letters abroad:
dear mum
i'm sorry i wasn't able to find yr george benson/al jarreau cd & i'm sorry i couldn't bring it to cubao & give it to mr fores so that you can claim yr front row tickets to the george benson/al jarreau concert when you come visit us next week. before you get mad at me over facebook for "not doing the one little thing you (kindly) asked me to do (after you sent me yr paycheck to buy a new laptop)" please understand that dad sent me to pay stanley's tuition in the grade school today because stanley conveniently forgot to tell him that his card's out on monday & he can't get it if he doesn't pay his tuition
so i went to pay his tuition & the line was long so i studied while standing between two loud mothers trading fashion tips & by the time i was done there wasn't enough time between then & my first class to haul my ass back home, dig through yr cd collection, haul my ass on a train to cubao to find mr fores who is always in a meeting anyway & get back in time to read for a quiz, write a report, & dance the motherfucking ride-me-dead dance for both my orgs
because that's what i do, you know. while i'm talking to you on here, maybe you should know that the cook isn't cooking very well & that my older cousin in charge of doing the groceries as part of earning her keep here in the house isn't doing that very well either
dinner tonight malansa yung pusit & the stew was too salty, there were stones in the rice, & as if that wasn't enough, my father lifted from his plate a slab of marbled fat from the meat stew & smeared it purposefully across the glass tabletop, a consistency of pureed mashed potatoes, sickly yellow white, & he said, slowly deeply to the entire family frozen "you are going to kill me" & i understand him, i really do, because to come home to terrible food is a nightmare & yes, he deserves better.
goddamnit i deserve better
but i'm not going to talk about that now because i hate coming home to bad food too & starting tomorrow i'll be the one to buy the food because i like doing the groceries anyway (let me convince myself of this) right down to the stinking wet market, the pig carcasses swinging from hooks, the dull thud of cleavers. the chubby ladies in aprons pushing away their sweaty hair from their foreheads, using the backs of their bloody hands. the permanently wet floor hosed down every thirty minutes to keep the animal blood from congealing. the fish with their gleaming eyes, the clacking of crabs inside plastic buckets, dragging each other down.
the supermarket is fine too, wheeling carts surrounded by names names names. in a supermarket everything wants you, everything wants you the way you are at the same time promising to make you better: the wiser consumer, the smarter eater, the prettier specimen. the right one, all the time. i'd like to live in a supermarket, the world of easy packaging & bright colors.
i went off track. what i meant to say is that without you things fall apart & could you please come back home. i know you want to be away from us & from that distance it's so easy to tell me just to pray for a good day everyday, but it's so hard to sleep & even harder to wake up, prayer won't fill up those hours in between, what does is work
good hard work, fucking hard work that comes & comes & doesn't let up
i'm tired, mum, i really am, & why does it feel like it's because yr not here
i'm sorry i wasn't able to find yr george benson/al jarreau cd & i'm sorry i couldn't bring it to cubao & give it to mr fores so that you can claim yr front row tickets to the george benson/al jarreau concert when you come visit us next week. before you get mad at me over facebook for "not doing the one little thing you (kindly) asked me to do (after you sent me yr paycheck to buy a new laptop)" please understand that dad sent me to pay stanley's tuition in the grade school today because stanley conveniently forgot to tell him that his card's out on monday & he can't get it if he doesn't pay his tuition
so i went to pay his tuition & the line was long so i studied while standing between two loud mothers trading fashion tips & by the time i was done there wasn't enough time between then & my first class to haul my ass back home, dig through yr cd collection, haul my ass on a train to cubao to find mr fores who is always in a meeting anyway & get back in time to read for a quiz, write a report, & dance the motherfucking ride-me-dead dance for both my orgs
because that's what i do, you know. while i'm talking to you on here, maybe you should know that the cook isn't cooking very well & that my older cousin in charge of doing the groceries as part of earning her keep here in the house isn't doing that very well either
dinner tonight malansa yung pusit & the stew was too salty, there were stones in the rice, & as if that wasn't enough, my father lifted from his plate a slab of marbled fat from the meat stew & smeared it purposefully across the glass tabletop, a consistency of pureed mashed potatoes, sickly yellow white, & he said, slowly deeply to the entire family frozen "you are going to kill me" & i understand him, i really do, because to come home to terrible food is a nightmare & yes, he deserves better.
goddamnit i deserve better
but i'm not going to talk about that now because i hate coming home to bad food too & starting tomorrow i'll be the one to buy the food because i like doing the groceries anyway (let me convince myself of this) right down to the stinking wet market, the pig carcasses swinging from hooks, the dull thud of cleavers. the chubby ladies in aprons pushing away their sweaty hair from their foreheads, using the backs of their bloody hands. the permanently wet floor hosed down every thirty minutes to keep the animal blood from congealing. the fish with their gleaming eyes, the clacking of crabs inside plastic buckets, dragging each other down.
the supermarket is fine too, wheeling carts surrounded by names names names. in a supermarket everything wants you, everything wants you the way you are at the same time promising to make you better: the wiser consumer, the smarter eater, the prettier specimen. the right one, all the time. i'd like to live in a supermarket, the world of easy packaging & bright colors.
i went off track. what i meant to say is that without you things fall apart & could you please come back home. i know you want to be away from us & from that distance it's so easy to tell me just to pray for a good day everyday, but it's so hard to sleep & even harder to wake up, prayer won't fill up those hours in between, what does is work
good hard work, fucking hard work that comes & comes & doesn't let up
i'm tired, mum, i really am, & why does it feel like it's because yr not here