Renee Cuisia
The Church irony is what I call the hypocrisy of wanting to be holy while actually being anything but. The Church irony is that at every church, during every Sunday Mass, no matter what the time, there will be a throng of people bumping into and ignoring one another—Christians, they call themselves—each wanting a good seat and a good view to get through the hour.
In every nonfiction piece that I write, be it a required reflection paper or an essay borne out of a whim, my main goal is always: to be as honest as possible. Never mind that I compromise image or risk embarrassment, never mind if my musings reflect a laughable naiveté that amuse readers for the wrong reason. Never mind if my sheer honesty betrays underlying feelings of fear or confusion. For some reason, what truly and only matters to me is that my writing be as candid and as assured in this candidness as possible.
Inspired by Joan Didion’s the White Album
I take odd pleasure in the fact that the people in my village have become characters, characters I watch from my safe distance, characters I play with when I’m bored. Characters with backstories and true stories I constantly fact-check and invent.
On General Romulo Street, Cubao, tucked along a cramped cluster of stink, buildings and thick, dark smoke emitted by the countless vehicles passing by, is a gem of a place that combines the charm of a ghost town and the appeal of the vintage.