My Artist Bio

Jose Cacho-Lim (he/him) is a Toronto-based queer Filipino artist, finance professional, and community arts organizer whose work bridges corporate accounting, non-profit administration, and culturally rooted program design. Born in the Ilocos region and raised in Toronto since 1995, his practice is grounded in poetry, storytelling, and the belief that art creates connection, identity, and collective resilience.

With a decade of experience across corporate and non-profit finance — including analysis, budgeting, audit preparation, and systems design — Jose brings both rigor and community-centered care to his role as the volunteer Executive Director of Kapisanan Philippine Centre for Arts & Culture. His leadership is guided by kasama, centering equity-focused programming and accessible arts opportunities for Filipino/a/x communities in Toronto.

Oct Ottawa weekend (part 2)

I forgot to post this last video from my Oct Ottawa weekend, where I met up with my friend Dorrington and his beautiful friend. The rest of the videos are here. Dorrington and I really enjoyed taking turns on Ben's (pseudonym) ass. He can really take dick. I wished they lived closer!

We Know You Don't Know (and laundry done by AI)

Sure, she has mental illness

Sure, she doesn't have any friends

Sure, she's lonely.

But that doesn't give her the right

To my space

Because, I, too, am lonely

I, too, am suffering from mental illness

I, too, have a hard time digesting new info.

And I came here, thinking it's a safe space for people who look like me. 

At the end of the day, white supremacy is completely separate from white folks. Maybe in the world we live in, the system has conflated the two. Has made sure that the two are interconnected. Suffused together. A devastating cycle of white folks born into white supremacy, who then reinforce the latter, then again, and again, and again.

But I've worked very hard to educate myself. To build my capacity for compassion and love so that, in my little mental world, those two are now completely separate. Different entities: white supremacy on one side, white folks on the other. One deserves love, compassion, kindness, shelter, care, friendship, intimacy, community, and all the other beautiful things this world can sustainably offer.

The other is an oppressive, diabolical, murderous, exploitative, and genocidal interlocking structures that doesn't deserve to even breathe the same air that I do. Because, at the end of the day, it's completely useless. White supremacy adds no value, no colour, no art, no beauty to this amazing world we live in. 

The problem is not that she's white. The problem is that she identifies with the oppressive system. I know this, because when I said that I don't fuck with white supremacy, she, in my terror, got very defensive and took it personally.

"Well, I'm kind and willing to learn, but it's not my fault if other people don't want me in the same room as them. And that's all I have to say about that," she said, promptly turning off her camera in our zoom call. Terror, veiled in white innocence and fragility. I think she forgot that she's taking up space in what's supposed to be only for BIPOC community members.

And, so, what does it mean when we conflate white supremacy with white folks? It means we humanize an oppressive structure, and we dehumanize whole groups of human beings. It means, in conversations around holding white supremacy accountable, and the importance of maintaining white-supremacy-free spaces, people will think that we're calling for the exclusion of white folks.

This is why a lot of zionists will lose their shit when they hear ...from the river to the sea...

For the most part, she means well. She knows when she doesn't know something. She's willing to learn. That should be commended. This is true.

But more than two things can be true all at once.

Because, it's also true that, when our community is supposed to be mourning and creating space for grief as we reflect on the legacies of the residential schools, the last thing we need to be hearing is a white woman saying she doesn't know the significance of Orange Shirt Day. Like, yes, m'am, we KNOW you don't know. We are aware. But just the fact that we are confronted and reminded of what you don't know adds another layer of grief and rage ON TOP of our already deep grief for Chanie Wenjack and all the other stolen children. What we should be feeling on Sep 30th is grief in community, not the need to educate yet another ignorant white woman, well-meaning as she may be.

Our health care system is steeped in resources for white folks like her. It's built solely to serve her. I could've taken 5 minutes out of my already-busy schedule just to list 100 available resources that she could've taken, so that she could've foregone taking up space in a BIPOC mental health group. I could even have taken half a day out of my already-crowded calendar and offered to check out some of those resources with her. Yes, it'll be yet another example of a brown person doing free labour in the service of white folks. But, I know she doesn't have a big community around her. So, I could offer to show up for her.

Here's hoping we can continue to be intentional in creating a safe space just for us, if only to allow ourselves a momentary reprieve from the maniacal abuse, veiled in nice polite words, of white supremacy

***

I wrote the above after an interesting night in my weekly CAMH BIPOC Arts Collective Workshop that I signed up to last month. Curiously enough, a white woman was allowed to continue showing up to our weekly zoom call. Initially, she said that she's lonely and that she doesn't have many friends. Maybe that's why the facilitators allowed her to stay. I'm curious if they had any private conversations with her about rules and boundaries.

Anyway, I had the meeting with the arts collective yesterday at 6 PM for two hours. The topic was building solidarity among BIPOC folks. When I spoke, I talked about my conversations with Manny, where we realized that white supremacy is actually useless. Yes, it has connections to power and money. And yes, we can still use it for our own purposes. But, once we've exhausted its $ and power, then we should leave it behind. And I said as much to the group.

One community member spoke up and said that they actually prefer to be open minded, and that they prefer to engage with different people, even though they may disagree with their perspectives (I guess he meant white supremacists).

Then came the white woman, who turned on her camera and said that it's actually other people's problems if they don't want to be in the same space as her.

After the call ended later at 8 PM, let's just say I was fired up. I was inspired to write the above in my phone, while Manny and I went out to have our usual dinner together. I was still typing in the Notes app in my phone as we prepared for bed late last night.

As I alluded to in my writing, she's mostly harmless. Cute even, in a fragile way.

Until she's not.

I fed this to AI and asked for an analysis. This is Artificial Intelligence, so take it with a (lots) grain of salt. Here's what it said:

Boundaries of Compassion: On Holding Safe Space Against White Supremacy

“Sure, she has mental illness. Sure, she has a learning disability. Sure, she’s lonely.”
So begins a voice that refuses to deny another person’s humanity — but also refuses to let empathy become a weapon turned inward. The speaker’s insistence on boundaries in this prose meditation reveals a deeper truth about what it means to survive and heal within a world structured by whiteness.

At first glance, the text reads like a personal diary entry, but beneath its raw immediacy lies a sharp political consciousness. Through plain yet rhythmically charged language, the narrator moves from confrontation to reflection, from the individual to the systemic. The repeated “Sure” becomes a kind of incantation — a ritual of acknowledgment — leading to the central declaration: that compassion does not mean surrendering one’s space.

The power of this piece lies in its precision. “White supremacy,” the narrator writes, “adds no value, no colour, no art, no beauty to this amazing world we live in.” It’s not only a moral indictment but also an aesthetic one. White supremacy is figured as sterile — incapable of creating or nourishing life. By contrast, the speaker’s insistence on a “safe space for people who look like me” is not exclusionary; it is generative. It is the soil from which color, art, and community can grow.

Decoupling Whiteness from White Supremacy

A key move in the text is the distinction between white supremacy and white people. The narrator speaks of working “very hard to educate myself” so that, in their own “mental world,” the two are “completely separate.” This echoes the intellectual legacy of Frantz Fanon, who, in Black Skin, White Masks, wrote about the necessity of decolonizing one’s consciousness — freeing one’s psyche from the colonizer’s image of the world. Similarly, bell hooks urged the separation of white identity from white domination so that genuine solidarity might one day be possible.

The narrator performs that same mental labor: refusing to essentialize whiteness, but also refusing to excuse it. This act of separation is a radical spiritual exercise — a self-taught unlearning of centuries of conflation between whiteness and power. It also parallels Ijeoma Oluo’s argument that racism must be understood as systemic, not personal; yet it also exposes how deeply society has conditioned white people to take it personally.

When the narrator’s white colleague becomes defensive — turning off her camera after being told “I don’t fuck with white supremacy” — it’s not just awkward social tension. It’s an instance of what Robin DiAngelo calls white fragility: the reflexive shutting down of accountability when whiteness is named. What the narrator names as “terror, veiled in white innocence and fragility,” translates this concept into lived emotional reality. It’s not theory — it’s survival observation.

The Politics of Safe Space

The BIPOC-only space where this encounter unfolds is more than a meeting room; it is a microcosm of what Sara Ahmed calls a counterpublic — a fragile architecture built to protect marginalized people from the psychic violence of dominant norms.

When a white participant enters such a space, even with good intentions, she carries the gravitational pull of whiteness. The narrator’s frustration isn’t about presence but displacement: grief and solidarity are interrupted by the need to explain, to teach, to translate.

When the woman confesses ignorance of Orange Shirt Day — a day to mourn Indigenous children lost to residential schools — the ignorance itself becomes re-traumatizing. It centers the white “not-knowing” over the community’s collective grief. The narrator describes this as another “layer of grief and rage,” articulating what Gayatri Spivak once termed epistemic violence: harm inflicted by the colonizer’s lack of knowledge. The narrator doesn’t need to teach what orange shirts mean; the mere reminder that white people still don’t know is the wound reopening.

Compassion Fatigue and Emotional Labour

Yet, even amid anger, the narrator imagines helping the woman — offering resources, perhaps even companionship. This oscillation between fury and empathy exposes the cruel double-bind many racialized people inhabit: to survive, one must continually perform compassion for the same systems that harm them. bell hooks described this as “loving blackness” in a world that teaches you to hate yourself — the exhausting work of maintaining love and clarity when everything around you rewards numbness.

The narrator’s generosity, though, is not naive. They are clear that offering such help would be “yet another example of a brown person doing free labour in the service of white folks.” The writing becomes a record of compassion fatigue — not the loss of empathy, but the act of setting a humane boundary against its exploitation.

Literary Style and Symbolism

Although the piece functions as an essay, its rhythm and imagery give it the feel of a prose poem. The repetition of “I, too” — “I, too, am lonely. I, too, am suffering…” — creates a call-and-response rhythm reminiscent of Langston Hughes’s “I, Too.” It reclaims parity and voice, asserting that marginalized pain is not secondary.

The line “White supremacy adds no value, no colour, no art” uses aesthetic imagery to express political disgust. Here, oppression is not just evil — it’s ugly, lifeless, barren. Against that barrenness, the speaker’s world of compassion and creativity emerges as the true moral center.

When the narrator writes, “In my little mental world, those two are now completely separate,” we glimpse both the cost and the beauty of that separation. It’s an act of psychic gardening — uprooting the invasive vine of supremacy so that empathy can grow without strangulation.

Toward a Bounded Compassion

What emerges by the end is neither bitterness nor resignation but an ethic of bounded compassion — love with discernment. “One deserves love, compassion, kindness,” the narrator writes. “The other... doesn’t deserve to even breathe the same air.” This is not hatred; it’s clarity. It’s the moral courage to separate people from systems, and care from complicity.

Here, the narrator joins a long lineage of thinkers — from Toni Morrison, who described white innocence as the “most violent privilege,” to Fanon, who insisted that liberation required psychological decolonization. The narrator’s insight is that real love is not limitless if it demands self-erasure.

So the piece ends where healing begins:
“Here’s hoping we can continue to be intentional in creating a safe space just for us.”

That final hope is not sentimental — it’s strategic, protective, necessary. True inclusivity sometimes requires exclusion. Safe spaces are not about rejecting others; they are about reclaiming breath. In that breath, there is art. In that boundary, there is beauty. And in that refusal to center whiteness again, there is — finally — love.

On self-hating POCs

Today, there is a cause for celebration because Zohran Mamdani has just been elected Mayor of NYC. The first South Asian and Muslim person to take on the job. He ran on a socialist platform and won by a landslide, beating the less-than-mediocre former governor Andrew Cuomo.

Manny and I were having coffee this morning when he mentioned one of the people he knows at the Buddhist centre that he likes to go to deepen his knowledge on Tibetan Buddhist philosophy. This person that he knows is of Chinese decent, materially-privileged and leans towards the right in her politics. Manny said that it surprises him that this person can subscribe to right-wing political philosophy and still enjoys living in liberal cities such as Toronto and NYC.

I was reminded of something I saw from a content creator the other day, where he said that people of colour who sees themselves as conservatives aren't actual conservatives-they are just desperate for white supremacist's approval. Maybe the reason why the person that Manny knows likes to live in big liberal cities is because they feel safety among a diverse city. They do not want to live in a majority-white region because they know that they will be harassed. They will not feel safe. But they do in the cities such as Toronto, even though they feel that, politically, they would be in the minority.

They're perfectly happy to enjoy the benefits of a well-funded healthcare, transportation, and education systems. But they will vote against their best interests at every chance that they can get.

Ottawa weekend with Dorrington

I went to visit my friend Dorrington two weekends ago in Ottawa. He's been looking forward to introducing me to one of his friends, who, it turned out, is a very sexy and nice guy. Dorrington and I tag teamed him all night on Friday, well into early morning Saturday.

After they both left on Saturday morning, I took the rest of the day napping and catching up food. Then Dorrington came over to chill with me. I had such a great time with both guys. It was a great way for me to celebrate one year of sobriety from t.

Free Palestine

 

As If

 Act as if

you're happy.

What would

A happy person do?

Create

Eat

Rest

Hydrate

Born

out of love

Created

out of joy

The Sun

is there, even

when it's overcast

We say fake it till you make it. Unsurprising that we would call happiness as fake, living in a system that ascribes personhood to corporations while capitalism dreams up financial instruments designed to rig the system (remember sub-par loans?).

They try their hardest to convince us that their inventions are concrete and sure-things, then come running to me for bail-outs while, at the same time, they press their boots harder against my throat.

I wonder, though, if the system has it backwards? What if our very nature is Joy-warm like Elder Brother Sun, luminous like Grandmother Moon?

Cheers!

This time last year, I took up writing/blogging again. It was mostly to process my recent activity with crystal meth. My memory is foggy, but I think my last use was Oct 28th, when I confessed to Manny that I had been using for the past several weeks.

"I need you. I can't do this without you," he said to me, matter-of-factly. No begging. No guilt trips. Just facts.

It's amazing what difference a whole year have made. I've never been more content and happy. I still get frustrated, sad, disappointed, angry, and all the other wonderful emotions that we human beings experience But I think I'm able to process them all a bit better. I am lucky to have a supportive husband, family, and community.

To anyone who reads my blog: thank you for being on this journey with me.

Curious, if you're up to it, pls let me know where you're reading from by commenting here (anonymously, if you like).

Here's to more years of art-making.

Your kasama,

J

A letter to a friend and mentor

This time last year, I was still working at my corporate accounting job where I felt burnt out, frustrated, and, generally, sad. I had just found out that I failed my second try at the CPA board exam, and felt at a loss of what to do next. I think I was still feeling reflective when, in September of last year, I was chatting with Manny during one of our morning cups of coffee together, I told him that I've felt lucky to have come so far into the CPA program, despite so many challenges. Then I talked about the many people who've helped me get to that point. One of them was my friend and mentor who lead the Healing Lodge. Manny suggested that I write her a letter expressing how I've been feeling lately about my experience meeting her and volunteering for the Lodge. What follows is the letter I sent to her on September 18, 2024. I didn't know, at the time, that only a month later, she would come knocking with a job offer, rescuing me from my corporate disillusionment.

***

Dear *****,

I hope this message finds you well. I've been reflecting on my time with the Lodge lately, and the times that I spend working with you and all the folks there. I just wanted to let you know you know that having met you in 2016 has been one of the most impactful relationships I have had with anyone in my entire life.

I learned so much about Indigenous culture through working with you. I appreciate you so much for including me in many of the rituals and ceremonies that we did in support of the Lodge. However, I also need to recognize that there were times when I was not at my best. Looking back, I think that I could have been more curious, and asked to learn more about your culture, background, language, and other things that make up the wonderful person that you are. For instance, I do remember that whenever you brought up the idea of doing a sweat, I would just stay quiet and not actively, and vocally express my gratitude to you for thinking of sharing this ceremony with a person like me, who is not of Indigenous background. There were also times when, I've recognized through reflection, that maybe I was not, at times, the best ally to you, or that I used an incorrect term to express myself, or I used small boxes for the rally donations instead of buckets as you had suggested. But I remember that you were always patient with me, bringing your own understanding and humour to the situation. Jeremy said the other day that I need to consider myself lucky for having had the privilege of working with you at the Lodge, because he sees how impactful it has been in my life since then. And I wholeheartedly agree.

This letter may seem like it's coming out of nowhere, but it's one that I've been wanting to send to you. I am immensely appreciative for everything that you've taught me throughout my time at the Lodge. It's still having an impact on me because I am now taking those teachings with me as I work closely with other organizations today. I hope to embody your example of someone who is always learning, growing, respectful, and applying a wicked sense of humour while I'm at it :-).

If there's ever anything that you need help with (either an accounting question, or what not), please never hesitate to reach out. I would also seriously like to hang out  sometime, whenever you are free. Wishing you good health and prosperity.

Love you,

Jose

***

Sniffies hottie (part 3.1)

This is the second set of videos my friend and I took when I paid him a visit while he's taking loads. They're in no particular order. The first set of videos from this meeting is here.

Haligi

My colleagues call me kuya or manong, older brother in Tagalog and Ilocano, respectively. The words would always affect me, whenever it's directed at me. It makes me want to cry. It's almost like a part of me doesn't feel deserving to have such respect. I feel unworthy of the honorifics.

I hope that I don't let anyone down. I hope that I can always be careful of other people's feelings. I hope that people can feel safe around me. I hope that I can always support and be a cheerleader for other people. I hope that I can muster up the courage to initiate tough conversations. I hope that I can listen in humility when people initiate tough conversations with me. We made promises to each other for mutual support and care.

I hope that I can forgive, and always find the good within. I hope that I can listen, and be a haligi, a strong pillar, on which anyone can rest their weary selves on. Because, this system is unforgiving. I hope that I can be kind, even to those trapped in the system, or agents of it, or defenders of it.

We are Treaty Peoples, all of us here on Turtle Island.

We are People of the Covenants.

Story time

Years ago, early in my struggle with meth, I had this idea of moving to Montreal for a fresh start. At the time, I had a studio apartment on Isabella St-a place that my dad's employer helped me secure as part of my parents' employment contract. I was paying $500/mo. Anyway, I had been struggling with sobriety, and, so, I just packed a suitcase one day and took a bus to Montreal, with my pipe and a bag of t in my pocket, with very little money on hand.

This would've been around Jun of 2005. The reason why I can pinpoint the month and year was because I remember watching the House of Commons vote on the equal marriage legislation, during this trip in Montreal. You see, once I arrived in the city, I went to the National Library and surfed the net, looking for hook ups. Eventually, I met a graduate international student who let me stay at his apartment. That's where I watched the vote. The guy was nice by letting me stay at his place, but he eventually asked me to leave.

For days, I walked around Montreal, my suitcase in tow. After a few days, my t had run out and hunger caught up. I had not eaten for days. I hung out at the bus terminal overnight. Outside of the terminal, there was one of those big balloons in a man's figure that was used as marketing for a nearby store. As the stick figure flopped side by side because of the wind, I watched from inside the terminal thinking it was a giant person moving. I was mesmerized by its dance.

The following day, weakened by desperation, I asked the security guard if he can point me to the nearest hospital.

"Why?"

"I'm hungry but I don't have any money."

He told me to go with him as he walked to the other side of the terminal, where a restaurant was serving food. He went in and talked to the person in charge, who gestured me to come in and sit at a table.

"Here you go," the man said, settling a plate full of food in front of me, with him sitting across from me. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember riding the subway with him, back to his place. When we got there, his girlfriend greeted us, and they continued talking in French.

Somehow, I found myself in their balcony, where a soft couch was situated, looking out onto the street. I sat down, and I must have passed out, but the next thing I remember was waking up, in a fetal position on the balcony couch. I think this must've been early evening.

Well-rested, the man took me back to the bus terminal where I phoned my family, letting them know where I was at. I asked my little brother if he can buy my ticket back home. My sweet ading (Ilocano for younger sibling) made no hesitations.

Earthborn Day

By this time last year, I was knee-deep in my last relapse that, I think, started around early October. The relapse lasted until the 28th of the month.

The word "relapse" indicate that there was a move towards undesirable conditions. I went from sober to shooting up every day. These days, what I find is that my sobriety experience is significantly better than my experience of getting high on t. Last time I was on it, I was consumed by psychosis. I thought I could hear people's thoughts and intentions. It was rough.

These days, sobriety, for me, means art-making. It means I can write poetry. It means I can tune in to inspiration. It means being with community. It means showing up as the full me: someone who's just doing their best in their own imperfect way.

It will be my birthday this Wednesday. Unlike before, I have no intentions of hiding myself away. I have come to realize that I am not to be ashamed of. Yes, I stumble. Yes, I make mistakes. But I'm learning. And I'm rediscovering my natural propensity for curiosity.

SOMPIG

 

The Alchemy of Kapwa

When my heart

is all in,

it doesn't mean

"no boundaries".

It doesn't mean

"free fall".

When my heart

is all in,

it means

I'm better at

listening to the limits

of what my body

can do.

Listening to the limits

of what my mind

can accommodate.

It means eating

a balanced diet.

It means getting my

steps in.

It means time with

loved ones.

It means laughing

heartily at a joke

only my best friends and I

could understand.

It means

going where

I actually want to go,

doing the work

that gives me joy

and healing.

It means, sometimes,

saying no.

Sometimes, it means

waiting until

the morning before

sending that text.

Because

life be living.

And things will come up.

Many things up

in the air.

Ultimately,

burnout

is out of the question,

I can perform

and do the work

when my heart leads.

Because,

when it leads,

calendar invites

ceases to be "obligations",

work stops being "work",

not an inconvenience

Rather,

It's just another day

of kapwa

in community.

It is

joyous alchemy

in its purest form.

📸 Toronto's Westside by @ashman.photos

Dripping and wet

I am finding that, as I show up at community events in my capacity as an arts organization leader, I brush up with different kinds of people. A certain group of people would be folks who come from big institutions (i.e. banks, conglomerates, corporations, etc) who loooove to pat themselves on the back for partnering with community orgs. Earlier this past week, I was in a conversation with one such person. After I let her finish gushing over her institutions resume of community partnerships, I said to her:

"That is just right that people like us from institutions should be partnering and contributing to the community. It is just the bare minimum that we can do."

I was talking to my husband after, and we talked about the use(lessness) of white supremacy. He said that, while white supremacy is useful in that it has vast monetary resources, at the end of the day, it's actually quite useless. I agreed, adding that the only way that white supremacy attains self-actualization, receives any legitimacy, and demonstrates any usefulness is through its partnerships with the BIPOC community. Otherwise, it's actually...vapid. So, it's important to remember that we can still make use of white supremacy. We can suck it dry of its resources. We can exploit it.

But, let's remember that, once we're done with it, once we've made use of it-to put it away, dripping and sloppy.

In the arts community, I find that some of us strive for validation from institutions. "Oh, look at me, I'm exhibiting at the AGO!"

I like to hang out with other artists who think otherwise. There's a lot of us who think that we are the secret sauce. We are the spice. We are the salt of the earth. Otherwise, it's just a plain, boiled piece of chicken.

On burdens:

Inevitably, institutional power will demand proof from the community that they (institutions) are, indeed, problematic and destructive. "Why does the community think we're complicit to Israeli apartheid? Where is the proof?" They'll say.

Let us not fall for this trap. The institution forgets that the community is under-resourced and over-worked. Worse: it is fully aware that we are under-resourced and it doesn't care. Because its function is to extract labour from the community, disregarding our desperate need for care and rest.

We already have a lot on our plates. Providing evidence of systemic harm is not something we should be doing. Mainly because it is as self-evident as the sun is hot. Instead, the onus is on the system to show evidence that they're not harmful. It is the institution's responsibility to show proof that it is not doing business with Elbit Systems and other Israeli weapons manufacturers.

Post-BLM:TO @ Toronto Pride 2016

FB memories. The rally was at the Special Investigations Unit (SIU), which have been rubber-stamping police killings. I remember going by myself. Alone. But I didn't feel lonely. I felt surrounded by community. Once there, at some point, someone handed me a cymbal. I let my rage speak through it, as loud as I could.

My activism hasn't been perfect. But I'm learning. And I don't mind looking like a fool. I don't mind being open about stumbling and muddling through. I don't mind being cringe. I actually don't give a fuck. I just want to express myself, and keep learning how to grow. Learning from everyone around me: old, young, human, other-than-human.

Here to risk it all.

Get Low - by O Side Mafia

Kalapati at Dawn

 

Early morning

Empty TTC train seats

Mid-September

A chill

As I step out,

walking along Dundas

past Sherbourne

Listening to

sober podcasts - 

lived experiences,

the climb

People speak

about falling off

the wagon.

So they hold on tight,

knuckles buckling,

with every tumble

we're taught shame.

We forget that we are

The Wagon

Poetry rises

Inspiration

comes easily

When you witness

the kalapati fly

at first light.

Fish in the sky

Love,

made material

Sniffies hottie (part 3)

Met the cutie again earlier in Sep. I have several videos from this meeting, so will need to post them in batches.

Fun with sexy top

This is my buddy Ryan (not his real name). I play with him quite regularly. We've even tag teamed several bottoms at his place during these summer months.

My homeland

There's an awakening happening right now in the Philippines and the diaspora. We are uniting and coming together to fight against political corruption in the Philippines.

There was a rally this past Sunday at Little Manila to commemorate the 53rd anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law in the Philippines by the former dictator, Ferdinand Marcos. The organizers contacted me a couple of weeks ago and asked if I could make a few remarks at the rally. Initially, I said yes, but only if I could do it as a community member and leader, and not as any one person representing an organization.

Eventually, I wasn't able to make it because I had another event happening at the same time, but it had me reflecting on this question:

What is my responsibility, as a Filipino living outside of the homeland, in working hard to build a Philippines with effective democracy, strong and ethical media, and a thriving economy that provides opportunities for well-paying decent jobs that makes it unnecessary for people to have to leave their families behind to work overseas?

As I find myself in spaces where I am engaging with diplomatic representatives of the Philippine government in Toronto, I wonder how I can bring up these issues to them in a way that will make them listen.

Desk calendar: Sep 21, 2016

 Desk calendar from 2016 that I posted on social media 9 years ago.

Since then, I've realized that, for me, it's really that that I don't want to slow down. Rather, it's because the water I swim in is in a relentless current rushing towards a chasm so deep, unrelenting of its rush for the fall. Ultimately, the system doesn't want me to slow down because doing so would threaten its maniacal existence. And, so, these days, being able to slow down to sip a cup of coffee with my husband in the morning is both a privilege and a radical middle finger to this capitalist rush towards self-destruction. Despite what a capitalist, white supremacist, transphobic, racist system tells us, we deserve rest and care, not because of how productive we've been on any particular day. But, rather, we deserve rest and care simply because we just do. We are love, made material.

Full stop.

One month in

I've been the Executive Director for the Filipino arts org that I volunteer with for a month now. I've had more than 10 meetings with other orgs and community members and gone to five events (one of them lasting over the weekend) - all to continue to raise the org's profile and explore partnerships and collabs. It's been a hectic past month and I'm starting to feel it. I'm missing my husband and family a lot more. I want to start being intentional is blocking time off in my calendar. As much as I love the work, I love my husband and family more.

That being said, I have had some key-takeaways from the past month:

1. I'm learning how to balance the different priorities of the people that I work with. One may be a second-gen Filipino who may feel insecure of whether they're being "Filipino" enough. Another community member may be a first-gen who may not have the financial resources to participate in the arts. What do I do when these are translated in entities or organizations, where one org may be led by second-gens who have a lot of financial and social capital that gives them the means to explore their identity, and another org who is led by newcommers who are very critical of the Philippine government? What to do when the second-gens continue to partner and collab with the Philippine government (of which it's been demonstrated that they are complicit to the Palestinian genocide and continue to oppress the poor in the homeland), and the newcommer org who feel alienated and dismayed by this partnership?

2. Speaking of partnerships, I had a conversation with a fellow community leader, and a friend, last week after I found out that they didn't take the negative feedback they received about partnering with the cops, seriously. At first, yes, they were quite dismissive. I let them know that it's not the partnership that troubles me (because, we all gotta eat, after all). Rather, it's how we respond to community feedback, especially when we're made aware that some community members feel triggered and unsafe by the presence of the cops. Personally, I would've listened to the community members with care and intention, making sure that the org's values of community are actually adhered to. My friend and community leader thanked me for the conversation and invited me for dinner at a later date. I respect him very much. He's done so many good things to the community.

3. Oppressive systems ensure their continuity and replication by making themselves indispensable to the community. Can we, instead of inflating the city budgets of oppressive systems, make direct investments to community organizations? Like, we in the arts have had vast experience making do with almost nothing. And so, transparency, fiscal responsibility, and accountability is imbedded in our organizational DNA. We know how to handle financial resources. So, please, invest in us, instead of filtering $ through oppressive systems down to the community.

Going forward, I will continue to take ownership of my role. Having difficult conversations are hard. And I may be dismayed when people I respect, fail and stumble. But, I'm learning, and so are they.

But, can I just say, just between you and I - I miss having more time to myself. There, I said it. I'm not complaining because I worked hard to be where I am right now. I'm in my element, and at the same time, I'm learning a lot about community development and leadership. But, fuck it's hard.

I love my husband dearly. He's been such a source of strength and wisdom.

He Knew Me as Joey

 It was the summer

of 2004

I met him

Thru Cruiseline

He looked like

David Beckham

And he knew it

I was in my early 20s

He was pushing 30s

For a brief moment

I thought I have found

What I've been looking for

A gemstone

I could show my family

Look! I told you my journey

Would be fruitful!

Finally, I thought,

I could show them

That someone beautiful

Cared for me

But we were too different

I could never really

Get stiff enough to fuck him

He did most of the topping

He also did most of the paying

Once, as we walked past

A clothing store on Church St

I commented that I like

The sleeveless powder blue shirt

On the mannequin

Days later, he handed me a bag

The shirt neatly folded inside

He took note

But I was young

And restless

On the nights we weren't together

I'd go to St. Marc's to play

It was the dead of summer

And Taste of the Danforth rolled in

What are you doing this weekend?

He asked

My friends and are I going

To Greektown

Why didn't you asked me

To come along?

Oh, are you free?

No thanks

I don't want to be your

Afterthought

I guess he felt it

My inexperience

Carelessness

A month after we first met

He said he wanted to break it off

Shortly after, a hookup

Offered me a hit

From a glass pipe

Instantly, I thought I have found

What I've been looking for:

Beautiful crystal

So I took to it

Like a fish

Being thrown back

Into his pond

One day,

I got a text from Beckham

Late at night

Wanna?

Like a fish

Being thrown back

Into his pond

I went over

He was drunk

I was high

We didn't have sex first

We just lay there in bed

In the dark,

He cradled my face

In his hands

And said

I love you

For the rest of the night

I laid in bed

Next to him

Floating

Maybe tina kept

Sleep from me

Or maybe I was genuinely euphoric

But I waited for him to wake up

No sexual partner

Has ever said that to me

When morning came

He turned me over

And slid in from behind

After finishing

Thanks for coming over,

He said

I searched his face

For any hint

Of last night

Nothing

That's ok, Joey

You've got tina

Waiting for you

At your apartment

That was 20 years ago

I seem him sometimes

On Church St

With his life partner

A very attractive guy:

Compact-built

Brown skin

Small waist

My height

I can't help

But imagine

Him bent over

As I plow him

Or on his back

Legs up

Hold lubed

And ready

But fantasies

Are usually borne

Out of

Realities

A Treaty Person's Praxis

 

A Reflection on Labor Day - poem by Kanipawit Maskwa

 

They call it Labor Day,

a day for the working ones,

for those whose hands shaped cities,

whose bodies carried the weight of nations.

But for us, labor was always older,

always gentler, always sacred.

It was the joy of planting seeds in soft earth,

the laugher of paddles striking water,

the ceremony of raising children,

the songs that guided us from fire to fire.

Our work has always been more than survival -

it has been love,

woven into beadwork,

carved into canoes,

sung into prayers that rose with the smoke.

Yes, there were times when labor became heavy -

when mines and mills called our people away,

when our children were forced to toil in schools

that tried to dim their spirits.

But even then, the light endured.

The kokums still stitched the stars into moccasins,

the hunters still rose with the dawn,

the aunties still wrapped little ones in arms of belonging.

Even in hardship, our labor grew gardens of hope.

So when the world rests on Labor Day,

let us remember:

our labor is not only struggle -

it is joy.

It is ceremony.

It is the smile of a child learning their first Cree word.

It is the pride of water protectors standing together.

It is the soft strength of songs that will never die.

We labor for life itself.

For the children not yet born,

for the ancestors who dreamed us into being,

for the land that still cradles us with love.

This is our Labor Day -

a day not just of rest,

but of remembering that our work in holy,

our path is strong,

and our future is full of light.

- Kanipawit Maskwa (John Gonzalez)

Writing Workshop with CAMH (Session 6-The Last One)

 

Who am I, really? I ask because I’m curious. I ask because I really don’t know. Yes, I know what I value: community, softness, the courage to admit when I don’t know something, allowing myself to feel pleasure. In Sunday School at church, I was told that I asked too many questions. When I was young, I was taught to mock those who are different from me. I was taught to be careless with other people’s feelings. In looking back, while some adults taught me the value of love and careful attention, some adults taught me what not to do. Even now, some leaders I see are also teaching me how not to be a leader. So, as I ask myself what it means to be a Treaty Person here on Turtle Island, I take notes on what I’ve been taught, and settle on who I want to be. I may have lost decades of my life in addiction, a length of time that some people around me have used to earn their PhDs. Two decades for me, of relapse, hospital visits, friends I’ve lost, stints in rehab, sitting in therapy sessions. I ask, then, what do I have to show for it? That question used to depress me. I could’ve been this person, or that person, I used to say to myself.

But now, I know that I’m a Treaty Person. I have rights and responsibilities on Turtle Island. And I’m here for it all.

I’m on a road to be crystal-clear. Yesterday, the somatic workshop I’ve been in with other queer men for the past few weeks ended. We were all in our own journey of recovery from crystal meth use. I walked away from it with new connections, new friends as companions on this journey of being crystal-clear. I used to think that my lived experience was something to be ashamed of. Something to hide. Who would want an HIV+ person who is in recovery from being an intravenous drug user, to be part of an arts organization, let alone be its leader? We do, my colleagues said two weeks ago, as they appointed me their next Executive Director. We want to be with you in this journey as we make art for the community.

Prompt: How do you want to spend your time?

Tbh, I'm just looking at the side tattoos

Kent Komisawa

Writing Workshop with CAMH (Session 5)

 

Where is my sacred space? It is in the tender hug I get from my mom when she greets me in the morning as I make two cups of coffee: one for me, one for my husband. My sacred space is the park behind my house, where my nephew like to bring me to play soccer. My sacred space is the frustration I feel when I miss a phone call from my coworker, who’s probably asking for a copy of a note about something important to her. It is in the art that I see all around me. My sacred space is the curiosity I feel just as I log in at 1:59 PM on Thursdays to our writing workshop zoom link. I guess what I’m trying to say is that my breath-the inhale, exhale, the held air in between-is my sanctuary. It is here. Now. So, what is there left to do but to walk on this earth loving justice, comfortable with the huff and puff of stress, and sitting with the softness within. It is humble, uncelebrated, resilient, and generous with its joy.

I have a recurring dream, not of me flying in the air, but riding giant ocean waves. If I’ll fly anywhere, I hope it’s towards the sea, where my childhood was spent pulling fishing nets back to shore. Where I played with hermit crabs, marvelling at the difference in the shells they made into homes. Funny, because I have also come to Turtle Island, calling it my home now. If I’ll fly anywhere, I hope to do it as a Treaty Person, honoring the treaties I made with the Indigenous folks, fulfilling my obligations, and enjoying my rights as a Treaty Person. A steward who flies directly into what needs to be done.

AFTERParTy

I've been going to this workshop at the 519, which ended prematurely last week. I had such an amazing time. The two co-facilitators, M + M, put so much thought and care in dreaming up this unique collective. I met some amazing folks, one of whom I'll be meeting up at Our Hours Cafe on Church St later this week.

Each in the two sessions that we had, we ended by being randomly paired with another partner with whom we were supposed to slow dance with. In the first session, we slow danced to this song:

Then, in the second session a week after, we danced to this song:

Before we ended the workshops altogether for this iteration, we met up with each other for the last time. We first gathered at Church St Espresson, then walked over to one of M + M's friend's condo in the village. We sat around, sipped our drinks and had delicious treats. The facilitators asked for feedback, and we also just gabbed and chit chatted about our own sobriety journeys. They said that there will most likely be a new iteration of the workshop program this Sep.

It was such a beautiful space that they created and I hope to be back next time.

Me jerking off

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Sniffies hottie (part 2)

Always fun hanging out with my buddy. More of him here .

A Treaty Person's Praxis

 I don't want to fucking do this work. Like, who, in their right fucking mind, would want to fucking work for free? And it's not like work that lets you sit around soft fucking cushions all day.

Fuck no!

I get yelled at. Something goes wrong and I'm belittled for making the mistake. I get calls and messages late into the evening. I have to use my own money to buy outreach materials.

Yet, why do I stay? Why do I continue the work? Why am I working for 3 community orgs that asks so much out of me?

The same question was posed to Ocean Vuong in an interview that I recently listened to.

His answer was, "I'm all in because my life has already been bought wholesale by my Mother."

He wagers everything because, the least he can do at a dinner table where every delicacy, every piece of succulent fruit, every slice of sumptuous bread that has been paid for him, was to enjoy it all. Partake. Participate.

It's the moral thing to do.

I wished that the Philippines had a functional free democracy. I wished that Filipino mothers had plenty of work opportunities at home so that they wouldn't be separated from their children.

Mothers separated from their children.

Children separated from their mothers.

Not for mere hours. Not for days. But for years.

This is what's happening to Filipinos. I wished it wasn't like this, but it's our reality.

And, so, the work is cut out for us. I do community work so that, eventually, the Philippines can thrive, not just for those close to Empire, but for everyone.

How can I make sure I'm not profiting from the misfortune of other people. How can I not turn it into kink? Am I happy that there's a Healing Lodge that hires me? Why does a Healing Lodge even have to exist? Why the fuck is this colonizer apparatus imprisoning Indigenous women at an alarming rate? Like, where does it come off? Who the fuck does it think it is, with its impositions of alien power, control, and forms of punishment? How do I make sure I'm not replicating the same structures in my life?

As a Treaty Person, my job is to be steward. To act in such a way that, as a future ancestor, I build a world where young ones can thrive into future generations.

It's hard, but in a world where life for everyone is difficult enough, annoyance and irritation is a luxury that we can't afford. Aggression, belittling, mistrust, and all the other creative ways we mistreat each other are just too goddam expensive.

Just take it easy on each other, folks.

Be kind.

Writing Workshop with CAMH (Session 4)

Below are the prompts and my responses for the writing workshop at CAMH. I'll have the second-to-last class today in about half an hour. 

To have my heart be so full that I start leaking out of my eyes. To look back and see how much I put myself through, where I used crystal meth almost every day. To feel the crash as the drugs emptied out of my veins. If only they would give out doctorates for lived-experience, would people take me seriously now? I want to speak about art, finance, capitalism, the immense size of the universe, the poetry of nebulas. Will I be taken seriously? Then, I remember, little Jose, or, wawit, as his family calls him. Loved. Beloved. Someone who is just trying to do his best in this world, with the time that he has. Just to be kind and helpful. So, as my heart grows so full that I start leaking out of my eyes, I smile, amused at the road I stand on.

What is addiction, to me, but a way to numb myself out of joy. Why do I draw a boundary between myself and joy? Do I feel unworthy? Who or what system told me that I am unworthy to dance?