ZEN Bitchin'

What Are You Doing The Rest of Your Life? – Della Reese

She recently celebrated her 90th birthday, surrounded by her family–both biological and the writers she has nurtured with her generous wisdom. I count myself very fortunate to have been given the opportunity to be at the receiving end of her wonderful insights and ideas on writing. We never corresponded after the 3-week Dumaguete Summer Writers’ Workshop in 1996. This is perhaps my loss. The workshop left an indelible mark on me and my writing. I made a few friends there, some of whom I have kept to this day.

This poem was one of six I wrote immediately upon returning to Manila, after the workshop. These 6 poems were subsequently published in The Evening Paper. Please indulge me for editing it a little.

Inside
“My anatomy is hymn, sob, psalm”
-Edith L. Tiempo, “Becoming”

Seeing my father’s man-servants
Wielding jungle bolos,
I look up at your long, ridged bole,
To your crown where your children
Used to be (globes of delightful
Flesh and juice),
And I think:
You will serve my family
One last time.

Mother thinks not in terms
Of your doom but of mounds
Of sautéed concoctions
Swathed in egg wrappers.
Her eyes shine each time
The blades descend, digging
Through your trunk.
I wince. Wondering,
Do you feel pain?
I think of my nerves relaying
Sensations of warmth,
Prickling and the stings of ants,
Bedbugs and mosquitoes
To that mysterious epicenter.

With a loud crack, you tumble,
Sending dust and dry leaves
To swirling flight.
A few more strokes and
Your heart is in sight:
Cradled by its wooden husk,
Surprisingly moist,
Its color that of bones
From Grandmother’s grave
Dug open long ago.

I see my heart thumping
In its sac, caged by ribs
Under flesh, fat and
Follicled integument,
I hear the rattle and the rub
Of joints, the shush and sighs
Of food-vessels receiving and
Passing their load to each
Pre-determined destination.

Extracted finally, your core
Shines in the morning sun.
Strangely beautiful.
Is it because it has long
Been hidden long from view?
I think of the love in me:
Hidden, veiled, clandestine,
I think of desires I keep
Within: reined, restrained
Into feigned animosity.
Like your exotic heart,
Its unveiling requires, brings
An end to an existence.

As your heart is taken
To the chopping block,
I see myself lying flat
On the same, my guilt
Deliberated and debated upon,
And I stop: my whole body
Wracked by thoughts that
Threatened to betray me
Hadn’t I composed myself
With one lingering look
At what was left of you.

You have served us well
With years of bearing fruit
And giving shade and now,
With this final gift.
However, my weakness
And selfishness tells me
That I can’t–won’t–
Make this kind of sacrifice.

I’d rather keep
My illicit heart
To myself.

Manila, 1996; edited Phnom Penh, 2009
Copyright Michael P. De Guzman

This was forwarded to me last week. It’s from Vital Voices. I already posted this in my Facebook, tagging all my Khmer contacts. Not one has reacted. I’m hoping to reach a wider audience here. Please help spread the word.

Dear friends,

Your help is urgently needed!

News has reached us that the Cambodian government is taking steps to imprison Mu Sochua as early as next week.

Mu Sochua is an elected member of the Cambodian parliament and a tireless advocate for women’s rights and the victims of injustice. In 2005, Mu Sochua was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for her work against sex trafficking of women in Cambodia and neighboring Thailand . Vital Voices honored Mu Sochua with the 2005 Human Rights Global Leadership Award for her efforts to stem the tide of human trafficking. To highlight her work, Mu Sochua, was profiled in the documentary play Seven.

Please share this letter from Mu Sochua far and wide and spread the word about her struggle so we can keep her out of prison for speaking out against corruption and injustice in Cambodia!

Letter from Mu Sochua:

As I Walk to Prison

Between 1975-79, over 1.7 million Cambodian women, men and children were killed by the Khmer Rouge, among them my parents. The world community knew about it but watched from afar. Cambodia has come out of genocide and on the road to reconstruction but this stage of reconstruction is stuck and in many ways quickly falling back to point zero. 30 years after the genocide of the Khmer Rouge, Cambodia has made some progress but too small. Over 2,000 innocent Cambodian women die every year of childbirth, at least one million Cambodian children go to bed hungry every night, hundreds of thousands Cambodian children and female youth are ruined in brothels, over 200,000 families have been brutally forced of their land and homes, and over 75% of Cambodia’s forests have now been destroyed. Innocent lives of my people could be saved if justice were served, if top leaders of my broken nation were less greedy, if development were meant for all.

I left Cambodia as an innocent young adolescent because the Vietnam war was approaching and hundreds and thousands of sick, wounded and hungry families were already telling us that Cambodia was lost. I returned home 18 years later with two young children, to a nation in ruins. A new beginning gave us hope when the UN came to help Cambodia organize its first democratic election in 1993. It cost the world community 2 billion dollars. I became a leader in the women’s movement, moving communities and walking the peace walk in city streets and dirt roads to pray for non-violence. I joined politics and became the first woman to lead the women’s ministry that was lead by a man, campaigned nationwide to put an end to human trafficking, authored the draft law on domestic violence, signed treaties with neighboring countries to protect our women and children from being prosecuted as illegal migrants but to receive proper treatment as victims of sex slavery.

I witness violence not as a victim but I listen to hundreds and thousands of women and children speak of the shame, the violation, the soul that is taken away when violence is afflicted on their bodies and on their minds. As a politician I always try to take action, to walk to the villages where life seems to have stopped for centuries, I challenge the top leadership of the government – I question international aid.

Today, I am faced with the real possibility of going to jail because as self-defense I dare to sue the prime minister of Cambodia , a man who has ruled this nation for 30 years. Having been assaulted to the point where I stood half exposed in front of men, by a general I caught using a state car to campaign for the party of the prime minister, I found myself assaulted again, this time verbally by the prime minister who compares me to a woman hustler who grabbed men for attention.

Within days my parliamentary immunity will be lifted so the court can “investigate” my case. This is normal procedure for politicians from the opposition party or human rights activists or the poor who cannot bribe court officials. I will be detained in the notorious prison of “Prey Sar” for as long as the courts wish to take.

Many of my colleagues in the opposition, including my party leader have faced this fate for speaking out.

Cambodia receives close to a billion dollars in 2009 from the international community, the USA contributing close to 60 million. Is the world still watching in silence while Cambodia is now ruled by one man? Is the world afraid to say that its aid is actually taking Cambodia backwards?

Let no Cambodian children go to bed hungry anymore. Let no Cambodian woman be sold anymore.

We must walk tall despite being people bent from the trauma of the Khmer Rouge, which is still a part of us. Let us not let our leaders and the world-community use this trauma to give us justice by the teaspoon.

Let there be real justice.

Mu Sochua
Elected Member of Parliament
Sam Rainsy Party

Thank You for Hearing Me – Sinead O’Connor

It has been more than 14 months since the dissolution of my last relationship. Please don’t think that I’m counting the days. I’m not. I just happen to think about it because (of my prodigious memory?) in the last few days it has been the subject of my conversation with friends.

When I caught up with A, my Singaporean friend in Kuala Lumpur, we talked about our relationships (his, and my non-existent one). He’d known about what happened between K and I through my blog but of course he’d want to hear it straight from the bitch’s mouth–so to speak. Besides, there are (juicy) details that I didn’t include in the blog, as it is my common practice, especially when I write about certain things about my life. So there I was, over our dinner of Nasi Lemak and Nasi Bojari, talking about the end of my affair with K, juicy (and sordid) details included. This subject was taken up to when we were having desserts at MOF.

When I got back to Phnom Penh, the same thing happened. Once, after a couple of hours of ukay shopping, V and I found ourselves at home, sitting idly by the porch, simmering in the balmy heat of the afternoon. I do not exactly remember what we were talking about, until the subject shifted to relationships. I am sure that if V wasn’t a chef by profession, he would’ve been a great counselor, or therapist. He has a non-antagonistic way of asking questions that one (meaning I) feels very comfortable to answer him. So there I was again, over glasses of iced water, talking about my break-ups (yes, it happened twice) with K.

One is tempted to ask, do you not get tired of talking about this?

I am, in fact, tired of talking about my relationship with K. Not because I’m still hurting. Talking about him doesn’t cause tears to well up in my eyes or make my heart clench with pain. It does, however, raises my hackles. Probably because I am still a bit mad. At him? Possibly. Consider this exchange, which happened this year:

February 11 – I receive an email from K; it is addressed to his Board of Directors, and it is about an update on his NGO’s recruitment of new board members. As a former volunteer advisor of his NGO, I do not see anything unusual with me receiving this email. Maybe I’m still part of K’s work-related mailing list. Not having anything to say, I ignore this email.

February 13 – I receive another email from K; this time announcing the recruitment of the new board of directors for his NGO, including the nomination process and other details. At the end of the email, a short statement: ‘Happy Valentine’s Day!’

Acting on impulse, I write this reply: ‘I think you sent this to me by mistake.’

February 14 – This response comes: ‘I’m sorry if you think I sent this to the wrong address. I sent it to everyone I know, even used to know. The greeting wasn’t a mistake, though.’

With alacrity, I type this message: ‘Please remove my email address from your address book, so that this mistake doesn’t happen again. STOP BOTHERING ME. And please do not respond to this email anymore.’

So far, he has been compliant to my request. The few people who knew of this little incident thought that my actions were a tad harsh. However, I will stand by my actions. If they knew K the way I know him, if they knew everything that happened between us, they will understand. That was not me being bitter, angry, and vindictive. That was me choosing to protect myself.

I realize that I have only started dating other people a few weeks ago, well over a year after my break-up. But this was not because my heart was crushed into a million tiny pieces that I am unable to love anybody else. This is because many other things happened to me last year: I got sick, had surgery, moved to a new flat twice, almost moved to a new country, revitalized my consulting work, etc. Entering into a new relationship was not a priority.

How about now then?

A good question. I would say that it’s still not a priority, but I will not turn away from it if the opportunity comes. Something about the person I am dating now fills me with a certain kind of dread, simply because dating someone like him is something I’d never done before. I have hope, though. It’s been said that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. So there.

The Point of Poetry

For you who do not see
The point of poetry,
I offer these few lines,
With lovely words,
And possibly, a melody

To touch your heart,
The way sometimes art
Plays with our senses
And reminds us
That we’re all a part

Of life, and its poetry–
Its chaos and symmetry:
Like how your cheeks
Are bisected by commas
That appear magically

Every time you smile
With no pretense or guile,
Like how your beauty
Gave birth to this poem–
Line by delicious line.

You may not always see
The point of poetry,
But what many don’t know
As it is often unnoticed,
Is there doesn’t have to be:

Poetry is poetry.

For JZ
Phnom Penh, 2009
Copyright Michael P. De Guzman

Turning Japanese – Sprung Monkey

On Sunday I woke up at around 9AM. The flat was silent, as Danika has left for work. After a breakfast of Milo and peanut butter sandwich, I went out. It was looking to be another sunny day, as opposed to the almost daily dose of rain in Kuala Lumpur. And since I was able to do a lot the previous day, my schedule for my second day in Singapore was pretty flexible. I only had 2 appointments, a lunch with J and an evening concert with Danika. In between, I thought I could do some shopping–actual or window, that is.

So I headed to Paragon. The first shop I went to was Muji, the Japanese ‘non-brand’ shop. I love all things Japanese. I am all for the aesthetics of Japanese design, whether it is architecture, interior, landscape, and fashion. I first heard of Muji from fellow blogger fuchsiaboy, who fears that he’s turning me into another brand-whore (no worries, there, D–I’ve been one even before we met–hahaha!). On the flight from Phnom Penh to KL, Muji was featured in the inflight magazine. Serendipity? Why not!

The shop was all that I imagined it to be, if not more. I was almost salivating from the stuff that they had. The clothes weren’t for me, though, because they don’t make it big as, say, Marks & Spencer. But the other stuff were so cool, I wanted to buy them all. Alas, I had to content myself with purchasing a few items; I was watching the weight of my luggage, the rest of which I left in KL. To show my appreciation to fuchsiaboy, I got him a couple of small items that he can use in his design work.

J

As we waited for our food (burger for him, baked fish for me), we found ourselves talking like old friends. In spite of our 11-year difference, I felt we had many things to talk about because (a) he is mature for his age, or (b) I am immature for my age. Kidding! Both of us are male nurses (Focker alert) who do volunteer AIDS work. Enough said, eh?

After a nice meal and chat, J and I went to Kinokuniya where he introduced me to ‘Fables’, a graphic novel series that puts a new twist on fairy tale characters. Then he had to go to meet his family for their regular Sunday family meets. I had an hour and a half to spare so I went back to shopping. I found a nice throw-everything-but-the-kitchen-sink bag on sale at Takashimaya, plus a shirt and chinos at Marks & Spencer.

I returned to Danika’s flat at around 5PM, because we were to have dinner first before the concert of the Japan Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra at the Esplanade. By 5.30PM we were off, dressed in our theatre-going outfits. Actually I was hopelessly underdressed: I just wore a checkered shirt and jeans. We had dinner at 7,107 Flavours, a posh-looking Filipino restaurant. I love their logo. And their Kinilaw na Tanigue was wonderful too; it reminded me of the kinilaw I used to enjoy in Mindanao.

7,107 Flavours logo

The Esplanade

After dinner, we crossed over to the Esplanade Theatre to watch the concert. The Singaporean pianist, who was in the first half of the show, was adequate–I’d seen better Filipino pianists, to be blunt. But he was quite good. The music in the first half wasn’t that impressive for me. But the orchestra and the conductor were really good. I liked the music after the intermission better. By 10PM Danika and I were back home. I packed my bags for my bus trip to KL the next morning. I slept at around midnight.

I was up at 6AM, and left Danika’s house at 7AM to head to the bus station, located at the Harbour Front Centre, which was about 20 minutes away from Danika’s flat. Danika was getting ready to go to work when I left.

Because it was a day trip, the bus went on a 10-minute break at a rest stop. Nice, clean rest stop. With at least 2 mobile stores selling refreshments and snacks. By 1PM I was back in KL. I took a taxi to Prince Hotel, where my luggage was, before I went to Number 8 Guesthouse. But the darn cabbie was asking me a flat rate of RM15 for the trip. Malaysian cabbies are nasty, especially when compared to their Singaporean counterparts.

The Rest-stop

I was at Number 8 by 2PM. I stayed here last in 2006 and I was impressed. I guess it was unrealistic for me to expect it would remain the way it was. It has deteriorated so much that I regretted my decision to stay here. I should’ve just stayed at Prince Hotel. After a good massage, I went out to meet Abdul at Pavilion. Our appointment was at 6PM so I had more time to stroll. We walked further to KLCC, where we had dinner at Madame Kwan’s, which purportedly served an excellent Nasi Lemak. Abdul wasn’t impressed, though. I, however, liked my Nasi Bojari. For dessert we went back to Pavilion, which was closer to where we were checked in. We had dessert at MOF, a Japanese sweet shop, where we unknowingly got an overdose of red bean paste. It was nice, nonetheless.

I was very happy to see Abdul. I missed seeing him when I was in Singapore last year and this year. Good thing he went to KL. The next rainy morning I was off to the airport at 8AM. However, when I got there, I wasn’t able to check in right away because of a glitch in the airport’s computer system. They couldn’t print boarding passes and the ground crew were finding it very hard to write on the passes long-hand. The consequence of technology.

When it was time for me to check in, the glitch was repaired. At the gate, a phallanx of black-clad bodyguards sent the Khmer who were waiting to board in a kind of flurry. They were bowing to a short, stately old man whose eyes disappeared when he smiled. I didn’t think about him anymore until we landed in Phnom Penh. We stopped far from a tube but the plane doors were opened. Through the window I saw that a red carpet was unfurled and down went the old man, followed by his entourage, welcomed by many people below, along with a military escort.

In exchange for the inconvenience of descending a plane under the noon-time heat, I got to do that on a red carpet. Too bad I didn’t take a photo in time. By 1.30PM I was back in the quiet of my home. Tired. But relaxed, recharged, and rejuvenated (not to mention nearly broke–hahaha!) from this trip.

There Are No More Songs
“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
-Pablo Neruda, Love Sonnet XVII

There are no more songs
I can sing to make you love me.

Day and night I prayed for melodies
That will catch your fickle attention,
I turned to the stars for inspiration
But they turned their gazes elsewhere,
Leaving me with this gaping hole
So that the night wind blows through–

Whistling and sibilant, almost
Musical, and morbid, and ultimately
Cruel and damning. There are no more
Songs to make you change your mind:

I will stop loving you in the day
And let the night take care of itself.

Phnom Penh, 2009
Copyright Michael P. De Guzman