I prefer to be overdressed, which is 100% better than those Gringos who show up at the airport in shorts and tank tops and old, filthy, and crumbly flip-flops looking like they just got out of bed and didn't even bother to shower and brush their teeth. Or, at the very least, put on deodorant.
Descanse en paz, SeƱor Manuel. Gracias por recibirme con los brazos abiertos y permitirme formar parte de su hermosa familia.
Many years ago, I tried my hand at poetry.
A couple of my early “poems” were published in the student paper back in college, and I thought I could probably develop my poetry writing skills more, try to improve on my fledgling attempts.
I dropped it. Never tried to write a poem ever since.
I used to love reading poetry too. (I still enjoy the occasional poetry collection now and then, but fiction is still my go-to read.) I loved trying to make sense of the meaning of every poem, because to me a well-written poem should be metaphorical. What you see isn’t what you get. A well-written poem is a puzzle to be solved.
But ironically, the biggest reason I quit trying to write poetry is I couldn’t make use of metaphor or simile well. To me, my poems seemed superficial, shallow. Best leave it to the experts, I thought.
Through the years I’ve come across writers who’ve argued that poems should be more “accessible,” and I’ve appreciated these “easy to read” poems as well. In Stephen King’s celebrated memoir “On Writing,” he narrated how he fell in love with his future wife, the novelist Tabitha King (who, back then, was still using her maiden name, Tabitha Spruce).
Wrote King: “We met when we were working in a library, and I fell in love with her during a poetry workshop in the fall of 1969, when I was a senior and Tabby was a junior. I fell in love with her partly because I understood what she was doing with her work.”
Specifically,
in discussing one of Tabitha’s poems, King argued: “Her poem made me feel that
I wasn’t alone in my belief that good writing can be simultaneously
intoxicating and idea-driven . . . . There was also a work-ethic in the poem
that I liked, something that suggested writing poems (or stories, or essays)
had as much in common with sweeping the floor as with mythy moments of revelation . . . . In the discussion that followed Tab’s reading, it became clear to me that she understood her own poem. She knew exactly what she had meant to say, and had said most of it . . . . The point is that it was a reasonable poem in a hysterical time, one sprung from a writing ethic that resonated all through my heart and soul.”
There’s this popular Filipino writer and creative writing professor that I admire and whose work I’ve enjoyed reading—he has written fiction, essays, plays, screenplays, and poems—who has, himself, been pretty much self-effacing on his attempts at poetry, even though he has already successfully published a poetry collection, along with his novels and essay and short story collections, and his drama. I’ve also read poetry by Neil Gaiman (full disclosure: I’m aware of the recent allegations of sexual harassment against Gaiman, which has devastated me because he’s one of my favorite writers; I hope to write about this in a future blog post) and Chuck Palahniuk—none of whom are exactly known for their poetry. Their poems, at least in my estimation, are very accessible and are devoid of metaphor and simile.
In Gaiman’s case, I read some of his poems when he decided to sprinkle them throughout his first short story collection, “Smoke and Mirrors,” probably as fillers. In Palahniuk’s case, his poems served as the framing device—or connecting tissue, if you will—for a collection of his short stories that he tried (quite unsuccessfully, in my opinion), to turn into a novel because that was what his publishers wanted him to put out for his next book, not a short story collection.
Gaiman’s and Palahniuk’s poems reminded me of Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry, probably because all three of them are known for writing about horror and the macabre—in both their poetry and fiction. And sure, a lot of Poe’s gothic and love poems require some moments of careful dissection (which is fun in and of itself), but a lot of them are of the WYSIWG (what you see is what you get) variety too.
And of course, there are the so-called Instapoets, Lang Leav and Rupi Kaur, whose work has polarized readers worldwide. The Instapoets tag came about because their fans often describe Leav’s and Kaur’s work as “Instagrammable,” with quotable lines that are perfect for sharing.
While some critics of the two Instapoets argue that their works lack complexity or depth, their stans assert that the emotional impact and relatability of their poems are what matter most.
I have a huge problem with the gatekeeping of poetry; for me, Leav’s and Kaur’s poems make poetry accessible to a broader audience, particularly the younger generations.
Or would we
rather have them reading memes exclusively instead?
Lately I’ve been using three laptops.
One for my full-time job, one for my freelance gigs, and one for my personal (and, I’d like to think, more creative) pursuits.
The most powerful of the three is the newest, although I could tell right away when the IT guy handed it to me -- when I first visited my new place of employment -- that it wasn’t brand new. The second one might be significantly older than the first, but it still has enough juice to play old games with, and index books with, and listen to streaming music with -- I just have to leave it plugged in, because the battery has seen better days. The third one is the oldest, running on an ancient Pentium processor, but still better than the PC assigned to me many years ago when I used to work for a publishing company in the Philippines -- but that’s another (hilarious) story.
When I fire up the first laptop, which I do every morning from Monday to Friday (but now, more increasingly, also during weekends), I feel a sense of dread. I use it to write, sure, but also to attend Teams meetings and reply to emails and take what seems like never-ending online trainings. The writing part is increasingly being overtaken by the other non-essential things, which makes me wonder why my newest place of employment even bothered to hire a writer in the first place. But then again, that’s another (sad) story.
When I turn on the second laptop, there’s no sense of dread -- I index books on autopilot now; it’s like second nature. Many years ago when I worked as a copyeditor for that publishing company with the crappy PCs, there was only a handful of us who genuinely enjoyed indexing books. We used to joke that it was a menial job -- not as “intellectual” as editing -- but that someone had to do it. That someone was -- still is -- me. I relish indexing now as I relished it then, and I relish it more than ever because it’s a break from all those non-essential things I do on my first laptop.
It’s when I use the third laptop though -- the oldest and slowest, I don’t even connect it to the Internet anymore; it’s strictly a tool for writing and nothing more -- that I feel the most joy. It’s when I feel I’m making a difference, even though I haven’t gathered enough confidence yet to show the world the stuff I’d worked on all these years.
I remember a scene in one of the episodes of “Better Call Saul” when Jimmy McGill reluctantly accepted a job at Davis & Main, and Jimmy stumbled upon founder Clifford Main playing the guitar in his office. Clifford said he plays music “to blow off steam” and advised Jimmy to find a similar hobby, as working for a high-powered law firm is a stressful job. Jimmy eventually found and bought a used bagpipe from a pawnshop, which in turn he played in his own office (Jimmy being Jimmy – or, should I say, Saul being Saul?), but -- as viewers who’ve already seen the episode know -- not to blow off steam but something else.
Anyway, I fired up the old laptop to blow off steam myself. I’m the type of person who can’t sleep when I’m stressed, and when I overthink I tend to write. But for some reason the words to build one of the things I’m not ready to show the world yet wouldn’t come. So I decided to pivot (I hate this fucking word; it’s one of those words I frequently hear when I use my first laptop, along with “bandwidth,” “core competencies,” “leverage,” “low-hanging fruit,” “deliverables,” “synergy,” “deep dive,” etc.).
This decision to “pivot” is a plea to everyone out there who has their own version of my third laptop: a guitar, a pen, a paintbrush, a tennis racket, a book, a gaming controller or, heck, a fucking BAGPIPE.
Go to that version of your third laptop as frequently as you can. And relish it as much as I do whenever I build one of those things that I’m not ready to show the world yet. Relish it as much as Cliff Main did with his guitar, as much as Jimmy McGill relished playing his bagpipe just to fuck up the establishment.
Maybe someday we’ll wake up, and by a miracle of miracles the world won’t require us to fire up that primary laptop anymore (full of those “essential” non-essentials and hated corporate jargon) -- or whatever its equivalent is in your own working life -- just to help keep those poor billionaires (who, by the way, love funding genocides and wars) “afloat,” eh?
It's been eight years now living here in Mexico City, but I still find it strange when I think about it. To be writing this at the dining table on my old laptop, feeling the chill of the early afternoon creeping in from a window opened ever so slightly. Unless you're living in Baguio City in the Philippines, it's not usually commonplace to write "chill" and "early afternoon" in a single sentence. Of all the things I miss from the Philippines, it's the humidity that has to be last on the list. It's the kind of humidity that's unrelenting, the kind that sticks to you wherever you go. There's no escaping it.
Just like there's no escaping this feeling of strangeness that I mentioned to begin this blog post. If you told me twenty years ago that I'd be living here in Mexico City as a permanent resident with my Mexican wife -- and speaking passable Spanish at that! -- I wouldn't have believed you. I would have said you were bonkers. Twenty years ago I was trying to get out of my newspaper job after I found out that my dad was right all along -- journalism rarely pays. Well, it had been paying me for a little more than a year before the checks started arriving late. And I was getting tired of going to the payroll window of the office and demanding that they'd pay me on time because I was actually a pretty good employee and would submit my stories on time. In a few months I'd get another writing job with steadier pay, but that's another story.
I'm writing this on a break from work, and my cat, Willow, just jumped over the laptop. That's also another strange thing about my situation right now -- I actually own a cat. I've always been a dog person, ever since I got my first dog at the age of four or five, until I rescued my last one from the streets of Talisay City, Cebu, while cycling one day in the Philippines during the height of the pandemic. I was home for the wake and funeral of my mom, and then COVID happened, and everything was closed down. That time in my life was also a strange one, being away from Diana, who had to stay here in Mexico, and grieving the death of my mom. And not to mention, trying to make sense of the pandemic, something that nobody could have expected they would experience in their lifetime.
So I bought a bike. And I pedaled my way through the deserted streets, trying to grieve and trying not to miss my then girlfriend (now my wife) and trying to make sense of the strangeness of it all. And as I was traversing a bridge, that was when I saw a tiny puppy that just narrowly missed getting flattened by a passing truck, and I sprang into action. That puppy is a healthy, full-grown dog now, which I sadly had to leave in the Philippines when I got the chance to fly back here to Mexico. But Daisy is under the good care of my dad and my brother, and I take solace that she's safe and sound and well fed.
I have a bike here too. I bought it almost a year ago during a day Mexicans call Buen Fin, when online discounts are the norm. I got a very good deal from a website, had the bike delivered here to the apartment, but while I was assembling it with my wife we noticed that a few parts were missing. So we left the bike in its current almost-completely-assembled state, but not quite. I'd been meaning to take it to a bike shop to finally have it assembled, just buy the missing parts from the shop, but that day has yet to come. Meantime, the bike has been gathering dust in the corridor, waiting for its chance on the road.
Strange is not bad. It took me several years to realize that, but I'm happy I did. I just turned forty-one, and I'd like to think that I've finally embraced my strangeness wholeheartedly. Many years ago, when I was in a jeepney bound for work, an old man seated across me kept staring at me. I knew he was weirded out by my stretched ears and my lip piercing. A few minutes before I was set to disembark, he snarkily told me that next time I should just wear handcuffs to complete my look. Not a few passengers in the jeepney broke in laughter at the old man's comment. Needless to say, I was embarrassed, but I couldn't think of something to say.
I'm pretty sure I looked strange to that old man. But now, even with the same piercings -- and with both arms also covered in tattoos -- I just laugh at that incident. At this age, I no longer care that much about what other people say. But even more than that, I feel that I've come to the right place. Here in Mexico City I've seen more pierced and tattooed people than in the Philippines, even though over there these kinds of things are also becoming more common. When I was new here and hardly spoke a lick of Spanish, it felt stranger, sure, but be that as it may, I never really felt like a stranger.
Sure, I miss home. I miss my family, I miss my friends. I miss the food that I can't easily get or cook here, because of the scarcity of ingredients. But somehow, now, Mexico feels more like home than the Philippines. I don't know when I started to feel that way, but that's precisely how I feel.
It's strange, I know.