Tag Archives: creative non-fiction

radikalchick.lit

Disquiet #2024

We go through the motions, I think, as we shift from one year to another. There is little to celebrate outside of the personal, and when we are self-reflexive about our privilege, the middle class guilt can only kick in. We refrain from posting food photos. We keep from the usual displays of celebration. We stay distant from the predisposition to overshare on social media.

There are a multitude of reasons, of course, to tell the world the year was good for you. And gratefulness is a good thing. For some of us though, it almost feels excessive to put it on display. This is not to question what others are doing, as it is to lean into why it is that this shift from 2023 to 2024 has demanded differently of the self. It isn’t why has it been hard to celebrate, but how it’s been difficult to put that on display. It isn’t about why there is a refusal to flex, as it is about how this denial of the reflex to share speaks to a specific kind of processing of the present.

That this sensing of the act of biting one’s tongue, almost as if (and ironically) in resistance, is happening on the first month of a new year is expected — what better time to find these words than in preparation for how we re-live the coming year?

(more…)

radikalchick.lit

What We Know Of Darkness*

Is what we know of the certainty of light. As in the impulse to unite on shared battles, the ones so crucial they survive the passage of time, are embraced across generations, as it was brought to bear on that moment 75 years ago, when the Philippine flag flew highest in the air for the first time.

Is what we know of our capacity to create light. Despite, or because of fear. Spreading photocopied stories on the real state of the nation; supporting a free press that bites incessantly, draws blood unfailingly; living off a lush grapevine of narratives passed surreptitiously at gatherings. Until the voices grew louder to the point of paralysis: a boycott of wants, needs, cravings—all sacrifice, maybe rebellion—aimed squarely at the corrupt and wealthy. We practiced and won on civil disobedience 35 years ago, a citizenry discovering its collective power.

Is what we know of carrying a torch. For revolutions that we fashion ourselves. Bright enough to overthrow a dictator, or unseat a President, or take back our freedoms. (more…)

radikalchick.lit

Bad romance

Probably the only thing worse than the fact that one is silenced in many ways by nation is the truth that in place of that silence is a male voice that says: we love you, we care for you, we will cherish you. That this voice also carries us through any romance we might have with men is foregone conclusion. That we might believe this voice is not surprising.

There’s that thin line drawn between romantic and romanticized after all, that thin line between a romance with you as person and a romanticized idea of you as woman. The former has you as point complete with intelligent conversation, sweet walks in the park, thoughtfulness and laughter and music (yes, my ideal right there); the latter has nothing to do with you. The former is based on a man looking you in the eye because he’s interested in you; the latter is based on keeping you quietly standing in a corner. (more…)

radikalchick.lit

on Of Love and Other Lemons, v.1*

Making Lemonade

There is a romance that we like to imagine about writing, and especially the writing of a book. And while my rebellious self would like to tell you that this was not the case for Of Love and Other Lemons, that would be a lie. Certainly it came from a personal history of love and loss and sadness, complete with the high – if not OA – drama of buckets of tears. But the writing of this book didn’t happen while I was going through all those things.

Instead the writing happened when I was at the point of reckoning with the cards life had dealt me (naks high drama), and particularly when I was away from Manila. Distance allowed me to think of freedom, where Manila – the Philippines – felt oppressive, too small that I couldn’t even stretch. (more…)

radikalchick.lit

ingress

it must have a lot to do with the conversations. on the last 24 hours we didn’t have yet, before a flight was cancelled and rebooked, before you try and fit in seven months of self into bags, i watched not with wonder but distance: your back was turned to me as you washed the dishes, 10 beers between us, you tell me to stay put. your word upon word upon word become a slow reveal, weighing heavier and heavier because it took long enough, though it wasn’t the length of time at all, as it was the time it took. to wrap our heads around the weight of us on the bed, at the tables between us, at the photos that captured distance. when you finally sit beside me, it’s a coming out of sorts, in a restaurant with no love, where you insist: a camera would gaze at us and know romance from the beginning. i don’t tell you why i can’t believe that, there’s just no time. instead there’s last night, when we breached distance, in the darkness, the digital clock the bright light counting down, the words: premature / presumptuous / continue / stay the night. we sleep with the discomfort of the following day’s doom, we wake and buy another day. we wonder about promises. it was over soon enough.