By I can’t help but cry sometimes when I consume and experience tidbits of everything that screams you:
Perfume Genius, The Radio Dept., Ocean Vuong, ellipses, e-readers on transit, 360° stapler, jersey shorts, zines.
Sometimes I feel my chest burning when I read excerpts of your work. I am so drawn to it that I have familiarized myself with what comes after which.Big, digestible words — that’s RJ for u!!
The day I found out the news of your passing, I cried in intervals. I cried so hard when I was packing my bags to go to Negros the next day as part of the QRT that I forgot my planner, my notebook, my wallet, and my glasses. I laughed at how we would always joke about not having enough things during trainings and/or gatherings — you not taking a bath for 3 days straight, forgetting to bring soap, sharing a sachet of toothpaste.
Dearest Bogart,
Today’s your birthday. I went to church, got caught up in the rain on the way, but a trisikad driver was kind (perhaps too kind) enough to lend me his rusty-old payong, a sign that it has been through so much yet is still well-kept. But still, he gave it to me. Love and kindness always have a way of going back to us. And isn’t that the very reason we do our jobs? And the poet that you are, reminding me of that on your supposed 31st.
Four months since your passing, I find myself still crying over your loss. I have been journaling, reading poetry, drinking healthy, but smoking more excessively. I couldn’t find balance in a world that has seen your loss, and every other kaupod who died in the hands of a system long rotten. Some days, I wish I could just set it on fire, but I am patiently reminded that although healing and grief are spirals and not linear, victory is prolonged, sustained. It lingers through clenched fists and months-repressed tears at the death of a comrade.
For the past few days, your mom and I have been contacting each other again. I shared with her a prayer for martyrs. Funny how a few years back we were just talking about writers turned martyrs in a coffee shop (now closed) in Bacolod — Kerima Tariman, Ericson Acosta, Emman Lacaba, Maya Daniel. Now, every time I talk to new artists-writers-activists, your name is added to the roster. WRITER. MARTYR.
Dearest Bogart,
I wail at the thought of u gone.
No one to hug, no shiny hair to play with during eepy, dragging lectures, no one to exhaust generative AI with, no one to talk to when I am overwhelmed with big-city, big-girl responsibilities, no one to pretentiously read books while eating breakfast with, no one to tolerate my soft drink and nicotine dependency, no one to write poems with.
But now, there’s one who will be forever etched into my heart and memory: someone who fought for the masses until his last breath.
Happiest birthday, Bogs!
Always and forever, I will remember you by continuing the struggle you fought for and the life you lived.
I love you forever.
Yours, always in the name of struggle,
Juliane
