at peace

Clucking chickens. Fucking clucking, goddamn chickens.

There’s more to the cup of coffee than D initially gave on. She asked for decaf, but there’s a spicy undercurrent to the hot drink. S wasn’t sure if it was ginger powder or some motherfucking cayenne or whatever spice Matilda had hidden into their afternoon basket that night, but whatever, as she sips. Still tastes good.

Winter’s slowly creeping into their town. Fog greets them in the wee hours, but does not deter Dexter — he still runs off in search of small woodland creatures to play tag with. She wonders, as she blows steam out of her coffee, if they should have him groomed. His long fur’s matted with dirt after every morning run, and God knows she and D hate cleaning after him.

There are still gaps in her memory. She knows they’re there – portions of her thoughts hazy and scattered, and she feels with every fiber of her being she’s skipping from one unrelated memory to another, which for some reason makes sense, no matter how illogical that appears. This should bother her, but she’s done being troubled by it. After all, they’ve done right so far. Beacon welcomes them like a frazzled parent, one that hasn’t seen their hide for years, and, tired from all the battles, they seek solace in her loving arms. The town’s quiet, the neighbors caring, if a little bit nosy, and they’ve got everything they need here. S, for the first time in years, is content.

She’s plucked from her thoughts by the incessant clucking of hens in Matilda’s backyard. Well, she sips her coffee, not everything’s perfect.

via Daily Prompt: Portion

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Yes, I’m fine. Still kicking it.

The past few days have been rough. This is why I haven’t blogged recently. I was supposed to post every two days, but life caught up to me and punched me in the solar plexus. A powerhouse, that punch.

I’ve been mercurial since the end of 2016 and thought nothing of it. I was unemployed, I’m basically a hermit, and I don’t have any social activities unless they’re family related. So being moody was kind of expected. I’m an introvert – always was one, so I didn’t have any need to put myself out there unless it was necessary. [This may or may not be faulty logic, but I’ll figure it out soon enough, I presume.]

Then I started feeling a bit out of it in certain times of the day. Kind of like I was in a haze but everyone around me’s just doing fine. Thought nothing of it until I started thinking of harming myself.

So, short and short of it: went to a psychiatrist, got diagnosed with depression, told to take meds and come back every two weeks.

If you’re worried about me, know that I am fine. I don’t really feel oppressed or diminished or anything substantially depressing. I just feel tired and numb all the time. And like death is a joke, one I have cracked regularly for the past couple of weeks.

I will try and update this blog. I do still have the Brutalist architecture series going, as well as the motivational quotes series. This is not the last you’ll see of me, that’s for sure.

 

Orange County Government Center

Name: Orange County Government Center
Location: 255 Main St, Goshen, NY 10924
Project years: 1963-1967

Architect: Paul Rudolph
Structure: Building is composed of three wings and three stories
Materials: Concrete blocks and glass
*The building has been demolished in December 2015 due to structural faults.

OCGC 1OCGC 2OCGC 3

OCGC 4

Bird’s eye view of the building

Image sources:

http://www.postwarconcretepostscript.com/2014/12/28/orange-county-government-center-goshen/
https://www.wmf.org/project/orange-county-government-center

http://www.archdaily.com/86743/ad-classics-orange-county-government-center-paul-rudolph/5037e8be28ba0d599b0003e9-ad-classics-orange-county-government-center-paul-rudolph-photo

http://prudolph.lib.umassd.edu/node/4582

Lola’s resilience

Alex Tizon’s piece, My Family’s Slave, is one that by now, you should have read if you are regularly on the Internet. It drew tears, anger, controversy (so much controversy), and perhaps its magic is that it will always be open-ended. There would be no resolution for Lola, for Alex, for the Tizon family, and we are left to pick the pieces of their tragic stories and continue to make sense of it.

Tizon’s article, from how I see it, was never meant to be condescending or sympathetic to Philippine slave culture; he simply told a story about how his family acquired and exploited a human being in their household for three generations. Alex shared the unfortunate circumstances that led to Lola staying with her mother until she got married, had kids, and her kids got children of their own.

As a Filipino, I was both shocked and understanding of Lola’s situation. “Slavery” is common in the Philippines, even until now, where women from provinces or poor families are employed by middle- or upper-class families to take care of their household chores and children. They are not called slaves here; rather, they are called “katulong” or “kasambahay”, which translates to “helper”. Parents of said households have full-time jobs and other obligations that make them unequipped to handle domestic tasks, so they find others to do it for them. Certainly, this is a normal set-up, but the fact that most families pay their helpers a minimum of Php 3,000 a month (approximately 60 USD), without signing them up for healthcare or any employee benefits makes the helpers’ situation more oppressive than other job opportunities.

I understood perhaps the circumstances that led to Alex’s father and mother basically forcing Lola to come with them to the United States – they both had full-time jobs and children; who’s going to take care and raise said children well? Forcing her was callous, downright horrifying, but practical considering what they were going through. What led me shocked and angry was how abused Lola was when she was in America. Alex’s parents verbally abused her and did not pay her for her services. They did not take care of her until her teeth started falling out from lack of care. This stumped me; if Alex’s mother and father were still alive and I was in front of them, I would have not hesitated. I would have punched them both in their faces.

See, despite employing and giving them meager allowances for their services, most of us Filipinos never physically or verbally abused our katulongs. They were family to us; we eat with them, we talk and share stories with them, we go out with them when traveling, we take care of them and pay for their medical fees when they are sick and, in my case, cry tragically when they leave our families to either pursue greener pastures or return to their own families. Our katulong was like my second mother; I respected her and loved her even if the circumstances that led to her being with us were not favorable.

Despite my mixed emotions while reading the article, one thing stood out to me like a glaring light, something untouchable and quite terrifying: in all the horrors Lola experienced, she never once lost her self. She cried and suffered under the Tizon’s, her metaphorical skin scratched raw until the abuse was so close to her core, but she fought back with all her strength the Tizon’s attempt to get to her further:

One day, while Lola and I were putting away groceries, I just blurted it out: “Lola, have you ever been romantic with anyone?” She smiled, and then she told me the story of the only time she’d come close. She was about 15, and there was a handsome boy named Pedro from a nearby farm. For several months they harvested rice together side by side. One time, she dropped her bolo—a cutting implement—and he quickly picked it up and handed it back to her. “I liked him,” she said.

Silence.

“And?”

“Then he moved away,” she said.

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“Lola, have you ever had sex?,” I heard myself saying.

“No,” she said.

She wasn’t accustomed to being asked personal questions. “Katulong lang ako,” she’d say. I’m only a servant. She often gave one- or two-word answers, and teasing out even the simplest story was a game of 20 questions that could last days or weeks.

There are aspects of her that are hers alone and would rather not share, and perhaps this presented a worn-down reflection of her self-worth, but I’m glad she still had the strength to not give the Tizons all of her. That there are certain things she kept to herself. That she still had the courage to fight for what was right, like when Alex’s mother remarried to a freeloading, abusive gambler and Lola protected the woman from his ire. That she still cared for Alex’s mother when she got divorced and was in her deathbed, even if the mother was so cruel to her. If I were Lola, I would have left her to die in her misery. I would not have cared for her if she spent most of her life enslaving me. It’s so easy to give in, to be weak and submit to negativity when you have experienced it your entire life, but somehow, Lola touched that negativity, told herself she didn’t want it, and continued to shine life in the morose circumstances of the Tizon family.

There may never be justice for Lola for all the years she had been enslaved – hell, even her last years with Alex’s family where she was treated well was not enough to make up for all she went through. Despite all this, the only bright spot in Alex Tizon’s article is not his voice, his ability to write well, or his opportunity to share a controversial story with deeply-rooted issues – rather, it is Lola, who would wake, sit up and stand every morning to face another day under the Tizons with her heart still intact, still kind. Still kind.

 

First Brutalist architecture feature: Geisel Library

Note: I first heard about Brutalist architecture in September of 2016 through a Twitter post. I was both fascinated and somewhat scared. In my effort to understand more about it, I decided to blog about the buildings in the world that adhere to this architectural style.

Background:

From Wikipedia: Brutalist architecture is a movement that flourished from the 1950s to the mid-1970s, descending from the modernist architectural movement of the early 20th century.

Buildings that subscribe to this movement are typically massive in character (even when not large), fortress-like, with a predominance of exposed concrete construction, or in the case of the “brick brutalists”, ruggedly combine detailed brickwork and concrete. There is often an emphasis on graphically expressing in the external elevations and in the whole-site architectural plan the main functions and people-flows of the buildings. Brutalism became popular for educational buildings (especially university buildings), but was relatively rare for corporate projects. Brutalism became favored for many government projects, high-rise housing, and shopping centers.

Brutalist buildings are usually formed with repeated modular elements forming masses representing specific functional zones, distinctly articulated and grouped together into a unified whole. Concrete is used for its raw and unpretentious honesty, contrasting dramatically with the highly refined and ornamented buildings constructed in the elite Beaux-Arts style. Surfaces of cast concrete are made to reveal the basic nature of its construction, revealing the texture of the wooden planks used for the in-situ casting forms. Brutalist building materials also include brick, glass, steel, rough-hewn stone, and gabions. Another common theme in Brutalist designs is the exposure of the building’s functions—ranging from their structure and services to their human use—in the exterior of the building.

Name: Geisel Library/Main library building of University of California, San Diego
Location: 9500 Gilman Dr, La Jolla, CA 92093
Year project finished: 1970
Architect: William Pereira
Structure: Eight floors, with the first two being the smallest in size while the upper six levels present a diamond-like shape in frontal view
Materials: Reinforced concrete and glass

Geisel library 1Geisel Library 2Geisel Library 4maxresdefault

Point

Why is it so hard to take care of yourself?
To love yourself?

You are loved. Coddled. Protected by the world. Yet you damage your/
/self
Relentlessly.

as if you are nothing. As if you are dirt
beneath other people’s
Feet

I am tired of you
But I am

You.

Where do

we

go

 
from here?