Conchitina "Chingbee" Cruz (photo: cordite.org.au)

Chingbee's last post goes: Of what use is knowing so much if there's no one there? It hurts: Is she saying this as a poet-writer or as an English and Literature teacher?

I already told my readers I'm cancelling this _uckery called wordpress blogging. Last time I looked at it, it was in an open grave, with Amy in Russia (a different entity from my goddess my lodestar Amy in the foothills of North Georgia) smooching it up with her newfound online partner, a millennial monster raking in millions retailing worldwide IT and vocational courses scholarships with a grade to maintain of 75% or 3.0. I wanted to slap her. But there was no way of making her see beyond the promise of a share in the millions on top of a world tour without being lugged along as an atsay to Arab masters, so I just told her to fuck off. If she became a millionaire selling diplomas and ignorance by the tons in the time of Covid and at a time when the aggregate IQ of the Filipinos is the size of the President's genitalia, may she be happy. For a long long time.

Why not bury it, indeed. So much waste of time. If Chingbee, a finer mind, a gracious spirit, gave up her free blog, why must I, a great fuck, keep on paying rent to wordpress for controlling traffic to my site? Chingbee's last post goes: Of what use is knowing so much if there's no one there? It hurts: Is she saying this as a poet-writer or as an English and Literature teacher?

So okay, Chingbee. My blog's graveyard next to yours, what an honor. You're scarce adjusted in your tomb and already here I am crawling in with moss scurrying up to my mouth. Weren't you the one who honoured me with a returned manuscript? The patron-saints at the UP Baguio Workshop overpraising my shit and this White man--zero tolerance to BS, was he an Aussie or an American -- he chose you (because you were the best poet there) to hand to me my story back to say, Robert says (I don't remember his name, so I just name him Robert Frost now), Sorry, Sheilfa.

See. You aren't dead yet, if I were already. Or I wouldn't be picking lines from your poems. Such as:

I like not being good friends with my neighbors.

Or:

I would rather rent for life than be responsible for a house.

And not long after I flung this blog to a graveyard, another writer counseled me. Do not stop writing gyud. Probably understands where life stops and darkness sets in for some people.

I certainly won't. And not after Amy and Russia. And probably, as a way to use up rented space. But right now, it's your poem I want posted.

Exhibition Notes  At six I lost my first watch and gave up on biking. At eight I wanted a cow and a fridge to put the cow's food in, and also a music box. At thirteen I broke a tooth in a dream and for days tapped each tooth in my mouth with my tongue, searching for cracks. At seventeen I lived with three strangers and at twenty-one I got chicken pox exactly two weeks before graduation. I prefer beer to wine. I prefer a couch to a chaise longue. I prefer landmarks to street signs. I prefer to say perhaps rather than maybe, which perhaps makes me sound officious, although I hope this is not the case. I like to watch horse races and figure skaters. I like not being good friends with my neighbors. When in the shower, I sing. When afflicted with a pain I have no name for, I sleep it off. I cry over migraines and missed deadlines. I would rather rent for life than be responsible for a house. I would rather spend a weekend up in the mountains than in the city, but this was not always so. I look forward to plane rides, if they are less than ten hours long. On trips I prefer to stay in the hotel and read books, often about the place I am visiting. I like to sit in the lobby and take pictures of window views. I do not mind asking strangers for directions. I do not get upset when the directions turn out to be unreliable. I do not think twice about spending money on books, but I tend to hold off on buying a bag of potato chips, no matter how intriguing the flavor. Sometimes, in my office, I choose not to answer the knock at the door, despite its persistence. I pretend I am asleep, or simply not there. I find turnstiles and carousels reassuring. I think photographs of shadows are inevitably elegant. There were years when I signed my name as well as the date and place of purchase in every book I bought, and there were years I did not. There were years I recorded in my journals and there were years I did not. I enjoy sitting in a coffee shop and listening to the talk at the next table, but I am annoyed when I tell my companion a joke and find the man at the next table laughing. I cannot look at a painting without reading its title first. I feel awkward making the sign of the cross. I feel compelled to write words with my index finger on dusty surfaces. I do not smoke pot if there is no one in the room I would like to sleep with. Mannequins make me nervous, as do poorly ventilated diners. I am always a little disappointed when the person I am calling picks up the phone. I have a hard time watching movies with scenes of rape and torture in them. I would rather not have a conversation begin with "We need to talk," although experience has taught me that what follows is not necessarily terrible news. There are two or three things in my life that I regret. I am pro-choice but am amenable to a reproductive health law that excludes abortion. I am embarrassed to belong to one of two countries in the world with no divorce law. I read the news after I read the classifieds. I despise cops and evangelists. I can live without beauty pageants, although I find myself keeping the television on long enough to see the evening gown portion. Sometimes, alone in a restaurant, I feel obliged to finish my food quickly if there are others waiting to be seated. I stay away from people who hand out flyers. I stop in front of pet shops when rabbits and birds are on display. I compare prices. I make lists. I return by the due date. I think it is better to walk in the middle of the street and get hit by a car than to walk on a dark sidewalk and get mugged. I think a cab with a rosary hanging from its rearview mirror is safer to ride in than a cab without it. I have a hard time evading small talk. I have fallen down a flight of stairs twice. I have watched a group of men smash a car with lead pipes. I have stood on top of a mountain in one country to view the mountains of another. I have had sex in ten countries across four continents. I have been kissed inappropriately by a priest. When I am bewildered I think of olive trees half my size which I must have seen on a trip long ago or merely read about. When I am unnerved I recite the phone numbers I know by heart and am relieved that I still know them. There are two or three things I have done that I must apologize for. I sleep by myself on the right side of a double bed. I sleep with the lights off, and by this I mean I sleep with the light from the lamppost outside my window. When a man is in bed with me I leave the cat outside and ignore its meowing by the door. When a man is in bed with me I say screw even when make love is a distinct possibility. There were years I spent filled with road rage and there were years I did not. There were years I wrote thank you notes and snacked on cheese and crackers and there were years I did not. I do not underestimate receptionists and security guards. I am more likely to pick up a book with a beautiful cover even if it is by an unknown author than a book with a hideous cover even if it is by an author I love. I think dictionaries are more reliable than novels. I think swimming pools are far more bearable than oceans. I forgive friends easily, but I am a ruthless critic of acquaintances. I am sometimes rendered speechless by indecision. Sometimes, on my way to work, I see myself walking across the street. I feel the urge to follow myself, but soon enough, I change my mind.
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