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Half the year gone, and one-third of the year so far spent in isolation. The inconceivable has become the usual: we are living in science-fiction times. My friend pointed out that if you’re writing science-fiction, you don’t even have to imagine the future. Write about the now. He’s holed up in his apartment with a view of Manila Bay, counting cruise ships. The QE2 was there recently. Why are they even operating when no one is supposed to be taking cruises? (Except maybe the Americans, all that clamoring for everything to go back to the way it was in pre-pandemic times because, you know, they’re immortal.) Crew can’t alight in the Philippines? Are they stranded, unable to go home? In quarantine? Preparing for mass evacuation, some naval version of Battlestar Galactica? Nothing is surprising anymore. Coronavirus has upended everything, including our capacity to be shocked.

In June when lockdown was relaxed—I haven’t kept up with the levels of Community Quarantine, the nomenclature is unwieldy—I resolved to remain isolated for two reasons. One: Without mass testing, we have no idea just how many people are infected. Coronavirus is a sneaky fucker, you could feel perfectly fine but be infecting everyone around you. No surprise that the covid rates have doubled now that private companies have started administering tests to their employees. They’ve always been high, we were just in the dark.

The second reason is that I’ve always known I would be a recluse, it just happened sooner than I expected. I’ve never been much of a people person. I mean, I love humanity as a concept, it’s individuals I have trouble with. So in June I resumed my pre-pandemic existence, which wasn’t that much different from lockdown except for walks, movie theatres, brick and mortar bookstores, conversations, and meals with friends. Instead of walks I do a workout that makes me feel stupid but which is apparently effective because I can zip through the half-hour without huffing and puffing. Thanks, it’s my great achievement. Instead of lurking in bookstores, I am going through my massive tsundoku (Too bad you Marie Kondo-ed yours, fake sympathy). Instead of conversations I clean the house, it’s excellent therapy.

My cleaning lady Linda was able to show up today for the first time since March, and I was so stressed out from choreographing social distance and ensuring proper ventilation that after she finished cleaning the bathroom, I said I’d do the rest and sent her home. I’m not firing Linda, she needs the job, but one or two visits a month should be fine, and at the same salary because my expenses are low.

The other week I had my first restaurant meal in three months. We sat outdoors, it was wonderful, though it was totally 28 Days Later as we were the only people around. The food revived my taste buds, which were dying from all those microwaved leftovers. If you’re planning to go to a restaurant, outdoor dining is safer. The memory of that great lunch will have to sustain me for the next three weeks, because I don’t intend to go out more than once a month.

I used to post this journal every day, but since last month I’ve been writing stories instead. I have been writing like a maniac. Most of it is crap, some of it is okay, but the important thing is that writing keeps me from losing my mind. Don’t feel bad if you haven’t been writing, it just means you have other things to keep you occupied, and writing is all I’ve got.

Writing and cats. My three feline housemates are in excellent health and are sitting in front of me, judging me. (Why are you writing on a keyboard, too lazy to write longhand, huh huh huh? Note: I know I am anthropomorphizing, I am aware of my issues.) The other week two of my outdoor ampon died of some mysterious illness, leaving three cats downstairs. I just dewormed them yesterday with a nematocide syrup I bought on Shopee. These days my retail therapy needs are met by Shopee: walis, tsinelas, bond paper, book-binding kit, coffee filters. One complaint: my orders arrive mummified in plastic wrap, cardboard, and then more plastic wrap, and it takes ten minutes and some violence to unwrap them. Think of the plastic waste, there has to be a better kind of packaging. My tsinelas doesn’t have to be secured like the Ark of the Covenant.

Cats are my companions 24/7, and I love them more than people. I understand that not everyone adores cats, and some people hate them with a passion. It’s their right. Fortunately I don’t know any of them, but a cat lady friend who feeds and takes care of the community cats in her neighborhood showed me some comments on their rich people chat group. They were wild. “Those cats just sit there waiting to be fed, acting like they own the place.” Uhh…they’re cats. Wait, are we sure they’re talking about cats? The level of personal animus—it’s as if the cats were taking their food away from them. (In fact they do not contribute to the feeding of the cats.) Another person said cats were filthy creatures who ate rats and licked their own butts. Uhh…they’re cats, and their rat-hunting is a good thing. Again, are we sure we’re talking about cats? Why take issue with the licking of butts in particular? Still another person suggested that the cats be rounded up and exiled to the provinces where “they can poop and pee wherever they want.” So the stuff you consider garbage, you send to the provinces, because the provinces are garbage dumps? Sounds like the p-word: PRIVILEGE.

Yes, millions of people are dying of covid and the world economy is kaput, so let’s demonize cats! The last time cats were demonized, The Black Plague happened. This is all very distressing and triggering to ailurophiles (We have vocabularies, thank you very much), and their uninformed statements are easy to disprove (the psychological projection is more complicated), but the important thing is that haters no longer dare suggest that the cats be rounded up and killed. Because there are laws against harming cats. The haters can loathe cats all they want, they can be consumed by hatred if they choose, but if they hurt a cat, they are going to jail. So watch them.

Two weeks before lockdown began, I delivered the Fr Henry Lee Irwin, S.J. Memorial Lecture at the Ateneo. My lecture was entitled Fiction Vs. The Apocalypse, and I dedicated it to my late friend, Uro Q. de la Cruz. I talked about how I became interested in writing, how I found my voice, my influences, the hell of writing for a living, and why I cannot think of doing anything else. I also advised people to live alone, so I guess I am psychic.

Thank you to the Ateneo de Manila University School of Humanities, headed by Dean Jonathan Chua, for the honor. The pandemic cancelled the workshop that was supposed to follow the public lecture; hopefully the workshop will be held when schools reopen.

The first voice you will hear is that of Louie Jon Sanchez, assistant professor, who helped me put my presentation together and answered all my questions about the professorial chair. The photos are by Mickee Escueta. Slightly edited for length.

Part 1

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Zine #2 featuring Genius and Garbage, a new story by Jessica Zafra, designed by Yodel Pe. Limited edition, so get it now. We still have copies of Zine #1: The Adventuress. The plan is to produce six zines in 2020. Collect the whole set! Each zine costs P250. We accept payment by BDO deposit and PayPal, and donate 10 percent of the proceeds to food assistance programs. To order copies, email your full name, mobile number, and delivery address to saffron.safin@gmail.com. We deliver by Grab, Lalamove, Ninja Van outside Metro Manila, and DHL abroad.
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So this is Trump’s vision of America. Policemen killing black people because they are black. Protests against murderous racism brutally dispersed. A peaceful protest action in front of a church violently broken up because Trump wanted to be photographed in front of that church, toting a bible. Trump egging on the violence, promising shooting, vicious dogs, and ominous weapons. When Twitter finds its balls (Facebook is content to have none), Trump threatens to crack down on social media. The successful launch of a crewed Space X vessel means nothing: space travel will only enable humans to create off-world societies riven by the same racism, social injustice, and absurd inequality that plagues this planet.
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Out of print for years, Twisted will be published this year in a new edition! Stay tuned for updates.

It was not the best of times, it was not the worst of times, but it was the era of my youth and everything seemed golden and alive with possibility. Well not exactly, because we can only see how wonderful a time was when it is safely in the past. To recognize the good times while they’re happening is to curse the rest of your life: from hereon it’s downhill all the way.
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Noshed on Diary of a Foreigner in Paris by Curzio Malaparte, one of the great bullshitters of the 20th century. Hell of a writer, but you don’t have to believe a word he says. The Italian author was a fascist who was later imprisoned by Mussolini. He says it was because he made fun of the dictator’s ties and/or was really anti-fascist. In fact one of his prison sentences was for embezzling public funds. He also did time for insulting a war hero—whose glowing biography he had written himself. The war hero didn’t like it, so he talked trash about the war hero.
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