Author: Dominique S.

2021 and then Some

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I had to admit that, for the last two months of this year, I’ve been having withdrawals. Yes. I’ve been having withdrawals from prescribed medication. I realized this was happening after I stopped taking a pill that was supposed to help my body heal. I couldn’t move my left arm at first. Then it moved to my right arm. Then all over my wrists, fingers, and jaw. Every day, I had some new ache and pain disabling my ability to move. There was depression. There was insomnia. There were a lot of annoying situations where the people who were supposed to understand kept annoying me to do certain tasks I’m not in the mood to do. Opiates. I love what it does to me. I understand why people get addicted to them. But what I don’t understand is why do hospitals do this? Sometimes people think it’s a myth because it hasn’t happened to them. But when you get pumped with a cocktail of oxycodone, hydrocodone, neurontin, and melatonin with the comfort of nurses giving …

The Slow and Battered Surrender to Interpretation

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For example: an Apple I kept a bag of apple seeds just in case the world decided to collapse. I wanted to leave a solid trail of trees to commemorate my existence – as a human being. It’s a long story, but an irrelevant one. The significant human experience we search for always must mean something to yourself and the other self – which is the audience. For example: an Apple I have a strange dislike for fresh fruits – mostly apples. I have a strange dislike for bruised fruit – the ripest apples are good for pie. I only eat apple pies. I only drink apple juice. I never really eat apples – not without the skin on. That’s probably a hard fact to digest. Personally, I find apples hard to digest. For example: an Apple What does an apple mean when it’s ripe and red and juicy and fallen? What does it mean to be an apple that no human or animal remembers? What is an apple anyway? What does it mean to …

It’s a Good Goodbye

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I’m always compelled to tell the same narrative of how I got here (California). It’s been 8 years since I left Manila and the memory is still fresh and blurry and exhausting. I’m not good at remembering, not like how most people are. Documenting my life was never my priority, not in these circumstances. I couldn’t just latch on to some white guy for housing or brown-girl-self-validation. Although, even if I wanted to, I was more into the idea that I could be with someone female and finally experience the world an “out” lesbian. Last night, I had a dream where I had a conversation with my high school self. It was hazy and full of anger because there was no banana ketchup for the chicken lollipop at the stand where I used to buy this from. The night before that I had a dream where I was in a mall in Makati, making fun of the upper middle class girls that were all over western men. I’m always compelled to tell the same story …

Soft Voices in Your Head

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Narration is a form of assurance – reassurance if you’re insecure about the deal you make with the story. Most of the time, narration begins as a voice lording over and limited to the narrative. It supplants authority as a way to trick the audience that this has happened before and it’s going to be fine. Reassurance, an active promise on the removal of one’s fears and doubts. Something we all want without the added spice of a spoiler. The first cold breeze of October came as a blip. I spent the first few days of the month, in the hospital reading summaries of books that I’ve read before, and realized that my favorite type of literature always has an opinionated narrator. In itself, I found that liars are the best story tellers because you’ll never know what really happened. What is an author anyway? Dead. And a liar. Dead beyond the body of the text – which succumbs under the guise of New Criticism (and for lack of a better textual source La mort …