020, you’ve been lovely. A lovely little piece of shit.
… But, you know what, 2020? Amidst ALL the panic-inducing horrific madness, you’ve had some genuinely good moments. Some bits of light through all the maddening gloom.
You started out strong by letting me face my own demons and have me perform my own songs in public (hours after intense panicking, one of which left me super drained I had to take a nap before the show). Had the chance to stand upon the magical and hallowed holy ground that is a 22 Tango stage, not to help setup but, to actually perform which I will forever hold dear to me even though I fucked up my own lyrics, although, it’s my own song so no one noticed. Also, the writer did it so isn’t that technically a rewrite? I tell myself to comfort myself over fucking up my own lyrics upon the magical and hallowed holy ground that is a 22 Tango stage.
You’ve given me, this introvert, a weird vacation (still employed but with no work and no pay) which has offered, if I’m honest, some much needed respite from all the work and the stress that comes with that and having to deal with humans all the time. (Oh, to wake up each ‘day’ knowing I don’t have to deal with humans? Are you kidding me? The freedom! The Relief! ×cue dramatic sigh×)
You’ve allowed me to reconnect with my old self – the one that’s a bit more human and, you know, not whatever this feral being I’ve turned into – and brought me back to creating things (songs, poems, stories, beanies, scarves, etc.). You’ve reminded me how much I enjoy truly being left alone in my own corner with nothing but my imagination and some energy to bring those imagined worlds and ideas into this real world – to make something out of nothing – reminding me how empowering, powerful that is and how I’m not so feral after all. Like what I said in another post, this introvert’s creative brain has been thriving.
You’ve allowed much of this life-long fog to clear up so I can see things in my life and what surrounds it much clearer. Yes, so much has faltered and are forever altered but you’ve allowed me time to process and understand how and why things had to happen the way they did. Still processing – again, you’ve been a lot so it’s taking a lot of time.
You’ve been gracious enough to let me have more firsts before you ended:
First time getting properly sunburnt in ages. I can finally say, with pride, that I am in island girl from Cebu, Philippines whose complexion isn’t an embarrassing shade of glaringly pale in a tropical island. Please, for the love of Lapu-Lapu, when living in Cebu, don’t be fucking pale – that is, unless you are in fact vampire and / or someone who genetically doesn’t have much melanin… At which I totally respect you and your complexion. Otherwise… Fuck you and your gluta. We are meant to have colour! Enjoy it! CELEBRATE IIIIIITTTTTT!!!!! WE ARE ISLAND PEOPLE!!!!!!
… Ehem2x… Sorry about that… Got a bit carried away there…
First time trying out archery something which I, due to my immense love of Katniss Everdeen, was under the impression – nay, delusion – was a skill I had in me… It turns out it wasn’t, so… We move onwards with our lives and focus on other things we can actually do. Which brings me to…
First time kayaking which, surprisingly, is the thing I can actually do – I FOUND A SPORT! I cannot begin to express the feeling having grown up in a home that had quite the athletes and being the only one whose only contribution to sport were dancing (… It wasn’t even dancesport) and throwing events only to realise decades later that the sport I’m meant to do is kayaking. Still rather odd considering the fact that I can’t swim to save my life but one has found a way to help lessen the requirement of swimming. Hence, me on a kayak.
… No, I still can’t swim… No, I don’t think it’ll be something I can do anytime soon. Perhaps I’m meant to be the world’s kayaking athlete who can’t swim… You know, the irony that is me… (Who is anemic and lacks iron in her life… So… Yey!)
First time swimming with sardines, turtles over an underwater cliff (I don’t know what it’s called and my brain can’t be bothered to look up what it’s called cos it’s bloody terrifying for fucksake) which is obviously a big deal considering the aforementioned fact of me being unable to swim and handle the prospect of the deep blue (which, again, ironically is my favourite shade of blue).
Very nearly didn’t happen for me there amidst the fact that we had a guide and all. Very nearly didn’t enjoy that experience. We spotted a sunken canoe just off the coast, I then freaked out and proceeded to feel the beginnings of a panic attack as I floated through the deep waters in my life jacket. I was starting to hyperventitate and get teary that I was ready to about face, sit on the beach and let everyone enjoy the whole thing without me (which, I would’ve been able to live with since FOMO isn’t a regular emotional stirring in my life). The experience would’ve been completely ruined and lost for me had The Love not taken me by the hand, assured me I was okay and told me there was an epicly beautiful view to witness underwater. He held my hand and reminded there was no need to panic cos he was with me.
… And so I held his hand, very tightly I might add (like… White-knuckled type of hand-holding levels), until I got to a place where I was calm enough to forget the sight of the sunken canoe and be present enough to enjoy the magnificent world of the deep blue and all the other colours that sprinkle and sparkle underwater through its lens in the sunlight.
… That was quite the experience.
2020, you’ve been really messed up but, damn it, I’m still grateful.
Grateful for the in-depth conversations with people who aren’t mentally and emotionally stunted. People whose minds are free to think, free from the bonds of tradition and societal norms. People who are open to ideas, learning and growth.
Grateful for family (chosen and blood) who remind me of how and what a family is. Redefining it and progressing it. (Infinite heartfelt thank yous to the Earth and Fire nurturing combo whose kindness has kept The Love and I sane all of 2020.)
Grateful for music – oh! Music. The amount of times music has saved me from myself. Where to even begin. There have been numerous occasions, in 2020 alone, where I felt myself drowning and suffocating from the incessant noise of the outside world that’s broken through whatever bit of peace I was hanging on to in my own little world and the thing that allowed me to breathe properly again was music. I am forever grateful and in awe of the magic that music contains.
Grateful for the music that gave me peace in times of chaos. For the rhythms that bring my heart rate down in times of panic. The melodies and harmonies that help me take flight when being human becomes too much and weighs me down. The words that remind me I’m not alone however alone I feel in the moment.
Also grateful for the music that has blown my mind to such an extent that it made me cuss so much I had to cuss in Bisaya cos there was no other way to express the level of epicness of it all but to repeated say, ‘Yawaaaaaa!!!!!’, ‘Mga minataaaaaaay!!!!!’, ‘Ataya – binuang ni mga animaaaaallll!!!’
… No, I won’t bother translating those.
Grateful for the chance to have written some of my own music and poetry. You’ve given me some of my more decent creations and I’m genuinely proud to have written them. Nothing like freeing up that creative part of the brain and letting it run loose.
2020, you’ve shown that I’m still a working progress but you’ve made me more sure of certain things about myself. I may not know a lot of things still but I move forward knowing what I can no longer tolerate and accept.
I truly don’t know what to make of you, 2020. Yet, here we are, working out how to recover from you.
I look forward to whatever horizon this 2021 brings (however it feels as if remnants of you are still around). The hope of a vaccine is one to be excited about so we can get back to watching gigs again (and I can go back to people-watching again).
I really hope to be rid of your chaos but hope to bring forth all your light (and goddammit, may I write all these stories swimming through my head). To continue to and never forget to create.
To remember to breathe through everything and not panic. Remember that it’ll all be okay and that there’s some stunningly beautiful view somewhere. That we’ll be alright.
The Love reminded me, yet again, to write. Write every day. Write always.
We’d had one of our existential-into-the-wee-hours conversations over a cup of hot choco and he went, ‘You know what? You should keep writing. You should always write’. This was in reference to a discussion about life and where it’s heading and all that drama you’d usually get into when it’s existential-into-the-wee-hours conversation over a hot cup of something with someone you’re close to.
This global pandemic has forced the world to stop – okay, fine – pause. Given its inhabitants a chance to sit and be still with their thoughts and all of that (along with everything else that’s happened in the world since 2020 started) has provided a brand new perspective.
(If it hasn’t given you a new one then I recommend – nay – prescribe a more intense isolation so you can rethink things. You can do it! Let your damning thoughts get loud and take over. Lose yourself a bit. It’s so fun!… May you be reminded of your humanity.)
I walked into the third decade of my life last year with a renewed sense of self, thinking, ‘You know what, self? No more backing down from dreams and letting our demons win’. That entire mantra has carried into 2020 (and hopefully onwards).
The Love and I had had a conversation about, ‘Musugal ta para satong mga damgo’ (Ehem2x… Translation: ‘We’ll gamble it all for our dreams’). Had it written on a notebook and on a post-it and had it up on our wall and all.
The thing is, having invested over a decade into an industry that isn’t exactly what you’re placed on earth for is never good for your soul. For your sanity. If I sound ungrateful in anyway, I apologise – I don’t intend to – if anything, I’m ever grateful for what my work has offered and provided me over the years. The beautiful, colourful bits of it. Yet, we go back to the fact that it doesn’t feed one’s soul.
No matter what you do, no matter how hard you paddle up to get some sense of sanity and of yourself, the god-awful truth is that work is work and it will consume your energy that you will get to a point where you’ll lose sight of who you are, what you’re about and what your true purpose is. No matter how hard you try and find some semblance of passion in the work that provides it will never compensate for having a go at what you are truly passionate about. You end up having to fool yourself. Talking yourself into thinking that, ‘This is what you want’ and ‘Find the good in this – there’s good in this.’
There is good in it – it provides. But in all honesty? That’s… it.
Take it from someone who’s been there.
You try and try and you find yourself looking at things you’ve created – the real parts of you – and feel cynical about them. You find your own art laughable. You find performing, presenting and the very pursuit of them to be trivial and nonsensical.
I got there.
I got that far into what society said I was supposed to do.
I felt hallow.
My art was all I had of and for myself but there I was somehow appalled to have ever made them then felt empty and rotten cos of how I felt about them. I thought, ‘These are all I have and all I am and these are nonsense. I am nonsense’.
I sat alone in my room with my guitar, unable to sing a melody I’d strung together or strum a chord, feeling squeamish about having to play a song that I wrote. A song that, at some point, saved parts of me.
I read the things I wrote and found myself to be overly dramatic, emotional and irrational. I felt somewhat disgusted over what I’d written when, at some point, those things were my truth that needed to be written down for my own sanity.
I remembered how I used to dance and felt ridiculous over how invested I always was. How I always gave my all – never taking breaks, never skipping run throughs, only pausing to drink water. I felt embarrassed for younger me throwing those shapes on stage in front of people and felt as if I probably looked like I was flailing. I thought this about dancing when dancing has always been, ever since I was a child, one of those things that’s made me feel alive.
I got there.
Not a good place to find yourself in.
Not worth the trade.
Sure, you’re provided for. Well-fed but… be there long enough and that’s the trade off.
Not worth the trade.
Multiple times I found myself spiraling and disassociating myself from my everything and everyone around me. Work stress has led me to some of my more severe anxiety attacks and darkest episodes of depression.
Like I said, not worth the trade.
Guess what saved me from myself during those moments.
Art. Music. Literature. Dance. The very things I lost sight of.
I knew it wasn’t me to think that these things were trivial and laughable. These things were life and an expression of it and there’s nothing trivial about that.
I clawed my way back into writing, making songs and dancing whenever I could. I struggled but I clawed my way back until I found my way back into feeling human and alive again.
All this plus all the maddening events of 2020 has made me realise that a life lived without pursuing your passion is no life at all. Sure, you’d struggle but don’t we all struggle anyways? Isn’t that what life is anyways? Isn’t being well provided for yet losing yourself simply a different version of a struggle yet a struggle nonetheless?
So, why not struggle doing the thing you love most instead? Why not lose yourself in the pursuit of the thing you’re most passionate about? Struggle yet feel alive while you’re at it.
And so that’s where I’m at right now.
I understand I’m rather late in that realisation. I got roped into what society said I was supposed to do and go full on ‘adulting’ (also known as: Suck it up! Don’t complain! This is fucking life! Whut? You don’t feel good? You don’t feel alive? Well, I haven’t felt shit in decades – so, suck itup!) about things. I’ve tried their bit. Gave it over a decade of my life. A decade worth my life that I could have spent learning my craft. Gave it all I could give. They can’t say I didn’t. I tried and tried and tried and, in the end, I found that the thing they were selling me still isn’t worth it.
Not worth the trade.
This pause left me still attached to an employer but on leave without pay. It’s given me all the time in the world to reconnect with who I really am and be alone with my thoughts (sometimes a good thing, sometimes a bad thing but that’s why we’re here talking art, yeah?). I found myself going back to doing the things I’ve always done as a child: write songs, sing, dance, write poetry, keep a journal, read books, watch films, knit, colour, make things. (Needless to say, this introvert has been thriving through this series of multiple lockdowns. Thank you, Philippines!)
Consume and create art for entertainment and for sanity. For the soul.
A recent recurring line on my journal has been, ‘Oh! The countless times music has saved me from myself!’ after spending hours doing nothing but listening to music and getting lost in it. I found myself feeling better than I’d felt in days. I felt revived.
It is in art that we are reminded we are not alone no matter how alone and terrible we might feel and whatever darkness we might be battling. It is in art that we are reminded that we are human and all these things we feel are normal human things and we will surely surpass them as we have surpassed previous challenges. It is in art that we find ourselves and our mundane human-ness as extraordinary, magical and, at times, even powerful.
A life lived with passion, amid struggle, it is a life fulfilled. The very pursuit of it is everything.
There will be no regrets. No lost, broken fragments of your soul. No dire need to get away from everything and everyone and, most importantly, you will never lose sight of who you are when you choose passion over everything.
As a kid and a teenager, I held alot of anger. Nothing surprising there.
I held a lot of political anger. I was angry about environmental issues that I felt weren’t being addressed in an archipelago that has endless natural resources. I was angry about corruption that was and still is rampant in a 3rd world country.
All of these issues (along with a million other things) were bundled up in my chest full of rage, all tangled up in my head. I couldn’t articulate and express them properly.
In the end, all I had was my anger.
Until a band called Bamboo broke through the Philippine music scene. I admired them from afar for about a year but it wasn’t until I saw them live for the first time at a mall gig that I knew my life was forever altered.
A band that was made up of very opinionated artists, each incredible masters at their craft, with strong personalities that match and made music that stuck it to the man.
It was their music that untangled my thoughts and allowed me to breathe through the anger. They said the things that, at that time, my angry little self couldn’t and expressed them so fluently. Their words later became mine.
Then the band broke up.
Left a void.
Okay, in all honesty, I’ve already made peace with the fact that the band has broken up and will most probably never reunite. I had more than a few choice words about their break up years back but that was that. Heartbreaks over artists who’ve made a significant impact in who you are are always brutal. That’s fine. That’s okay. Like I said, I’ve made peace with that.
What I’m getting at is the fact that we don’t have a band like that anymore.
We haven’t got a band that’ll help today’s youth grapple with all the madness they are faced with at a local and global scale. A band that doesn’t only allow the youth to be angry (coz… There are alot of those) but gets the youth to think about and constructively act on what they can do with all that anger.
Heck, if I’m honest, I need a band like Bamboo right now to help me make sense of… Everything… That’s happening.
Here lies the social and cultural need for a rock band. A band that’ll write and sing the anthem of a generation.
Whut. An. EP. Whut. A. Journey. Whut. An. ATMOSPHERE.
I listened to this 22-minute 5-track EP a few minutes past 03:30am on May 29, 2020. A few hours after its release.
I had just finished watching a movie and it had completely slipped my mind that it was already Friday – anyone who lives, eats, breathes music knows Fridays mean New Music Fridays since the age of streaming began.
And so I sat there. In my darkened corner lit only by my moonlight lamp (this is not a joke – I have one. I have a thing for the moon. The moon and I are very good friends). Headphones on – full volume (of course).
… Then I was transported.
Track 01: Sleep Paralysis
The lift off.
The feeling of gravity letting you go.
Weightlessness. Into nothing.
Track 02: Inside My Head
The floating around.
Floating through space.
The struggle.
The not knowing where you’re going. The not knowing how to navigate the lack of gravity.
The swimming in and out of thoughts into the abyss. A facing and staring down of dreams and nightmares.
Track 03: Dear Night Owls
The you letting go.
The finding of and staring into the horizon.
The tipping over.
The feeling of falling.
And falling. And falling. And falling.
Expecting to crash yet finding some soft landing. Coz there are others like you. Like us. Who will catch us when we’re falling.
The realisation that a lot of us are staring at that same horizon, tipping over and falling towards it.
The finding of destination. Of purpose.
You are not alone.
Track 04: Still (with Cole Geconcillo)
The calm.
The steady.
The healing.
The cruising on through.
The floating forward.
Track 05: Is It Too Real
The landing.
On the moon.
That first breath after forgetting to breathe.
That first bit of sunrise on the horizon breaking through the dark, colouring your eyes and warming your skin after a long cold night.
You’ve found your place.
In this space.
Do you see it too? Did you go through that journey the way I did? Or have I simply let my imagination run wild? I mean. It’s been known to happen.
I read that the brilliant minds behind this EP (Gino Rosales and Karl Lucente) made this to help people sleep in this manic lockdown limbo that we’re all in. Although that might be true, somehow, this project hit me differently – obviously.
The timing of when this was released.
This Man On The Moon EP comes on the heels of when the current state of the world, with its maddening chaos and noise, left me feeling like everything has been and still is on fire (have you read – even just skimmed – through the news these past few days? Coz… Humans, we are doing a lot of very wrong things). Burning uncontrollably and very quickly turning everything into ashes.
This collection of music was the bit of peace and calm that I hung onto when it was all becoming too bleak and too much. It took me to where I could see horizons and sunrise and all the colours that come with it.
There’s so much pride over the fact that this music is Cebu made. And yet, it goes way beyond that – it is simply beautiful music produced and magnificently executed.
For an introvert who hardly leaves her comfortable space, I’d planned and was already super pumped to attend a gig.
The thing with this gig was that it was meant to be more than another night out with great company and great music. This gig was meant to be a celebration of 10 year’s worth of blood, sweat and tears and all the beauty that came with it.
This postponement is heartbreaking – all that’s been happening has been heartbreaking.
And yet, like anything, we will rise when all this has come to pass and we will celebrate with an even deeper understanding and appreciation of all that we have right now as a community.
[A little late in writing about this but this night was too beautiful it’s taken a bit to fully sink in.]
J Russ. Vicent Eco. Jerika Teodorico. Wonggoys.
22 Tango Records. The Listening Room. Murals.
What a night.
Early February when 22 Tango Records made the announcement for The Listening Room for a Friday night, February 21 2020, I did the one thing I knew I needed to do: I filed for a leave to get the day off work just so I could be at the event.
It was only necessary – my soul required some much needed live music delivered the 22 Tango way.
I’ve also, unfortunately (says this poor, unfortunate, adulting soul), never been to any of the previous The Listening Room gigs.
As someone whose code in life is generally JOMO (Joy Of Missing Out – coz this introvert enjoys her alone time, thank you very much), only 22 Tango events – especially The Listening Room sessions – have left me feeling that unfamiliar feeling of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). I didn’t know I had it in me to feel FOMO until I saw a clip of Vincent Eco singing his heart out to ‘I Know You Do’ to the room without a microphone and I felt all the heartbreaks I’ve never felt in my entire life. So, yes. This was bound to be special.
And… I mean… Look at that lineup.
Just looking at that and you already catch feelings.
And so I went.
My first 22 Tango show in so long. My first ever The Listening Room. I went to a place I’d never been before but completely adored the moment I got in. Saw familiar faces of awesome beings whose creative energies I’ve thoroughly missed. Blended in with a pool of strangers also ready for a night of original, homegrown music, good time, and maybe some healing. (… Umm… Yes, definitely some healing, yes?)
This is what makes The Listening Room so special. The 22 Tango #shhhpolicy plus The Listening Room means it’s all about the songs, the stories behind them, and the artists who created them. It’s about taking away as much distraction as possible, so the audience can truly listen, be present, giving the songs the attention they deserve.
Each act played six songs. I apologize if I only name a few of them. I’m writing all this from memory.
First up, J Russ.
I’ve only seen J Russ perform once before this night and just like that, as he played in Murals, I was reminded of how incredibly talented he is. He opened with a song called ‘Storm’. His music transports you to places. The arrangement and imagery that he uses in his music to bring you there are so vivid you won’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until the song ends coz you don’t want to burst that bubble that he’s made. He ended his set with a song about all the different versions of relationships we build in this life and called it ‘Let’s Go’.
[I am waiting for that glorious moment when J Russ brings his music to the digital world where I can listen to it on loop – just needed to put it out there.]
Second, and, if I’m honest, the one I was genuinely looking forward to the most when I first saw the lineup – Vincent Eco.
I’ve been a fan of Eco since he started his journey with 22 Tango and I heard him play ‘Make You Stay’ for the first time – and that was the song he opened with – he doesn’t really hold back, does he? Getting straight to the feels. Eco played ‘Make You Stay’ and ‘I Know You Do’ back to back, for good measure, in case you needed to feel extra feelings. He also played a new song he said is based off of Alyssa from End of the Fucking World and called it ‘Silent’ and left me hoping beyond hope he’d record that soon so we can get it on Spotify. He ended his set with the song that always feels like a roadtrip and breath of fresh air all in one, ‘Kiss and Disappear’ (four feet away!).
Next, Jerika Teodorico.
A slot originally filled by Mary Anchit but Anchit couldn’t play so changes needed to be done and Jerika came in and blew everyone away.
This was my first time seeing Jerika play live and all the Bisdak heart and pride went with her as she played her entire set in Bisaya filled with all the beautiful nuances found in everything very Bisaya and our very awesome Bisaya humour. She thanked the crowd for the fiesta vibe (thanks for the decor, Murals!) and for allowing her to do her side step as she played her songs and ended her night with ‘Ihatod Tika’.
Now, an audience singing back the song to the artist will always be magical but, have you ever heard of an entire room singing back the song to the artist in your native tongue (that has always been bullied as a dialect when it’s not coz it’s an official language)? If you haven’t, you haven’t truly lived. To say that that last chorus of ‘Ihatod Tika’ that night at the Murals was beautiful and powerful is an understatement.
[Also, if I may, none of the foreigners who were at the event left the room just coz Jerika sang and spoke in Bisaya. It’s music. Music transcends any and all boundaries. Don’t ever give us that ‘translate the song to Tagalog’ crap ever.]
And lastly, the Wonggoys took the stage.
The brothers went in with their signature bright, colorful garb, opened their set with their anthemic, and very timely song, ‘Weekend’ and already you could feel the room just… take off. Feel all the good feelings and be ready to celebrate (more of) the weekend. The brothers pointed out how beautiful the crowd had been all night and just how packed Murals was (it WAS SUPER packed – this introvert would’ve died with all the humans around had the great music not sustained and saved me). Celebrating their 10th year as a band this year (Cheers, bai!), the brothers also mentioned how they’ve seen the Cebu music audience has transform and grow these past few years and how 22 Tango has been instrumental in shaping that culture. They played ‘Ako’, their current single, before closing the night with ‘Wa’y Blema’ breaking #shhhpolicy and letting the whole room sing along with them all throughout the song.
It was one hell of a beautiful night that even the rain outside couldn’t dampen anyone’s spirits.
All four acts held their own and as much as each had their unique charm and humor to hold an audience’s attention, what bonded us most that night and what spoke the loudest was the music.
J Russ. Vicent Eco. Jerika Teodorico. Wonggoys.
Remember those names, look them up right now and listen to their homegrown music.
Thank you, 22 Tango, for building a community of artists who support each other and build each other up. For working relentlessly all these years in creating the culture and the community that support these artists, allowing them to grow.
[We’ve got such great artists, Cebu. Look around you.]
Here’s to more leaves being filed for great music delivered the 22 Tango way! Cheers!
From This Suok 
