On the first year of my Bipolar diagnosis, we adopted our first dog – a Shih Tzu / Lhasa Apso mix. He had white fur on his body but the tips of his ears were a gradient of gray. When we got him, I could hold him with one hand, eyes so innocent (eventually: manipulative), fur so soft, paws so pristine, and possibilities so vast.
During the pandemic, I whispered to him, “Please don’t die, not right now.” The quarantine ended, we’re all free to travel wherever we want. I got greedy. “Please don’t die. Please live forever.” He didn’t.
My dog died on a Tuesday. How do I process grief that I’ve been dreading for the past 15 years? I could see his silhouette or smell his shampoo if I close my eyes hard enough. There’s a void in the house – pet bowls missing from one corner, a dog bed from another, and all seven kilograms of him buried at my Father’s ancestral house in Batangas.
Friends say I should write about my dog, immortalize his memory with words. I cut a chunk of his fur and I placed it in a small jar, an emotional support fur that I couldn’t bring myself to look at. I just want to hug him one last time, in his youth, not when we were about to send him away: stiff and lifeless. His paws stretched out and his limbs like a stick that wouldn’t fold.
I’ll write about you, Lupin. Life got a bit more difficult so I’d like to imagine you’re having so many great adventures across the rainbow bridge.
You’re finally reunited with Puccini and you’re together and running around. You’ll finally get to meet my paternal grandparents, I know they’ll love you. You can play with Jen again. Say hi to Brett for me. Sit by Lola’s side until we get there.
You sleep like a child. Start the slumber induced Time warp to breeze through the inevitable Like a montage. The mundane you cannot escape: The long commute home, reckless conversations, Basic hygiene, forced pleasantries, society’s fun-filled Pendulum. Power through and pretend you’re too tired. You are not exceptionally exhausted, just perpetually so.
Let’s make believe you are in charge of your life. Stuck and in awe of people who have everything Pieced together and crumbling at the same time. You are not trash but you’re no one’s treasure either. With your fingers you can feel the earth, your eyes Can process photons, just sensory spares of the universe, Dwindling and disassociating. Don’t ask me If I feel the same way. I’m too distracted to notice.
Seeing my house: a wasteland Of things I am unable to use On a daily basis. I live beyond my means. Am I rich or am I Irresponsible? Rich enough to own trinkets. Irresponsible enough to be in subtle debt.
It’s a cycle of consumerism. Impulse ate My virtues. Any concern of wastefulness Or nature, from which this all came from, Thrown out the window. It is then shut To prevent carbon monoxide from entering. Of which I have contributed a great percentage By existing. Regret comes in a blind box. Which one Is it today: a glorious high or buyer’s remorse? ‘Oh’, just a sigh powered by capitalism.
‘I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there.’
After admiring the medieval architecture in Brugge and strolling along Minnewater, we stumbled upon Bieratelier on the way back to our hotel. We ordered the 12-beer tasting experience, which they claimed were the 12 flavors that defined the city.
Gulden Draak – Dark tripel ale: sour cherries – brown sugar – somewhat bitter
This might sound a little sacrilegious but that morning we visited the Basilica of the Holy Blood. It housed the relic of the Holy Blood collected by Joseph of Arimathea and brought from the Holy Land by Thierry of Alsace, Count of Flanders. The color reminded me of the experience. A narrow stairwell led to the main room of the Basilica on the 2nd floor (Or first floor because you know, we’re in Europe, heh). I have very limited knowledge of religion but I always believe in sacred spaces and what’s enclosed in them. The queue started a few steps from the main entrance, although it was also cold outside, the temperature upon entering was eerie. The footsteps from the people ascending and descending had different hushed tones – as if lighter by prayer or limbs weak from the ascending queue. How many of these people are believers and how many are onlookers. I’ll never attempt to judge.
Blanche de Namur – Wheat Beer: notes of malt – lemon and wheat
I liked this one the best. Lemon in beer is not a foreign concept for me because of our local San Miguel Lemon Beers. But like everything Filipino, ours was a lot sweeter. It reminded me of a bag I bought when I went on my own and explored. By exploring, I typically mean shopping without being judged. I saw this store Cabaia – La Paillote des légendes, a French brand. I admit, I only entered because they were playing a BTS song in their shop which I heard from the sidewalk. Bangtan led me to bags. I bought a nano bag which could only fit my phone, passport, power bank, and 2 credit cards. Fun? Yes. Functional? Not so much. When accessorized with the equally small Uniqlo dumpling bag, it can fit more things. Yes, the bag needs a bag to be a fully functioning bag. Normalize abandoning logic and go for cute, that’s how I decide.
Super 8 IPA – Indian Pale Ale: hoppy aromas – strong citrus – grapefruit
Our next stop after Bruges was Amsterdam and the Heineken Experience Museum. There was this graphic about how beer is brewed. Timing has an effect in characteristics of hops. Adding it early makes the brew more bitter while late addition meant less. But when added cold, the hoppy aroma is preserved as accentuates the citrus of the grapefruit. I remember this one the most. Grapefruit is known to interfere with psychiatric medications. As a person who has been taking anti-depressants for decades, I took every sip seriously as it had implications for my mental health. Actually, now that I think about it, alcohol in general also has serious implications. But let’s not go deep into that discussion.
Cider Ruwet – Apple Cider: made from real Jonagold juice – dry – fruity
I have fond memories of drinking fruity beer at our local brewery near Tomas Morato – check out Pierre’s! It has the same vibe – sans the bra hanging in the ceiling. I don’t think we have Jonagold apple variety in the Philippines or am I not that well-versed in apple varieties enough that this was the first time I’ve heard of it. It has a sweet and slightly tart balanced flavor.
Viven Champagne – Weisner: champagne yeast – floral notes – creamy and Pater Lieven Tripel – Tripel: floral – herbal – fruity – intense bitterness
A walk through Minnewater made me appreciate solitude. The fullness of being alone but not lonely. I met up with my sister and Caye somewhere between the park entrance and the bar. The lakeside felt like a fairytale. I even asked my friend to sing Taylor Swift’s ‘Today Was a Fairytale’ for a full-on cliché. The day was a fairytale. Imagine sitting on a bench with a loved one, drinking beer that reminds you of champagne on a lovely spring day. Watching swans gracefully paddling, breaking the reflection of the lake house. An ideal ending scene of a chaotic romcom that all problems were solved once the credits rolled. But does it really? Swans are exhausted and overwhelmed underneath all the paddling. Also, that chick flick probably had a problematic ending. We can even add the history of the Minnewater where the namesake of the lake died of exhaustion there. Okay, we’re back to solitude.
Bourgogne De Flandres – Flanders red ale: caramel – brown sugar – hop and roasted malt
We took a boat trip through the veins of Bruges. They had an English tour guide who cracked witty jokes at specific areas. I overheard a nearby boat and their guide said that same joke. I laughed twice, the joke deserved a second reaction. I salute whoever wrote the script and its dry, clever delivery. There was a particular bridge where we were warned that we had to lower our head as we traversed it. My head almost touched the floor of the boat but my intrusive thoughts told me to sit up straight again, just to check if it’s actually dangerous. My messy hair didn’t even touch the tip of the bridge. I missed the height requirement for these warnings. People shouted every time we went under a bridge. The echo we made was oddly satisfying as our voices bounced off the concrete walls of the bridge. I’m trying to replicate that sound in my head and the taste of caramel and brown sugar as I write this.
Liefmans Kriek Brut – Belgian Cherry Beer: rich cherry bouquet – hints of wood and almond – sweet and sour
We dined at Manhattn’s Burgers the previous day for an early dinner. A monument of Simon Stevin overlooked as we stuffed ourselves with New York cuisine in Belgium, judging us for not sticking to his Flemish roots. Gemini said that he’s the inventor of the decimal notation for fractions. He’s been there since 1846, I wonder what he’s seen throughout all his bronze immortalized years. Also most likely dismayed as we struggled to distinguished one coin from another.
Atelier 6 – Blond house beer: full bodied – mild – malt and hop notes – vanilla and Brugse Zot Blond – Pale Beer: sweetness on the palette – light finish and Chimay – Dark Ale: fruity peppery character – light creamy head
I am running out of stories but I’ll try to update this blog if I remember anything else. And… I forgot what was at the middle since they said it was for palette cleansing. But I’m not entirely sure, I was too enamored by the sight of the 12 glass tray that was in front of me.
On the way home, we took some pictures of tulips inside a plant box – with the backdrop of buildings and behind it was the remnant of a sunset – which we said we wanted to find a nice viewing spot but missed because we were too busy drinking.
Water ran out. The pipes were dry. There was no telling whether The faucet was close or open. Just tightly turned clockwise or counter- Clockwise. I still live there, waiting For random rations or rain. Fooling myself Of this impermanence. The plumbing Brittle: from moss to dust to decay. I stay And rot as the dirt engulf me. On lucky days, I bathe. At my luckiest, I am clean, And at my lowest, I write.
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