life as a write-up

moving on

2011-05-26T03:40:00.000-07:00

life as a write-up has taken its course.

i am moving on to a new 'book'.

to those who are interested, i am writing again here.

forgiving love's defective vision

2010-12-20T00:08:00.000-08:00

once upon a time, three friends (whose identity will remain hidden to protect the innocent and guilty alike) met for coffee. much like many group of friends before, conversation inevitably steered to ‘significant-other-bitching’ at one point.

friend 1, laments that he is so tired of his partner being selfish and never considering the situation from the other’s perspective.

friend 2 asked, ‘did you not know this before you made a commitment to be in a relationship with him?’

to which, of course, friend 1 did. and, being in the safe environment of friends, admitted to reluctantly.

friend 3 offered that this may not be intentional. it is simply his partner feeling free to express himself and from his point of view, his behaviour may not necessarily be selfish or inconsiderate, it just being – well, himself.

friend 1 said, ‘if that is so, then he doesn’t get me.’

all three fell silent for a while, lost in their thoughts.

friend 2 started asking why is it that many times our lovers don’t get us and our friends effortlessly do.

friend 3 (the psychologist in the group) explained that friendship is defined by commonality while love by fascination, requiring a level of mystery – thus the unknown.

this conversation stuck with me long after the caffeine has left my system. i asked myself many times:

is this true? in a relationship, are we all doomed to spend the rest of our lives (if we’re lucky) with a person who by virtue of their love for us, will never understand us?

like many dillemas before me, i can deal with it as long as i understand it. so i tried to ponder the issue a bit more.

after much thought, i figured that when you love somebody, you’re interaction is limited to the minute distance of intimate spaces. this closeness, while allowing for perspective that reveals stark detail, can only focus on a limited space at a time and inhibits a view of the complete picture. much of which is lost and the rest suffers from the haziness of peripheral vision. love is not blind. it is just that love when actualised, suffers from tinges of myopia, sometimes hyperopia or even tunnel vision.

viewed from this angle, this short-sightedness is not an absence of empathy but a testament of one’s intimacy.

comforted by the thought, i now listen to ani difranco’s song, thinking i have the answer to her question:

‘he didn’t understand me
but i don’t know why i didn’t go
he didn’t understand me
and he had every chance to know.’

he loved you and he cannot see all of you because you are too near. but he sees you in a way no other cannot.

a fair trade-off? maybe not.

but for me, a macro-lensed witnessing of my life (warts, scars and all) is as important as affirmation i receive from those who view the soft light, airbrushed image i present to the rest of the world. believing that those warts, scars and all that i endeavour to conceal define me more than the complete picture and may not be so repulsive, when viewed with love.

rant to write

2010-11-17T19:46:00.000-08:00

prolific. not.

i can’t write. nothing is happening worth writing about. even memories evade me.

rut. this is.

i wake up, and go through my day like it was pre-ordained. i work like a janitor fish. i clean up others’ shit and call it management advice. i do this and look at their grateful faces for the dirty work i do that somehow they think is a step forward toward their salvation. i do this all day everyday. in between, i do my own work and put it up for scrutiny of my control freak boss whose bottom-line i’m still trying to figure out after 3 years. i endure backhanded put-downs and brush-offs i know i don’t deserve.

i try to spice the hours with stolen moments of cheekiness. i check social networking sites and personal mail, thinking – ‘hey, this is getting back at you, i have a life outside of this.’, knowing full well that no amount of status’ likes will make me like the sad android that i evolved into.

when i can, i resort to bourgeois diversions. i order my dark mocha frappuccino believing that the slightest nuance in choice reflects my individuality. i have heartfelt conversations with friends over coffee or beer and regurgitate oprah or any other appropriate hollywood line, silently congratulating myself how clever i am. i go to the gym and pay for a trainer half my age motivate me to becoming more fit – not knowing that the rot is not in the flesh. i collect shoes, cd’s, dvd’s, tshirts and graphic novels and more and more feeling suspicious that this amassing of material things will not fill the vacuum in my soul. and then i smirk at how hopelessly superficial other people are.

i go home and project all my frustrations to my partner who has certainly contributed in a good share of it. i watch him pour his umpteenth drink and lament that while his intoxication provides nocturnal relief, it never really takes him away from his troubles. nor mine.

there. i got it out of my system.

trusting wholeheartedly (because oprah said so, or was it a hollywood movie?) that by letting off steam i can wax ms. congeniality again.

perhaps now i can write about truth, goodness, light and all those affirming introspective shit again.

threesome

2010-11-15T21:12:00.000-08:00

not your sexual fantasy. but 3 books that are interesting, amusing, poignant and informative.

they hit national bookstores today.

get your copy and for starters - here's my good friend S taking it off to sell some.

more info here.

he said, he said

2010-10-30T07:40:00.000-07:00

is there ever one story to an experience? will two people ever have the same version of the truth on what has transpired between them? will knowing the ‘other’ version give one closure? i ask this because of a guy who i dated more than ten years ago who suddenly reappeared. and this is our story. my version, that is.

2007, three years ago
london

giving in to one’s craving sometimes requires you to freeze your ass off.

i was thinking this as i threw my cigarette butt on the wet gutter of the paddington train station exit. it was densely and messily populated by hundreds of butts in various states of damp decomposition. it was disgusting, i thought, as i wrap my leather jacket tighter around me, willing myself to ignore the cold.

i considered lighting up another before walking to my train.

the contemplation was ongoing when it was stopped short by the sight of a couple walking to my direction. not because they were filipino (which, even at a distance, i’m sure they were), not because they were sweet (which they were), not even because the guy was hot (which i thought he was – but my taste in men is legendary in its inconsistency) - but because i was sure i once dated the man who was holding the woman so protectively as they were walking.

‘hey.’ – he said.

‘hey.’ – i said.

‘where are you going?’ – he asked.

‘i’m taking the heathrow express to catch my flight back to johannesburg.’ – i explained.

‘so you still live in africa.’ – he half-asked, half stated.

‘yes. and you are now based in london?’ – i asked, now increasingly uncomfortable that we are chatting as if oblivious of the woman in his arms.

‘yes,’ he smiled at her, ’give me a call the next time your in london’

‘will do.’ – i smiled, thinking i don’t remember his name much less any information on his contact details.

‘bye, then.’ he said.

‘bye’ – she said, seemingly impervious to the fact that we weren’t introduced.

they walked off.

‘bye.’ i said as i see him look back and give me a knowing smile.

all throughout the train ride, checking in and boarding the plane, i was bothered that i cannot remember his name. now i am the first one to admit that i have gone through a slutty phase and will not claim that i remember everybody i slept with. but i was sure this guy was, well – significant.

i kept on thinking of his name i cannot remember until the plane took-off and the seatbelts lights went off.

‘larry!*’ i muttered to myself as i suddenly remembered his name, prompting the man seating next to me to give me a quizzical look.

as flight attendants started handing out peanuts and serving drinks, memories awash giving my ritual vertigo on plane take-offs and landings a run for head space.

1999, eleven years ago
malate, manila – after the pride march

‘larry!’ i exclaimed because he punched the galvanized iron wall of an empty lot, on a dark area in one of malate side-streets. the wall made a booming sound that i was sure can be heard three blocks away. ‘what’s wrong with you?!’

larry was upset. we agreed to take a walk away from the maddening crowd of the pride street after-parties. we spent some time walking in welcome, if awkwad, silence. suddenly, he stopped. and then histrionics. after punching the wall, he stood there quietly and then sat on an nearby abandoned bench.

he’s brooding and unpredictable. also confused and messed-up about his sexuality. just the kind of guy i found so hot in those days.

‘what’s wrong?’, i touched his shoulder and dropped the ‘with you’ in the hope that it might trigger something other than silent distress.

‘what do you want from me?’

‘what do you mean?’

‘you are dating buddy. you are writing love letters to elmer.* why are you wasting time with me? what do you want?’

‘buddy and i are not in a relationship – he’s a friend. elmer is history – i can’t even explain the stupidity of waking up one night and giving in to the urge of writing him a letter when he’s obviously still with his boyfriend. but you – i want you. i want a relationship with you.’

‘i’m fucked up.’

‘i know.’

‘haha.’ – it sounded both like a smirk and pained laughter. he stood up and i followed. he suddenly pinned me against the wall, both in hands cuffing my wrists, his whole body pressing urgently against mine.

‘is this what you want?’ he was so close i smell the damp heat of his breath on my neck.

‘don’t be an idiot, larry. we’re in public.’

‘no one’s here.’ he said (or grumbled), as he grazed his cheek against mine.

‘why don’t we go back to my place and talk?’

‘haha.’ – again the smirk-laugh. he pressed on me heavier and tighten his grip of my wrists.

‘stop it, larry, you’re hurting me!’ i shouted as i pushed him away. he seemed surprised at being rebuked. he sat again on the bench. i followed and we were quiet. then he said quietly,

‘let’s go to your place’

i don’t remember the ride back home. i do remember we ended up in my bed in just our tighty whities. we lied down next to each other with my arms around him and slept. sometime in the middle of the sexless night, he left while i was sleeping. i woke up thinking that was strange, not knowing it will take more than seven years before i see him again.

2010/present day, quezon city
in my condo, in front of my macbook at night

‘so where’s my pasalubong (gift) from rome?’ a chat box popped up while i was reading friends’ updates in facebook. it was larry. i was surprised he was keeping tabs on me.

‘if you come to manila i might give you a venetian mask i bought.’ – i answered

‘how are you?’ - he asked

‘i’m OK. you?’

‘i’m fine.’

‘i see you are a father now’

‘yes, that makes me very happy’

‘it must be 2AM in london, why are you still awake?’

‘i’m doing the laundry, my wife and the kids are already asleep’

‘i see.’

‘are you happy? you still with your boyfriend, right? are you guys OK?’ –he asked

‘sometimes we are, sometimes we’re not. just like any relationship, i suppose.’

‘there you are again, philosophizing.’

‘we are who we are. but i guess that does not apply to you. you have transformed.’

‘transformed. hahaha’

‘do you miss being with men?’

‘mostly - i miss the sex.’

‘you don’t have to.’

‘i am faithful. not like you.’

‘what?! you don’t know me anymore.’

‘well, you said we are who we are. i remember you tried to juggle me, elmer and buddy at the same time.’

‘that’s your version of the story. not mine’

‘what’s your version?’

‘what’s the point? we cannot ever be.’ i was feeling a little pissed off by this time.

‘was there ever a ‘we’?’

‘you are right. there never was. but why do you insist on painting me as the bad guy?’

‘i don’t. you know what i remember when i think about you? bridges of madison county’

‘what? why?’ wondering what is the relation between me and ms. streep's movie.

‘we watched it in your apartment once. we should reconcile our stories you know.’

‘why?’

‘because it is exciting.’

‘it’s not to me.’

‘wait. the baby is crying. i have to go.’

then, just like that, he was gone again.

i don’t know why larry and i have different versions of the story. more importantly, i don’t know why larry is interested in reconciling our versions of our story. frankly, while i know i fancy myself being in love with him at one point, what i wrote here represents all of my memory of larry. nothing more. and to me what it says is that subjected against the time and the distance between us, that ‘love’ probably was a figment of my own imagination or a product of my heart’s own deceit. better put to rest. along with everything that is left unsaid between us.

my point is, the feeling i might have found so earth-shaking before seems not even probable now. and while he has a story to paint a picture of me as he experienced it, i fail to see its import to the ‘me’ of today.

i may never see larry again. somehow, that thought does not bring any sadness. only lingering questions on the story he feels a need to tell.

*names of men i dated are changed to protect the errr, innocent.

to (temporarily) change a blog title

2010-10-15T18:04:00.000-07:00

as a child i believed that your home defines who you are. like a fixed physical space roots your identity.

now i wonder, if you move from one place to the other so quickly, will you remain intact? or will pieces of you fall off, leaving you unraveled?

i ask this because in the last 3 weeks i moved around 6 cities in 4 countries in rapid succession. for work, not for fun. and it has left me – well, exhausted.

not that i am blind to the perks of work that allows (or shall i say, requires?) you to travel. after posting travel pictures, my FB friends send me messages lush with admiration, even envy. and yet after all the high from the ‘likes’, the comments and the messages fade, i am back home and wishing i wasn’t too tired i can’t even make love decently.

truth be told, i am a horrible traveler. not just because my mild vertigo makes my head feel like its exploding in every take-off and landing. mainly because shortly after i arrive in every new city, after the relief that comes from passing through (and not being detained) in passport control, i take the quickest way to my hotel (or wherever i am supposed to stay) and try to recreate a semblance of home-ness. that ranges from unpacking my toiletries and arranging them on the sink or looking for the nearest mcdonald’s for affordable comfort food.

shameful, huh? the consternation did not hit until i stared at my mcdonald’s meal spelling out its name in some sexy language i don’t understand.

but despite my apparent lack of travel élan, there were magical moments. passing minutes stolen from the cracks of grueling work hours – like meeting a german girl on a train to berlin and chatting away for hours, or being serenaded to sleep by a long-haired british guitarist in my own room because we got stuck there together by mere chance, or stumbling into a student rally in istanbul and ogling the luscious riot police.

it is in this magical moments that i realize i can be swept away and forget who i am. that’s probably the reason for marking my territory of things familiar in a strange place. it’s like leaving the home lights on so you can remember where to go back to.

torn between the lure of the unknown and the comfort of the familiar i prayed for a sign and it came to me as a graffiti on the elevator of my last hotel:

now, i may not exactly be able to travel with my pussy, but i can sure stop being a pussy and just enjoy taking a journey and the opportunity to come back home.

God (heart) Manila

2010-09-13T21:27:00.000-07:00

i walked from gym to home, last night.

energised by the tantric contortions of a late night yoga class, with frozen creamy drink in hand, i walked the busy streets of timog-tomas morato, reciting little poems to myself, singing little ditties, allowing headlights to provide passing spotlight to my singular performance.

i drink in the life of the street.

my poetic show was interrupted intermittently and i pause, without annoyance:

taxis slow down and honk reluctantly like a prospect to a whore; like mr. right or the hottest trick – always there when you don’t want them, nowhere in sight when you’re just wanting to be taken for a ride.

kids in skateboards try out new feats, unaware of the perilous boozy traffic, causing it even. only aware of each others’ ones-up-manship, congratulating and insulting each other in turn.

peddy cab drivers whistle and offer a ride with a smile, like their offers were more than something that involves their legs, almost hinting on an equally sweaty proposition.

my fake dvd dealer waved at me from a distance. running up to me to pitch a convincing spiel that the latest action movie of action stars from a bygone era is fantastic and actually not the shit that it is. i declined with a smile.

a child with flower leis walks up to tell me her sad story, wanting me to buy for a car i don’t own or an icon of a god i don’t believe in. for school, she says. i offered her my drink, she takes it and walks away.

i resume my act whenever i can. the sounds of the street providing accompaniment. cacophonic, discordant, oddly synchronized.

i am one with the life of the street.

and for several moments i can forget that i have to wake up in the morning to earn my keep, that while i am burdened by work – too many in this country can’t find one, that our swat teams don’t have bullet proof vests, that ‘major-major’ has found its way to popular lexicon to an irritating extent, that i am fighting the ills of society to which i am both victim and perpetrator.

i get sad then took comfort in my mother’s faith that i was created in His likeness. and since i love this city, this metropolis, this country – maybe He does, too.

losing you

2010-09-11T09:26:00.000-07:00

this is something i wrote back in college. thought i'd just post something to break the silence.

if time would go back I would find you a person of no consequence.

in my life you were the only person who can tell me, “i know you.” it did not happen in a blink of an eye. we worked on it, little by little, like pasting plaster to a beloved statue, we’ve come to cherish our shared galatea. i treated you with more warmth, love and respect than any other person in this world.

did that frighten you?

well, it frightened me.

so i started hitting you with pretentious anger, pummeling fists of hatred that were intended to be more violent than they have ever been. so there were those terrible battles of two entwined souls confused and threatened by the onslaught of fabricated calamities sure to extinguish the flickering light of intimacy. “i’m scared, let’s stop this,” – i thought. “fuck, I don’t give a damn,”- i mouthed.

why did you not hear my unspoken plea for a truce? why did you not listen to the resonance of my bruised spirit unable to halt what it regretfully started?

i lost.

did you know that?

will you ever know?

in the final exodus of understanding coaxed by fear, pride and distorted sense of self-preservation, i lost you.

and in losing the being enmeshed to my soul i lost a part of myself bigger than is worldly possible. you cannot tell me, “i know you,“ now. for i am just an insult to the person you helped into being.

damn.

if time will go back i will find you a person of no consequence.

horsing around

2010-07-19T03:29:00.000-07:00

i’m sure none would admit that you intend to go through life just horsing around.

a few weeks ago, the inimitable merman asked me and a bunch of friends if we are interested in watching repertory philippines’ staging of shaffer’s equus. the gay bunch was busy so it ended up that it was jp, me and the merman.

to those unfamiliar with the play, i can’t be bothered to write my own synopsis so i ‘cut and paste’ imdb’s:

‘A psychiatrist, Martin Dysart, investigates the savage blinding of six horses with a metal spike in a stable in Hampshire, England. The atrocity was committed by an unassuming seventeen-year-old stable boy named Alan Strang, the only son of an opinionated but inwardly-timid father and a genteel, religious mother. As Dysart exposes the truths behind the boy's demons, he finds himself face-to-face with his own.’

deep, eh?

the truth is (and to assure you that i haven’t gone all artsy-fartsy highbrow on you), the play gained notoriety because of the lengthy scene in the second act involving nudity. in fact, harry potter’s – daniel radcliffe made headlines and billions of internet picture downloads when he took to stage as strang, announcing to the world that the boy that played potter has, err, grown up. the nudity is such that on the way out, the merman told me –‘ i hope people don’t think we paid the cost of the ticket to see cock’.

but i digress.

the reason i am writing about this is the crux of the play – at least for me – resonates with a question i have been asking myself for sometime. that is, ‘is a life without passion an acceptable loss for a life of normalcy?’

actually, such succinctness and gravity of questioning was more the play’s rather than mine. when i asked my friends about it, it was framed rather lamely with ‘do you still have a goal?’ and i ask this because more and more i am thinking that lately, it feels like i have none.

when i started working, fresh from student activism, my goal was to make a significant contribution to the rural poor. when i joined government, i aimed at being a part of those who introduced meaningful reforms in the bureaucracy. failing at that, i went to africa looking to regain my soul. after 8 years, i came back home wanting to retire. now, realising that i have, at least, 10 productive years in this deadly, if weary, body, i’m stumped.

i asked jp and he started essaying the ‘good’ i am doing for others. i said, that’s debatable – but even if it is true, doing good fulfils the receiver. the giver is satisfied only obliquely through some form of inverse vanity. i doubt if my goal is that.

when asked, id went on a discourse about ‘helpers’, ‘those who need to be needed’ and ‘altruists’, differentiating them in terms of social psychology and linking it to evolutionary ‘survival of the fittest’. if that did not make sense to you, suffice to say this was 3 am and its either id was already too drunk to make sense or i was to understand.

j, my man of the moon, asked,’ why is it important? maybe the journey is more important than the destination.’

l, the other half of my small team at work quietly says, ‘maybe you need to define what you mean by retirement. after all, being in a place where you can afford to rest is a valid goal.'

there were others equally insightful perspectives i got from others but none of them seem to assuage the restless feeling i have inside.

and then i watched the equus and i realised it is possible i am asking the wrong question.

the thing is, i have goals. they may be not as single-minded as before, but they are there. the feeling of listlessness emanates not from its absence but from the feeling of losing passion.

in the play, Dysart, the psychiatrist, called it ‘professional menopause’. the lack of ‘worship’. something that happens to you as you become more trained. as you age, perhaps. you cease to wonder or be surprised. you think the outcome will never be good or bad but always something in between and there’s very little you can do to influence it.

sad? perhaps. i’d like to think of it as a wake-up call. my own version of raging against the dying of the light.

i know for a fact that i once had passion. that means i have a capacity for it. like riding a horse, i should be able to do it again once i been saddled up for some time. if i have to unlearn my cynicism to break it, at least the wind will be blowing against my face.

so next time, when my life’s Strang asks me and challenges my demons, ‘at least I galloped – when did you?’ – i will answer:

once, and sometime soon - i’ll race you.

eclipsed by reason

2010-07-07T05:35:00.000-07:00

is there a reason why we choose the people we love?

jp were bored last wednesday so we decided to watch a movie. upon arrival at gateway, we noticed that gone is the usual silent, brooding and cruisy gay crowd and in its place are masses of teeny boppers and baby boomers, single ladies and partnered ones with their irate boyfriends and husbands suffering some sort of mania that is eclipse.

what is a nosy boy to do? of course, we bought tickets to find out what the hullabaloo is all about. after lining up for what felt like for ever, we got tickets to watch it after two days (!).

so came friday, armed with blankies and an open mind that this may actually turn out to be a decent movie and is more than just our dirty-old-men need to see muscular boys running around half naked, i settled down to my lazy boy chair and watched.

two hours after, i am nursing a beer thinking about the movie. not so much about it (since jp and i agreed that the best part was the lazy boy chairs in the platinum cinema), but the questions it raised in my mind.

one question in my mind is related to one of the most common themes in many romantic stories – being put in a situation where you have to choose between two people you love. (bella had to choose between pattinson’s edward and lautner’s jacob. tough choice but with such delicious options, how can she complain? the bitch!)

as the story goes, the decision was ruled by something akin to consistency theory: that is, making decisions in order to try to achieve a maximum practical level of consistency in our world. when bella explained her decision to edward (and i am paraphrasing here), she said it was because she always felt like an outcast with humans (that causes some dissonance) and her experiences with the bloodsuckers lead her to believe that this is where she belonged. thus, being ‘turned’ will result in consistency of her identity and comfort zones.

i thought that while this was such a ‘practical’ approach to deciding on who to love, it was rather unbelievable. because, seriously, in real life – do we even try to reason out the decisions we make when it comes to love? and if we make our decision on love practical, does it still qualify as love? will it be love if it is ruled by reason or worse, convenience?

my take is: when it comes to love decisions, we decide what we decide. we can intellectualise it all we want but in the end, it's like finding reason in deciding between a vampire and a werewolf: unreal and unnecessary.

moving home

2010-06-14T01:20:00.000-07:00

'And just maybe I can convince time to slow up
Giving me enough time in my life to grow up
Time, be my friend
Let me start again'

last weekend jp and i moved our home from teachers village to timog avenue.

looking back, i moved house more than 10 times in the last 5 years. i lived in a house, a hotel, a flat, my mom's place (!) and now a condo.

i don't know exactly why this is so. i guess my lifestyle and my life choices have made me into what you can call a new age nomad. i suppose had i relinquished my aversion for owning property (as it ends up owning you), i would have saved up to buy my own place. and this would have not been so. this resistance coupled with my lackluster performance in money-saving is a perfect formula for NOT owning anything permanent.

so i move house often.

i find each move is arduous, taxing and emotional. i guess because when i live in a place, albeit temporarily, i try to put a personal stamp to it. this can be as simple as putting up my own curtains or (as in the last place) re-upholstering the dining chairs. so outside of the actual drudgery of packing, unpacking, cleaning up and carrying stuff, i feel i loose something of myself to each move.

the plus side, i suppose i discover a new side of myself in each move. like being a good uncle when i moved back to my mom's place or finding joy in the sound of birds singing when waking up in the morning in the last place we've been in.

more than that, i suppose the fact that i move with jp (for the most part) makes it bearable.

so, let it be known - i moved again. but many things remain constant.

'And I've learned
That we must look inside our hearts
To find a world full of love
Like yours
Like mine
Like home...'

follow your road

2010-05-25T06:01:00.000-07:00

'have you ever wondered where your road will lead you?'

- pauline wilson

i have passed by SLEX more than 10 times this month.

i traversed the highway for different reasons: to escape the city, to perform social obligations, to be with my partner, to rush in aid of a friend.

always. always i find myself back to where i started.

i'm starting to wonder if this pattern is an analogy to my own life's journey.

so i ask the question dear adele asked,

'should i give up
or should i keep on chasing pavements
even if it leads nowhere?'

and i ask my own question: they say each of us have to find his own path. how do you know it is yours if you don't know where you want to go?

remembering the tinman, epilogue and in defense of the accused

2010-04-14T07:19:00.001-07:00

eleven years ago - johannesburg, by the lake westdene

yesterday morning i had the most perfect day.

it's one of those sunny and cool african autumn morning . it was quiet except for the sound of the wind kissing the leaves of the trees and the birds carrying on a symphony not unlike the jazz band in mellvile the night before. i was lying on the grass in the garden. a pussywillow (or is it poppies? cattails? he called them "fairies" to my endless amusement) landed on my cheek.

i'm stoned. smoking my ciggie. a cup of warm lemon tea next to me. i'm still feeling a little tingly from the good sex last night. and i watch my man reading le carre's the constant gardener next to me. smiling, chuckling quietly to himself and wiggling his toes on the grass. he looked away from his book intermittently as if to check i was OK and not floating away like the faeries. he asked me if i was content. i just smiled.

i was happy. it can't get better than that.

but as i am writing this, M is in a plane on his way back to the uk. he arrived jo'burg last thursday and he stayed with me for the weekend. against my better judgment i brought him to the airport. managed not to cry in the airport. but bawled shamelessly in the car on the 45 minute drive back to town.

i'm hurting.

i dont regret it though. knowing how terrified i am of the airport goodbye's we decided to talk before we left the garden. i told him 4 things:

1. i thanked him. told him he came in a very trying time in my life. and what he gave was probably exactly what i needed the most.

2. i lied. the night he arrived i promised him i will stop loving him from that point forward. (this is because he insists i shouldn't. he said he didn't want to cause me pain.) but i admitted i will continue love him for some time. and he shouldn't be afraid. it comes with no demands.

3.that it's ok that he doesn't love me. when i think about how he treated me and how generous he was of his affection. (i.e. when he arrived in jo'burg the first thing he said was "you realize i'm here because of you", kissing me in a mall to thank me for a going away CD gift, holding my hand whenever we are on our way home each night this weekend and holding me tight, looking to my eyes with his as moist as mine and kissing me at the airport, etc.), i think its a very good standard for a person who is not in love with me. i told him even for a person who will say he loves me - how he treated me was not a bad barometer at all. it's just that we had too little time.

4. that i hope we can be friends too. that i hope we will find a way to keep in touch and inform each other about the major developments in our lives. because i'll always wish him well.

he was silent for a while. and quietly he said he was amazed at how grown up i am at handling this. he told me 3 things:

1. that our "relationship" did him good. before us he was inclined to say that the last 2 months he had in africa was shit (he wanted to stay till the end of the year but his college booted him out primarily because he's too white). but that's not accurate anymore. he said he's a better person because of us.

2. that he will miss me but he hopes that i don't. (when i asked why, he said again he doesn't want me to be hurt)

3. that if i come to the uk and he's there we should hook up and he'll introduce me to his parents.

so you see i feel there's nothing left unsaid between us. but it still doesn't stop this mammoth weight in my chest from pressing down. so i wrote him today to say i'll have to stop writing to him for a while till i get to the point when i won't be so hurt by losing him so soon.

you may think i'm optimistic about thinking we will keep in touch. the fact is i realize people lose their way all the time. in the airport the only thing i said to him is just in case we don't make good of the "let's keep in touch" thing - he should have a good life. and he should remember that i will always wish him all the best life has to offer because i think he deserves it.

so don't worry about me. he was a good man. and even if sometimes he doesn't think so, he's a good person to love. i think about the rather unfortunate situation we found ourselves in and the countless times when it's so much easier just to be nasty to each other. i'm amazed that we stayed kind and treated each other with a great deal of respect and affection. although this is probably the first time i'm not the one who's doing the "leaving" in a relationship, i think i too am a better person because of him.

as i was waiting for the bus this morning, what he called "fairies" were flying all over the road. thought it was strange but it gave me a great deal of comfort.

remembering the tinman, finale

2010-03-14T14:55:00.000-07:00

i started this series early 2009 and lost interest in finishing it. last month, a mutual friend told me that M got married recently. i thought, that’s a good reason to finish this story. to close the book symbolically, so to speak.

although much can still be told about this affair that spanned more than 2 years across 2 continents, i thought i should end with the start of the end. we met again a few times after this episode in london, but i never felt the same way about him after this.

for those who are interested, the story started here.

ten years ago, london – by the river thames

cranes. i noticed these modern apparatus as i look at the london city skyline. they spring from the gaps of ancient buildings that seem to be oblivious of their presence and are complacent of their places in this world. the city was replete with these giant mechanical limbs with what seemed to be an effort to resist its limits. wanting to grow bigger. newer. greater. i look at the metal arms reaching out to the grey skies and feel something within me calling out its affinity with their spirit. i, too, would like to reach out and burst away from myself.

i think the cranes are doing a better job.

i turned to the street musician who kept on playing his poignant song despite the drizzle in the cold grey afternoon. tourists passed by and acknowledged his efforts with loose change without really looking at him or listening to his song. he punctuated his rendition of don’t let me be lonely tonight with ‘thank you!’ every time a coin dropped at his guitar case spread before him. i wonder what’s more important to him, for people to give him money or listen to his song. his voice was more kenny rogers than james taylor. i’ll be damned if that gives me a clue to his motivation. besides, i’ve got no loose change.

framing him was hms belfast. the gargantuan ship seems world weary from war yet resentful to be docked forever in the river, humiliated to be transformed from peacekeeper (or more accurately war-keeper?) to mere tourist bait.

people, boats and the river moved on and we kept to our places– the musician, the warship and me. lost in a world that moves too fast.

still, his mournful crooning and the ship’s silent resentment provided perfect backdrop for the way i’m feeling. i sit in one of the benches by the river sipping the cappuccino i got from a nearby street-side café and tried to ignore that my cigarette is increasingly harder to smoke as it becomes wet from the rain. i have an umbrella in my bag but i didn’t bother to open it. what’s the point? i’m wet already. nothing beats the sitting in the rain-sipping cappuccino-smoking-moping combination when you’re feeling blue anyway.

i put out my already dying wet cigarette in my paper cup realising too late that i wanted that last sip of cappuccino.

shit.

i tore my gaze from the musical tableau and turned to look for something cheerful. an asian couple was kissing passionately framed by the tower bridge, like us, unmindful of the rain. unlike us, however, their entwined form presented a picture hallmark cards are made of. i felt the equal parts sinking and bursting sensation in the pit of my stomach.

it’s not fair for my 7 wonderful sunny days in england to be ruined by one single event. i met with M. and today it started raining.

the night before

after having dinner at my friend’s flat in wimbledon, M and i took a walk to have some privacy.

‘can you believe this?’ he said pointing out to a picture of a flat for sale for a hundred thousand pounds as we passed by a real estate office. ‘i hate these people tying themselves up for life for a piece of property.’

‘M, why are you so angry?’

‘what?!’ he asked getting angrier.

‘since you arrived, throughout dinner, and now. all you did is complain about things. the underground, the people of london, the bus driver, my friends. we haven’t seen each other for almost three months, can’t you just chill and be happy?’

‘i don’t know what you are talking about.’

we continued walking in silence until we passed by a churchyard.

‘let’s go inside and sit on the grass.’

we sat in silence for a short while. after a few minutes he reached out wihtout a word. he kissed me without saying anything. soon things got heavy and he was pinning me down on the grass, dry humping me in the dark. i pulled back.

‘someone can walk by anytime,’ i said feebly.

‘you look so hot with your blonde hair. reminds me of a korean footballer i saw on the telly,’ he said reaching out for my hand and rubbing it against his distended crotch.

‘let’s go back to the flat.’ i said standing up.

we went back and fucked the whole night. at one point he smoked a cigarette and bent over an open window. i entered him from behind, thinking i didn’t really like him. anymore.

the morning after

‘she thought you are coming to stay and will refuse to leave,’ M was explaining why his girlfriend whose living room in greenwich we were sitting at won’t meet me.

‘and you believed her?’ i asked, fighting back the urge to hurt him. if only to make him feel the pain i was feeling inside. i don’t know what was more hurting, the idea that he thinks so lowly of me or that the prospect of me insinuating myself into his life is so frightening for him.

‘i didn’t. but i didn’t know what to think. and you always were so hectic about us. i don’t know...’ his voice faded mid-sentence.

again, the silence.

i was thinking that after my detached thoughts during sex the night before, the morning seemed to offer a different picture. when he woke up, he invited me to see where he lives (with his girlfriend), took me to greenwich where he showed me the maritime museum, the meridian and cutty sark. then we had lunch at the weekend market before we went to his place. we were having one of those once familiar bromance-with-benefits time that showed definite glimpses of the reason why i fancied myself in love with him. until he had to talk about his girlfriend and how he might get married. which was fine, only he felt he needed to justify this by saying hurtful things.

‘i think i should go,’ i said - getting up to leave. ‘i’ll let myself out.’

he also got up and caught up with me at the door, and touched my arm.

‘don’t be like this.’ he said, when i stopped, trying to catch my eye.

‘and exactly how should i be like?’ i said without looking at him.

i waited for a few seconds, when he didn’t answer i pulled away.

‘goodbye, M.’

as i was walking to the train station i felt i wanted to burst out of myself. i thought, i can’t see my friends like this, i should wait, take a walk till i calm down.

i took a train to westminster, and took a walk by the river thames.

i noticed the cranes.

one song, glory?

2010-03-06T23:05:00.001-08:00

tell me, did you want to be a rock star?

like millions of boys (and girls) before and after me, i wanted to be a rock star once. ok maybe not a rock star of the led zep, ac/dc, aerosmith genre. more dylan, amos & difranco. you know, the singer-songwriter vibe.

i was thinking of this erstwhile fantasy because because last friday, my former band had a reunion gig of sorts in a place where it all started.

here’s the back-story:

i was working in an NGO that was exploring various ways to educate and campaign on issues and one path that was explored was through music. they hired a staff known for his musical abilities to be a musical director (although his ‘official’ title was ‘popular educator’) and bought a complete set of instruments and sound system for a band. one night, they gathered all those who fancy themselves musical and got them to do their stuff with the instruments. fancying myself as a back-up singer, i tried backing somebody in U2’s ‘with or without you’. the musical director took the mic away from the lead singer and gave it to me. he then declared i was the vocalist of the band.

we had a good run, our band. we performed in big places like PICC (for the former president erap) and quirino grandstand (on one earth day). unexpected places like on top of a moving truck (on a campaign against constitutional change) or in an inhabited island (for a environmental youth group in el nido). in expected places like basketball courts (in bulacan) and artists’ watering holes (in quezon city). in far flung areas like a farming barrio (in nueva ecija) or in a mountain (in ifugao).

there were memorable performances that can measure up to any audition tape in american idol. once, while performing in a townhall in kidapawan, all the speakers started burning (literally) and conked out. i went down to the audience, asked the band to continue playing (using their own amps) and asked everybody to sing chapman’s ‘baby can i hold you tonight’ with me. (think bette midler in 'for the boys' candlelight ps. i love you' scene. diva, against the odds-like.)

some say i had stage presence. one evidence of this is on one performance in a beach in albay, a fisherman came up the stage gave me a flower and kissed me on the cheek. the band (all straight boys by the way) stopped unbelieving. i motioned for them to continue playing and threw the flower back to the audience. ok, (for those old enough) it was reminiscent of b-list singers getting leis from paid audiences in 70s noontime variety shows. but the band didn't let me live it down for more than a year.

in our heyday we were approached by every major recording company of the time – sony, bmg, wea – you name it. while the band accepted offers to talk (for the free beers) not one was seriously pursued for the fear of selling-out. losing integrity.

time passed.

i left the NGO to join government and had not time for the band anymore. one by one, they also left. the band had various incarnations and renaming. until it was too difficult to keep it going.

in the pre-departure briefing on my way to volunteer in rural Africa, we had an exercise in listing down who are we leaving behind that we will miss. the band ranked third to the family and bestfriends’ first and second.

last friday, i was reminded again how much i miss them.

whenever people tell me i should be doing something related to the arts, i smile. i wish i did. but i have been doing this NGO/development stuff for 20 years. this is what i am really good at as opposed to something i can potentially be good at. after all, how many of us turned out to be the person we wanted to be when we were growing up?

in my time in the band, i wrote one song. i performed it once. we never recorded it. i can’t even remember the melody nor all the lyrics now.

so much for the singer-songwriter fantasy. or to borrow from ‘rent’:

‘find
one song
a song about love
glory
from the soul of a young man, a young man’

i’ve grown old.

the tragedy of the gay gardener & the fag flower

2010-02-26T14:19:00.000-08:00

the longer i observe human interaction, the more convinced i am that there can never be balance in a relationship.

recently, i went out with a friend because he wanted to talk about relationship woes. it’s a talk that kawadjan would call ‘processing’.

here’s a snippet of the conversation:

‘i feel i’m not getting what i need from this relationship,’ he lamented.

‘but isn’t the joy of love in the giving?’ i asked.

‘yes, but i want some consideration’

‘isn’t that something in return?’

‘i guess…’

i told him i heard that in a relationship, you take on a particular role: you’re either a gardener or a flower. the gardener cannot really expect much from the flower except, well – to be pretty. on the other hand, the flower expects the gardener to tend, weed, water, fertilise so it can get to full bloom.

he immediately knew his role.

the thing is, in a heterosexual relationship these roles are usually ascribed by society. the woman is the gardener in the home but the flower everywhere else. the makes for mostly a straightforward guide in hitting the balance in a relationship. in gay relationships however, we precariously navigate the role playing and, in my experience, most want to be taken care of. most, if not all, of us in queerdom want to be the flower.

i know i'm courting real unpopularity in saying this but here lies the rub: despite the comparatively clear cut assignation of heterosexual roles, i have yet to encounter a relationship where i say, this looks like a real give and take. what hope do we have for balance in a gay relationship when these expectations are, at best, blurred and at worse, totally non-existent?

i live in hope that what this means is that we take turns being the flower.

after all, the allure of the tragedy can only last about as long as the flower in bloom before it wilts.

party of friends

2010-02-21T02:07:00.000-08:00

most people party with friends.

but is it possible to become friends just because you meet in parties?

last weekend G (yet again) threw one of his fab gay parties. and like many of his parties before, it was filled with wonderful, interesting and beautiful people.

as i mingled with the guests i realised that there was a set of people without whom the party would not be complete. a set of 'usual suspects' if you like. many of these usual suspects i have spent some time talking to while dancing, while posing for a picture, while smoking in the corridor. and it dawned on me that i know some really intimate details about many of them - their insecurities, lost and secret loves, relationship neuroses, HIV status - the list goes on.

and yet despite this seeming intimacy, i doubt whether they will call on me if any of them is in trouble. more telling, i know i wouldn't.

at this point you might be asking, what is the point?

to tell you the truth, i really don't know. except that i don't usually want to know about someone else's life unless i'm intending to be part of it. and the unfamiliar situation makes me feel - phony.

my friend id with the usual brand of merciless wisdom tells me (and i am paraphrasing here) - 'friendship taxes our time, our emotions, our life. we can only really have a finite amount of these to give. ergo, a finite amount of friends.'

is this true? have i reached my share of friends that i have been rendered friendship-challenged?

that party, j (a cute and unavailable guy) told me in front of his bf, 'i missed you.' i rolled my eyes thinking we only really met 2 times before - all in a party setting. he's really sweet. but 'miss'? really? so i said with the sweetest smile i can muster, 'i didn't.'

OK - bitch, maybe. but not a phony.

maybe i cannot invest as much to new friends as i usually do to old friends. but maybe this is OK. after all, dancing and drinking and dressing up are all like pizza. with good friends they're fantastic. with others, less so - but pretty damn good nonetheless.

maybe next time

2010-02-04T21:17:00.000-08:00

i never felt discriminated against as a gay man. if anything, it somehow worked to my advantage.

in my experience, people expected a level of idiosyncrasy when you‘re gay that allows you to get away with things most people won’t. struggling as a young weird boy, i became ‘normal’ even ‘relatively behaved’ when i became gay. add to this, i never even felt the torturous sexual preference confusion nor did i experience the trepidation of ‘getting out of the closet’ in the transition. maybe because i am still attracted to the opposite sex (a ‘pansexual’ in a matter of speaking) that there is no feeling of once living in lies or betrayal but more opening up to all the other options available. most gay guys will smirk at the idea. i don’t care because i don’t refer to myself as such. for now i am gay because i am with a man. and it is a happy situation. so to me being gay was, well, gay.

that was until monday.

last sunday, my partner jp was admitted to a hospital for an initial diagnosis of dengue, amoebiasis and acute sinusitis. (three in one? trust him to go big time in everything.) at first, the nurses and doctors seem not to know what to make of me, so they ignored me. so i decided i will assert myself and just tell them that (in not so many words) – hey – i am his next of kin, we are a gay couple. while some were a bit embarrassed, most accepted it nonchalantly. mentally, i was already applauding my countrymen and women for being open-minded.

then monday happened.

a day of being plugged into a drip with nothing to do except to sleep and watch blockbuster re-runs on tv is making jp fidgety. osmosis of feelings that happens with couples started getting me restless. so i called for the doctor to find out why we haven’t heard what was the diagnosis.

after hours of waiting and many nervous nurses getting out of our room feeling totally helpless, the consultant for infectious disease arrived with the fellow – the doctor who i have been talking to – cowering behind her. (apparently, there is this very formal hierarchy among doctors: consultant, fellow, resident, intern. this heirarchy is not to be violated. in the hierarchy – the nurses can’t even discuss test results!) she could’ve been my grandmother. she sized me us from head to toe.

‘so what do you want to know?’

‘we’ve been here for more than a day and nobody has talked to us to confirm the initial diagnosis from the testing clinic or provide an alternative explanation.’

‘well, we are still testing for dengue and the tests are just part of the whole picture. we also try to observe the patient to come up with the final diagnosis,’ she looked back to the fellow to confirm,’where’s the spouse of this man, anyway?’

‘that would be me.’ i said, softly but firmly.

she looked at me smiled and with a raised eyebrow asked, ‘how long have you been together?’

‘eight years, po.’

‘are you not afraid that this is related to the disease... a relationship like yours are usually afraid of?’, she said slowly as if looking for the right words, but still smiling

immediately i knew she was referring to HIV&AIDS. i said, ‘jp was tested in november and he tested negative’ looking to jp to confirm, ‘but if you want to test again to rule out the possibility, please do so.’

we exchanged a few more words before she left, but throughout the conversation all i can hear over and over again in my head was this - the disease a relationship like yours are usually afraid of.

i told jp about this and he was calm at first and then later on felt angry he wanted to leave.

i told my friends about it and they were all asking me why i didn’t i say anything. having work as an HIV&AIDS professional in south africa (where the problem is incomparably bigger than in the philippines) for 5 years, they all knew i could have responded to her in kind in terms of epidemiology, health care ethics, rights – the works. i didn’t.

when i reflect about why, here is what i said, ‘my first reaction is to defend jp, to think of his welfare – i need his doctor to be on my side and i don’t want to antagonise the person who can possibly make him feel better’

i explained this to my friend id and she said with a knowing look, ‘you allowed yourself to be discriminated against because you feel you are lesser a person and in a lesser relationship because you are gay.’

it hurt but it also rang of the truth.

here i am mr. activist, mr. let’s advance-the-rights-of-everybody, mr. i’m-so-pretty-smart-cool-all that, and faced with discrimination i fold.

maybe if i re-examine my own assertion that i’ve never felt discriminated as a gay man i’ll have a better chance of understanding and dealing with discrimination when i experience it.

if i allowed myself less self-bullshit, maybe next time i’ll be prepared.

2009: my year in pictures

2010-01-02T22:08:00.002-08:00

as i look back to the year that was 2009 . i thought of many ways do a year-end post.

i decided i'd make it simple - just share with you some significant things that happened last year.

the first thing will have to be celebrating new year in sagada. going back there after 9 years (when G & i celebrated the turn of the millenium), i had a chance to see how much the place changed and how much of what was important remained the same. much like the people i reconnected with when i got back from africa.

i also spoke of the role of civil society (that is, the non-profit sector) in development in the asean people's forum in bangkok in february. living it is one thing, trying to discuss it with people who are non-profit development workers themselves was like, well - selling nips to the kids in charlie & the chocolate factory. tough crowd.

here i am signing an agreement in washington on behalf of some network to facilitate a civil society campaign project in asia. in one of the schmoozy dinners some of the representatives from other countries had an animated discussion whether we (the non-profit sector) have indeed made it to the negotiating table of powers in the world. i somehow spoiled the fun when i said - 'personally, the issue of whether or not we have the power is incidental. the more important question is whether what we are doing is contributing to preventing a labour leader from being killed or a women's group activist from being discriminated or a HIV activist from being ridiculed.' they were silent and looked at me reproachfully. (i am thinking they were thinking - there goes the 3rd world activist again with his dream world) oh well. my dinner was gourmet inedible anyway.

i had the opportunity to visit prague for a conference - the most beautiful place i have ever been (imagine a vineyard in the middle of the town!). most gay boys wondered if i stumbled into the bel-ami boys. sadly, errr, no. but the absence of the smooth gay porn demigods did not take away anything from the lovely, lovely city.

for a while, i volunteered with task force pride representing rainbow bloggers. here we had a die-in in the middle of BED's ledge in commemoration of the international day against homophobia (with the rest of the clientele thinking we have gone stark raving mad). unfortunately, the demands of my day job made me opt out of the TF later. thus dousing my hopes of being the philippines answer to harvey milk. just kidding.

in may, jp and i celebrated his birthday by going to the crater of taal. it was his first volcano while it was my first crater. we also ziplined in picnic grove. i have many fond memories of sharing many firsts with my life partner in tagaytay.

one of the most memorable places i've been in last year was the bencab museum. in august 3 gay couples made a road trip to baguio. very chilled getaway. we spent the time in the road discussing whether we think harvey keitel is fuckable enough... (or maybe that was just me justifying my lust for the bad leiutenant?)

in september i finally travelled overseas with my longtime friend E. i have always imaagined it will be a blast to travel with her and i was right. stockholm was memorable not because it was pretty (which it was) but because i was there with her. here we were pretending to be interested in some british guy's talk of human rights situation in colombia (while there were colombians in the audience. absurd? don't ask!) our pretending only went too far as 20 minutes and then we left our dinner tables in favour of cam-whoring.

en-route back to manila, E & i stopped by a couple of days in amsterdam to do 'tourist-y' stuff. we enjoyed shopping most of all (H&M is god's gift to the budget shoppers wanting to still look up to date). we also spent almost a day in the street market (they have tiangge's in holland!) but realised that the things that we want there were beyond our budget. it was fun to compare the stalls with the ones we had in the philippines, anyway.

early december, i finally landed in paris (which every self-respecting gay boy should visit) for a series of meetings. meetings that lasted much shorter than the travel (this is the story of my life, by the way). i was with E again and it was fun. we went all the way to paris to walk the fashionable champs elysees only to find.. mud. (i swear i am not making this up). but the significant thing about paris is that the friends i met in south africa almost a decade ago flew in for a night out (!) - one from chad, the others from canada & london. here we did our obligatory group pic inside a ID photo booth in the paris metro. i love these guys.

and then, (despite my resistance) i turned 40. here - i am flanked by my former girlfriends who managed to accept (even celebrate) my sexual preference transition and remain friends. G & jp threw the party for me. bff & bf wanting to make you happy - what more can a guy ask for?

for christmas i rented a resort of some sort in quezon city for my whole family. the kids (these include my brothers, mind you) had a blast playing games in the swimming pool. it was a good way to reconnect and re-affirm ties that bind not only because of blood and shared history.

speaking of shared history, the gang had a party between christmas and the new year. we all had a rough year and it it was a comfort that friends you had when you were young remain to be there.

and then for the new year, G threw a 2010 countdown party in his condo. fun and gay. perfect way to toast 2009 and welcome the new year.

so what's the verdict for 2009. it was a tough year of transition and finding my feet. it was challenging to balance a relationship, keep my friends, hold on to my job and maintain my various involvements. over-all, i have to say, it was a pretty good year.

so 2010, hit me with your best shot.

i'm ready.

wilted flowers

2009-12-12T21:32:00.000-08:00

today i chucked the flowers i received for my birthday in the garbage can.

it’s been more than a week since my birthday. a week since the party that was thrown by my partner and friends, to celebrate my life. or the beginning of it, should we believe the tired adage.

everyday, since that day (after recovering from the hangover that tails every good party, that is), i open my blogspot account and attempt to write a post, something to mark my official entry to the rank of middle ages. i review my earlier posts to the point that i re-read everything i’ve written since i started this blog. i consider regurgitating earlier posts but felt like a phony and stopped myself in time from committing self-plagiarism.

i combed through the recent and not so recent posts of my favourite writers in my blogroll. like always, their words bring inspiration, smiles and vicarious heartbreak, and yet they failed getting my fingers active on the keyboard to appropriately punctuate this (subjectively) momentous occasion.

lyka asks in his recent post, ‘are you happy?’

i realised that i heard this question posed to me more often in the last few days than i can ever remember. definitely more times than i can come up with answers that resonates the truth rather than those resembling the lines beauty pageant contestants spew out to impress judges ready to make a mark on their scoreboards. somehow i felt like i would let people down and get a failing mark if i give the ambiguous truth and thereby respond with less bravado than expected.

the thing is, this age thing, it doesn’t make you more wise or witty or profound. it definitely does not make you happier. truth be told, it doesn’t make you sadder, either. it just makes you, well, older.

it is rather disconcerting to realise that this new leaf that i turned did not come with an earth-shaking epiphany, not even a startlingly fresh insight. it did not come with a wave of joy nor a surge of sadness.

it just came to pass.

as i wash the vase that reeked something terrible, i was hit by panic that maybe there was a card enclosed with the flowers that i missed and unwittingly chucked in the bin.

i took out the bin from the cubbyhole below the sink. like a bag lady, i opened the garbage can and looked for what i discarded.

i examined the flowers. while wilted, they still looked hopeful and uncrushed by the move from vase to bin. i started to think of all the affection, well wishes and good intentions that so many people extended in the last few days. i realised they were far more than the questions that wait for answers that dread the imminent scorecard. the wilted flowers' tenacity trumped my cynicism.

there was a message there – but it wasn’t in a card.

i put the bin back and dried the vase, mentally embracing the people that signifies everything that is good in my life.

lyka, i may be fucked up. but for now, i am thankful.

new loon

2009-11-25T19:37:00.000-08:00

‘because it doesn't make sense for you to love me. i'm nothing... human. nothing’

so goes another hollywood movie line to shake the very core of our beliefs.

jp and i watched new moon because everybody else did (so much for personal integrity). the prospect of buff half-naked boys prancing around the jungle, acting like drooling dogs, made succumbing to pop-culture peer pressure a little easier.
truth be told, it wasn’t half bad.

i’ve always had low expectations for books having movie tie-ins. it’s just usually just a tad better than their gaming counterparts.

but i digress.

i came home after the movie with an inexplicable urge to sort that line out in my mind.

make sense. what makes sense? 1+1 = 2. that makes sense, and then very little else do.

even more so when it comes to love. true, some studies linking love to a feeling of elation produced by a combination of hormones released by specific parts of the brain to ensure progeny makes sense. but to reduce all that drama to something hormonal is too lose all the romantic and spiritual significance we assign to it. so i was thinking, do we want love to make sense, anyway?

personally, i don't think love can make sense even if i want it to. however, i believe i have to make sense even if my feelings don't.

and going back to the movie: for instance - this thing about edward and jacob. sure, i am not averse to the odd threeway when it is called for. but to expect it to happen with a werewolf and a vampire? what was she thinking?

oh right, even vampires cannot read her mind. (could it be because there's nothing there?)

as the consistently divine dakota fanning playing jane said, 'this may hurt just a little.'

it might be just the green envious me talking, so

bite me.

memory like elephants

2009-11-18T19:34:00.000-08:00

all of my memories of elephants are happy:

like the elephant that swings from side to side that one day me and my brothers bullied my father to take us to manila zoo;

or the elephant that chased our little hired car once on a road trip and we got hopelessly lost in a wildlife reserve in limpopo province;

or the elephant that scared my mother when i took her to a night safari in kruger's park;

and very recently the hundred elephants parade that my friend id and i followed all throughout amsterdam because we were hopeless tourists.

they say 'an elephant never forgets'. in fact, some studies show the verity of this claim. specifically, the ability of the matriarch in an elephant herd to 'remember' and recognise danger, migration route and source of food is crucial it the herd's survival.

lately, my brothers and i are noticing that my mother is losing her memory. it started with her repeating herself. then she started to forget where she places things. now she is starting to forget details of events.

my mother's loss of memory fill me with a deep sense of sadness. i guess my mother has always been the bastion of strength in the family. to the extent that she is the one true person you can always rely on. now, i have to contend with the fact that that strength is affected by age. of her being in the sunset of her life. and in contending with my mothers' mortality, i have to contend with my own.

some people tell me, 'you have a memory like an elephant.'

maybe because things are fleeting that i hold on to the memories of people, things and event that are dear.

and i never want to forget my elephants.

vanity flair 2

2009-10-25T12:39:00.000-07:00

i have been trying to revive my blogdrive (drive to update my blog, that is).

unfortunately, i always seem to be behind with work that all i can do when i get home is watch a movie (to clear my mind), drink (to manage my stress) or worse, work some more.

at any rate i decided i would update my blog by posting pics of myself (i'm not vain, really - i'm not) in stockholm where i am at the moment. that way i don't really have to think about what i am going to say.

after dinner & drinks at the theater

freezing my ass off in front of the royal palace

strutting my stuff in front of the stockholm international fairs and congress center, in the hope that the hot janitor would notice me (he didn't).

and finally, channeling my inner model by sitting on scandinavian furniture (realising too late that i cannot out stage those fixtures) at the swedish international development office

if you want to see pictures of stockholm without my eager mug blocking the way, scroll down and wait for the slide show to load.

but hey, winter came early in sweden. it so happened i cannot stay in the nordic countries for an extended period of time because the wet, drab and grey weather gets to me. so if this post blows, blame it on climate change.

wikus and the theory of emptiness

2009-09-03T18:53:00.000-07:00

j, my man of the moon, alerted me to the movie district 9. he said the trailer looked cool. i was intrigued (j downloads movies like a maniac so he has somewhat a film opinion credence), but had to check the reviews before i spent my hard earned money to yet another CGI fest devoid of insight and heart.

rotten tomatoes, with their coterie of snotty film critics gave district 9 an 89%. and while there were raving reviews, i noticed that most stopped short and just gave the premise. an alien ship ‘landed’ (this in itself is a weird concept because the extra-terrestrial vessel stopped and just hovered in the air) on top of johannesburg and humans set up a place for them to stay called – district 9, and what ensues are problems emanating from the human-alien interaction. further, the consensus was 'technically brilliant and emotionally wrenching'.

a critically-acclaimed alien movie set in the city where i lived for 5 years – i guess my watching it was a shoo-in.

so after a real shitty day at work me, jp and my blogfriend id headed off to gayteway. after watching, the 3 of us agreed that it was a brilliant film. those who know us would say this is rare.

the erstwhile mr. scheez once asked me if i can review a movie. i said many bloggers are already doing this and i can’t see what i can possibly contribute. truth be told, i hate spoilers.

still i’d like to talk about the protagonist of the movie, wikus - an unlikely anti-hero. he was white (which in south africa, given its history is, in itself, enough to make you an antagonist), tacky, cheesy and, well – a jerk. so much so that many reviews said that the movie was marred by its unlikeable lead character. however, after all the trials and tribulations his character arc is one of the most compelling and believable reel transformations i’ve seen for some time. so much so that i bought the whole idea of he who relished incinerating alien embryos will risk his life and go between bullets and missiles and their target to save an alien father and son.

this got me to thinking about the whole question of real life heroes and villains. good people and bad people. are they a product of what is inherently virtuous or evil in their character? or are they just objects playing into the circumstances that they find themselves in?

the theory of emptiness contends (and i quote the dalai lama himself here) that any belief in an objective reality grounded in the assumption of intrinsic, independent existence is untenable. all things and events whether material, mental or abstract, are devoid of objective independent existence. everything is composed of dependently related events of continuously interacting phenomena with no fixed immutable essence, which are in themselves in constantly changing dynamic relations. things and events are ‘empty’ in that they do not possess any immutable essence, intrinsic reality or absolute being that affords independence. (what?)

if i haven’t lost you yet what i think this means is that if this is true, then there are no heroes or villains just heroic or villainous events that cause people to act and react a certain way or the other.

this, of course, leads to the question, who or what, then decides which of us gets to be put to one event that builds our character or leads us to damnation?

all my life i have fancied myself a good person. a good son, a devoted lover, a hardworking employee and a loyal friend. this thinking humbles me into reflecting that maybe it’s so because i have been fortunate to have had a loving mother, a committed lover, a host of interesting jobs and many, many steadfast friends.

and then there are times when i can be a vindictive, cruel, unkind bitch many gay guys can only hope (and quite often dream) to be. and i can allude to many hateful persons, circumstances or events that has made me, in a number of instances, somebody worthy of unimaginable self-loathing.

and here’s the mindfuck. following the (lack of) logic of the theory of emptiness people, cirumstances and or events that affected me are, in themselves, not innately good or bad. to think so will assume an intrinsic reality, which does not exist. my mind reels just trying to write this.

so what begets what? does anything beget anything? who knows? does it really matter?

here’s my take. wikus got it rough. i’m just glad i don’t have to interact with creatures from another world, and just look at those in my immediate vicinity in order to recognise my dues to those who have caused me to be me: hero and villain both.

Picture this: Golden Girls vs. Gossip Girl Showdown. OMFG!

2009-07-25T01:32:00.000-07:00

lately, i have been socialising with a group of friends i met more than 10 years ago. we likened ourselves to the golden girls. wise, funny, loveable, fab.

almost the same time, my good friend G has been hanging out with a group of people he fondly refers to as the gossip girls. cunning, glam, fuckable, fab.

so i’ve been thinking – it will be the clash of the fab titans if the golden girls were to take on the gossip girls or vise-versa.

i asked my friend R to help me think how this would pan out, but we came up with such lame scenarios i decided to leave it to your imagination.

who do you think would win?

vanity flair

2009-07-17T01:00:00.000-07:00

my mother said, if you don't have anything good to say, keep your mouth shut.

so i have been quiet. but i opened my blog in this dark, grey and rainy day (coming home after work) and it stared back at me with the eyes of a neglected child.

so i decided i'll post something -

even if it is just a vanity post of pictures of me in prague and amsterdam. it's the reason i have to catch up with the work that was left behind and ignore my blog anyway.

here's me thinking i was in the tower next to the bridge where tom hanks saved matt damon's privates - not.

here's me trying to toss in a fountain (turned on by the cherubic angels) - drat that colleague who keeps on taking my pics!

and then so - tired from all that...

finally - i couldn't leave prague without paying homage to kawadjan for that obligatory jumpshot. (apologies to the ultimate jump shot goddess - i can't pout while doing this and instead open my mouth like an idiot)

in amsterdam i laid low and killed time in a sidewalk cafe near the flower market

but i guess even when you are travelling incognito the paparazzi will still catch you as you leave the esprit shop thinking how outrageously you spent your hard earned money on something you don't need.

OK that's it. my mother is probably right - i should've just keep my mouth and blog shut. but hey - any self-respecting faggot should indulge his vanity once in a while, right?

simple

2009-07-03T21:40:00.000-07:00

the things that make me most happy are most basic: eating, sleeping, shitting, fucking, and washing (shower is cool enough but bath – when it’s available – even better). if i can spend the rest of my life doing just these simple things i think i will be a very happy man. simple.

wait.

that sounds self-centred, doesn’t it? shouldn’t loving make me happy? after all these basic things are elevated to a higher plane if you share it with somebody you have tender feelings for. ok, maybe not shitting. guess i’m not that kinky.

putting loving into the mix might make me less self-centred but does not make me less selfish. so let’s put working to make me relevant. after all, many observe that i spend a disproportionate amount of time doing my non-profit, change-the-world work. more time than all the basic things that make me happy plus time i spend with my loved ones put together. the truth is, i have observed that nothing defines my self-esteem, my sense of self-worth, more than how well (or how bad) i do at work.

however, it is also at work that i feel most stressed. so i escape in watching movies and shopping. these two are my favourite sanctuaries from the ugliness in the world. there is no pain of having to deal with the wrongs inside and outside the workspace that a good old-fashioned hollywood popcorn film, a new pair of italian leather shoes or designer bags cannot put to right.

and then there are the absolute luxuries like reading, writing, dancing and singing. things that i love doing but hardly have the time for.

wait there’s also smoking, drinking, exercising, talking…

godddamit.

i started writing this post wanting to make a point how simple the path to happiness can be. i thought simplifying will make it easier.

still, a simple listing shows the near impossibility of doing everything within the finite time we all have to do it in. and that’s not even citing the innate conflict between these things. smoking vs. exercising, shopping vs. the non-profit work, sleeping vs. fucking, the list goes on and becomes more incriminating.

clearly, the happy me is a work in progress.

it’s that simple.

***
illustration in this post from xkcd: a webcomic of romance, sarcasm, math and language.

airports - washington dulles

2009-06-14T00:07:00.000-07:00

just to share my continuing romance with airports

'But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in'

- Ricky Fitts played by Wes Bentley in American Beauty

enduring love

2009-06-07T07:43:00.000-07:00

‘he died of a broken heart. where’s the political value in that?’

we laughed with disdain.

this was G and me talking, over bottles of beer and countless cigarettes. we were in a homestay one rainy night in baguio in the early nineties, a night before some writer’s workshop we were conducting. we were talking of R, a common acquaintance who was found dead when he hang himself because some girl broke up with him. we were rabid activists and the thought of sacrificing one’s life in the name of love was just pathetic and – well, funny.

our mistake is that we were talking about this oblivious that we were in front of CDQ, a noted columnist, wise and eloquent as we can only aspire to be, who was there as one of our speakers. he looked at us with disgust and said (with a hint of anger in his voice), ‘there is probably nothing more noble than to die for love.’

chastised, G and i fell silent. not that we believed him at that time (can’t speak for G but i know i didn’t). we just realised we were being callous and weren’t being very nice.

i remember this story because last night, on the occasion of kawadjan’s visit to the fair city of manila, we had a lovely dinner where i met N.

as we were nursing our beers and coffee after the splendid meal, N joined us. and almost without prompting, regaled us, a group of almost complete strangers, with the story of her woes over a loved one who did not return the feeling with quite the same intensity or dedication.

not that i think N will be committing suicide soon. it’s just that her somewhat impassioned and animated disclosure made me realise how far people would go - for love. and the shock of it is: ‘people’ includes me.

i started to put a list of willing and not so willing deeds i have committed in the context of a romantic relationship and decided that even the blogsphere is not a worthy (or discreet) confessional for it. suffice to say that dealing with the guilt of competing with the church (yes, there was some action involved with a man of the cloth), is not the highlight of the list, but is way up there.

it seems that while i consider myself to be an activist, a good son and a loyal friend, there is nothing that comes close to what i can do, what i have done, in the name of love.

and i have a feeling i am not alone in this.

last night after dinner i steal myself for another difficult discussion with JP. like all relationships, ours have its ups and downs. and lately, i have been reacquainted with the ‘downs’.

i tell myself, i can do this.

and for now, i did. we did.

this morning we renewed our commitment to work on our relationship. and tonight i take some time to write this post and remember R, whose death we laughed at decades ago.

i confess, in humility, that there have been times that i considered hurting myself, if only to manifest the devastation i feel inside. and that i now realise that people end their lives must be dealing with some pretty serious shit.

i won’t speak for G. but for all its worth, i apologise. i will not pretend to understand what R went through, but his death certainly did not merit ridicule.

as penance, i resolve that i will love well and live through it. let the proverbial shit hit the fan. i’m ready.

alternatively, in the words of martika, let's just say

‘love, thy will be done.’

***

image in this post by linden laserna

breeders in malate

2009-05-14T02:42:00.000-07:00

***

after reading my post, fiery godfather, my friends felt a bit bothered that i was feeling that they have no occasion to celebrate my life choices and milestones.

so they decided to make up one – the occasion of my successful root canal procedure. like really now.

not to miss an opportunity to further a cause, i suggested that we meet in malate in order to participate in task force pride’s activity on the occasion of the international day against homophobia. they all said it was my party so they were in.

most people arrived by pairs. noticeably without kids. ok, one had 2 bodyguards, but (unlike kids) they did not need to be the centre of attention.

once seated in o-bar, one of the guys was uncomfortable. he asked me if it safe to go to the toilet, telling me if somebody’s just going to look at his prick while peeing, he’ll be ok with it. i laughed and told him he should be fine and should not flatter himself. another asked if we need to take off our shirts for the activity. and yet another observed that the waiters were ‘yummy’. the girls even went up to check-out the kinky underwear and sex toys in top & bottom store.

it was clear that while most of them may be straight, they were willing to be gay for the day (err, night) for me. and from the looks of it, they were enjoying it, too.

too bad we got too entertained by the chit-chat amid the loud thumpa-thumpa music and friday night revelry of nakpil (or maybe i didn’t get the details right?). by the time we got to remedios circle, not one of the tfp’s usual suspects were there. not to be daunted by the slight hiccup, we took the chance for a photo op.

with no one bitching about the fact that we missed what we braved QC to manila traffic for, we had coffee and cakes in cafe adriatico.

we parted ways later than usual (1:30 am!).

as we were saying goodbyes, i felt a wave of love for my friends when i realised that while they may not share (nor understand) my world, they recognise that my life choices are as valid and need to be celebrated as much as their relatively conventional ones.

these breeders, they’re all right.

fiery godfather

2009-05-02T02:00:00.000-07:00

...

i’m a favourite godfather to my friends’ and family’s children.

not that i mean the children prefer me to the others who have committed to be their second parents, i mean my friends and family like assigning me this task.

living a life of a gay man is not exactly an automatic indication of street cred when it comes to rearing or nurturing a child. i would think, normally, that it will be otherwise.

i wonder if they think, that being gay,i should be more feminine and thus share the mothering instincts of women?

or worse, they choose me because of the illusion of pink money - gays, imminently successful and usually without the financial burden of parenting, have disposable income to throw around?

a friend, to whom i shared these thoughts, said that they are not intending to die soon – thus nullifying the need for me to step in as a parent in the foreseeable future. she said my value as godfather is really all about the life skills i can impart my godchildren. i nodded in quiet contemplation, as if indicating my satisfaction to her explanation - all the while thinking that the value of my impeccable taste in shoes will probably only kick in if the little critters grow up to share my passion for footwear.

jp, recovering from a flu was feeling surly the other day and asked me (after the nth similar function i said we had to attend), ‘shall we have a schedule of things they have to attend for us, then?’

while i put it to the fact that he is not feeling well, there’s the issue of consistent obligation to celebrate the milestones of the friends and family’s life. and the lion-share of these entails their children. birthdays, recognition days, graduations, proms and every imaginable rites of passage. while i do this without question for my family and friends’ children, i can hardly expect them to celebrate the acquisition of a new pair of shoes, a new job or my dog’s successful castration. what do they have to celebrate for me then?

i wonder if this anxiety hits home now because i am in my mid-life without securing my progeny.

do biological clocks tick for gay men the same way it does for women?

after days of mulling over these thoughts, i decided this: my family and friends are compensating for the fact that my life choices led me to this childless existence. they all say parenting is one of the most fulfilling things you will do in your life. i would like to think, that it is their concern over the fact that i might be missing out on this experience that they wish to share with me even a fraction of what it might be like.

or so i tell myself.

but that will do for now.

tomorrow, is my good friend m’s child’s baptism. i think i might be one of the godfathers again. i’m deciding on the appropriate outfit to wear.

while i may not be a father, i’m going to do my damnest best to be the hottest godfather.

memories are deceitful above all things

2009-04-26T03:53:00.000-07:00

...

caloocan city, midnight, 1995

having survived what must have been the worst ‘date’ of all time; a torturous dinner in cafe ysabel worthy of all sorts of indigestion, i felt a certain relief. i put the word ‘date’ in quotation marks because i didn’t know what exactly just happened.

despite the disastrous rendezvous j was dropping me off at my place. still, the drive home proved to be be just like the dinner, a series of uncomfortable silences punctuated by awkward small talk. it was a few blocks from home so i was not taking any more of it.

“why do we even bother?”

i saw his forearms flex in the steering wheel and his jaw muscles clench. his dark brooding eyes peered through his long hair, “i think we both know why we want this.”

i didn’t know what he meant and i wanted to ask, but it was my street corner. his big car couldn’t go much further into the urban poor side streets. so he stopped. again, the silence.

“goodbye, then.” i said as i reached for the door handle.

“goodbye, kiel.”

i felt there were things that were to be said but it was not the time. i stepped out of his car. as i closed the door i saw that he was already looking ahead. i stood there and watched him drive off, his car’s rear end lights blinking farewell in the dimly lit side street.

i knew i will probably never see him again.

washington dc, close to midnight, 2009

after finishing his lobster dinner, j and i asked the fil-am waitress if we can smoke outside. the dinner was unlike the one that we had more than 10 years ago. though i didn’t eat (on the account of having to endure some ghastly vegetarian dinner earlier while schmoozing with NGOs from all over the world, contemplating on our raison d’etre and our changing place in the power tables), it went well because we actually talked.

getting the blessing of our waitress, we were standing in the curb of a shabby chic restaurant cum bookshop near dupont station. smoking thoughtfully. it was almost midnight.

“so, you don’t live in the city, right?” i asked.

“that’s right. i live in virginia, about 45 minutes via the metro,” he gestured vaguely at the direction of the station.

“so what time’s the last trip?”

“midnight.”

“we better get going then.”

“it’s alright,” he said, taking a long drag from his flickering cigarette.

“alternatively, you can stay at my hotel and i can do funny things with your body,” i offered deadpan.

“i appreciate the gesture but, no thanks, ” he paused thoughtfully, “ besides i have work tomorrow.”

“good. i really don’t want to sleep with you. but you were being so nice i thought it would be rude not to make a pass.’

we looked at each other and then we started laughing while putting out our cigarettes.

back at our table, we both reached for our drinks quietly, the laughing fading to smiles.

“a lot of people think i’m gay, but i’m not – you know,” he said suddenly serious, looking me in the eye.

“we dated once, j.”

“really? i don’t remember. all i remember is that i felt you were always judging me. and how i proved you right being mr. establishment, working for the bank. while you are still an activist.”

i studied him, looking for signs of denial. the thinning clean cut hair and boxy marks & spencer suit have taken the place of the long silky hair and tight fitting shirts of old. the ‘suit’ looked earnest. if he was lying it didn’t show in his countenance.

“i wasn’t exactly memorable, but yes – we did go out once. and i never judged you.”

the silence that once was the trademark of our time together came back.

”so what are you doing tomorrow night?” he asked. but before i can answer, he continued, “ oh no, i have a date with this girl tomorrow.” he was frowning.

“that’s ok" i said, adding promptly, "we should go, or you will miss your train.”

we paid the bill and walked outside.

“well, enjoy the rest of your stay in washington” he said.

”i will. goodbye, j.”

we hugged tentatively.

“check me out if you come back, in case i’m still here.”

“sure,” i said quietly, not knowing if i was being truthful.

i turned and walked away, zipping my jacket to ward away the cold. i was already thinking that for 14 years i thought that there were things to be said between us and it turned out there was none.

i don’t know if he was watching my departure because i didn’t look back.

panaginip sa abril

2009-04-19T11:08:00.000-07:00

as promised to luis and zen, here is the original tagalog version of last week's poem. every second line is mine:

sapantaha lang natin ang pagpatak ng ulan
sa panaginip, yakap mo ang araw
at kapwa tayo naalimpungatang pawisan
balot ng init at uhaw na abot langit

ilang tag-araw na tayong isinumpa ng ganito
dinadaya ng panahon,
kinukutya ng pagmulat
sa umaasong aspalto ng tanghaling tapat

babangungutin ba ako
ng pangamba sa dapithapon
kung pagkakanulo
ng salawahang panahon?

pipikit pa rin ako
at hihimlay sa ulap
ng tag-salat
sa buwan ng paggapas
dahil kahit di ininda ang patak ng ulan
di man natin saliwan
ang unang tikatik ng abril
liliparin natin
ang panginorin
hindi hihintayin
ang muling paggising

a dream in april

2009-04-12T16:35:00.000-07:00

i once had a relationship with a writer. while the passion was mediocre, we wrote well together. here's an english translation of a filipino renga we wrote while we were still figuring out what we were to each other. thought i'd share it before april ends...

the rain is just in our imagination
in dreams, you embrace the sun
until we both wake up drenched in sweat
consumed by unbearable heat and thirst

many summer have passed with this curse
cheated by time
mocked by consciousness
in the burning asphalt of midday

will i have nightmares
of melancholic sunsets
if i betray
the traitorous seasons?

still, i will close my eyes
and lay in the clouds
of famine in harvest time

because even if we missed the rain
even if we did not dance
under the first shower in april
we will fly to the skies
and not wait to be awaken again

mona lisa syndrome

2009-04-05T23:26:00.000-07:00

jp once told me, you are like the monalisa, you are nice to look at, but not much use for anything else. that comment did not hit home until much later when i realised that i have been infected by the da vinci virus.

the da vinci virus infects the unknowing, but fully healthy individuals as host. before you know it you are one piece of work, err… art.

latent symptoms include:
• over-articulation
• over-intellectualisation
• self-indulgence

full blown syndrome to watch out for:
• ISO sarcoma – unrealistic standard applied to everybody including oneself
• pronoun disorder – inability to recognise anything but i and me, a.k.a. me- as-earth pre-copernicus syndrome
• paparazzi paranoia – delusion of persecution of the tmz-type reporters and yet posing for pictures not being taken
• hysterical garp blindness – sudden bouts of failure to perceive a world not according to one’s definition
•delusion of rebonded rapunzel – delusion of hair so long, so smooth - flipping it would make the asian tsunami look like a drop in the bucket

initial morbidity reports claim that long-time sufferers eventually die alone.

unfortunately, there is no known cure. there are anecdotal reports, however, that a good dose of talking-down-to by undaunted close friends can make the syndrome almost a manageable disease.

thankfully, my early diagnosis aided by my partner's astute observation led to better disease management. i reject being a cordoned-off picture, no matter how pretty (and even that is a subject of debate). as my good friend fuschiaboy reminds me…

“refusal is elegance.”

look at the mirror and ask yourself, am i infected? better yet ask your most cheeky friend.

smile, mona lisa.

love three-logy

2009-03-27T01:11:00.000-07:00

id and i were rummaging through storage boxes last night for my copy of the watchmen which she wanted to borrow when i stumbled into this piece i have written decades ago – back when i was still (gasp!) straight. it’s the story of what happened between me, mon and lisa (not their real names) who after all the history, evolved to become two of my closest friends. anyway, this is nostalgia...

i always thought that maintaining a relationship between two people was tough. when i found myself in a three-way set-up, i knew that i was in deep shit.

it all started harmless enough. three friends whose bond was built by common interests. in the beginning all encounters were determined by the fact that we belonged to the same student organisation. back then, lisa and mon never struck me as relationship material. i particularly detested mon. he called me his nemesis.

the nerve.

yet between the three of us, the best idea, plan or endeavour always resulted. with a lot of fuss maybe. but we always felt it was worth it.

for years thee intimacy was deepened by shared experiences – joy, sorrow, and yes, even heartbreaks. for some reason we broke up with our most serious relationships (till then) almost at the same time. we were thankful we were on the same boat. loveless creatures whose consolation was the comforting shoulder of friends.

then the plot thickened. mon started flirting with the idea of courting lisa who, in turn, was too preoccupied with this huge crush on me to notice. i was dating a lot of people and was too busy to care. not an unusual situation and definitely tenable had we kept it to ourselves.

we did not.

it was a night we were marking our formal departure from the organisation where we met and became friends. in drunken camaraderie, we played truth or dare. before we knew it, the cat was out of the bag.

mon proposed to lisa. lisa proposed to me. i was ill-prepared, i was eyeing another girl outside of our small circle. i rejected lisa’s proposal. she cried hard. she cried on mon’s shoulders.

they started dating exclusively and eventually went steady. i went steady with another girl. anyone would have thought this was where the end credits roll for a totally Hollywood-esque ending. and they lived happily ever after.

not.

in less than a year they broke up. it was not long before i also broke up with my girl.

suddenly, we found the joy of each other’s company again. we had wholesome, social dates that were never meant to be complicated. like lost friends, we found we had a lot of catching up to do. we were basking at the maturity the time and distance have lent us. the affection increased with the regularity of these dates. we were never happier.

the closeness started canceling out people outside our unlikely trio. no one else got it. it was just the three of us that really understood.

at one point we watched the movie threesome. it dawned on us that we were starting to act like the confused characters of the movie. while the movie was enlightening, it also scared the living daylights out of us. we were getting too close. the situation was getting more complicated than we wanted it to be.

we tried to define what was between us in a vain effort to clear the air and found ourselves facing a blank wall. call it recklessness of youth, curiosity or just plain stupidity, we carried on. throwing caution to the wind, we continued seeing each other, always pushing the limit of what was acceptable in each rendezvous.

it would be hard to imagine for anyone who hasn’t been refused by a motel how embarrassing a three-way semi-relationship can be. it is trifle superfluous to enumerate similar situations that constantly reminded us our being together can never be. suffice to say, mon’s mother catching us in our underwear, sleeping in his bed, arms around each other – took the cake.

as lara flynn boyle said in the movie, this is not normal.

there was never a conscious decision to quit but we drifted apart a few months after. we were all busy with our work and i was assigned to work in camiguin for a few months. we tried to maintain a facade of normal abnormalcy and tried to see each other when we can. each one was considered the closest friend of the other, after all.

life went on.

one night i was in manila, they came and picked me up from my office to have dinner. i was struck how the same time and distance that once drew us closer at that point set us apart. tactlessly, i remarked on how pathetic the once meaningful ‘friendship’ has been reduced to a series of uncomfortable silences. they looked at me with equal parts of anger and hurt but they knew what i was talking about.

we recognised that we had a relationship. and we decided it was time for it to end.

this is one break up i will always remember. up to that point we were grappling on an appropriate manner to regard what was between us. it was apparent that none of us knew the rules in this game. we all winged in the best of our ability what was acceptable and what was foul. in the end we all lost by default.

looking back, i wonder what would have happened had we been living in a society where mores are not as defined. i flinch at the idea of how good it was, how it felt so right and how hopelessly doomed. it’s a society where things that don’t fall under standard definition are wrong. we were wrong.

but i refuse to stop at that. i don’t want to vindicate ourselves by passing the buck to the ills of society. with the benefit of hindsight, society’s standards weren’t the biggest stumbling blocks. i realise it was our own fear of the unknown that made us give up. the stakes were too high and gambling on emotions at a high risk of losing did not seem a serious and sane option.

in the end, there was nothing but bitter resignation. in the tradition of our generation, we raged against the dying of the light but we found our anger wanting. all i can hope for is that we can melt the chilling drifts, emerge from the darkness and find our way to the warmth of our friendship, that surely must still be there.

maybe someday.

remembering the tinman, part 5

2009-03-18T23:43:00.000-07:00

march 2002, letter to g

dear g

thanks for the advice.

know what? a few days after, i'm totally over M(!). of course, i still remember that fateful night especially when I can still smell him in my bed and my pillow. but given a certain degree of rational perspective, i know that there is no use torturing myself on the why's and the what for's.

having said that, i feel i also owe it to myself to try to explain why i was overreacting. not to justify, for indeed, what's the use? but more to try to get off clean. you know, straighten it out in my mind. maybe because i want you (as my bff) to understand a little what i'm going through. or maybe i want to rehearse what i will say to E once i decide to tell him all about it (which i will in time). either which way let me try to explain.

i think i've already discussed in full what i am going through professionally. what i haven’t explained yet is how this has affected me and the way i interact with people here.

the truth is i can’t explain what is happening to me. except perhaps as any other person who finds himself in the role of a stranger in a foreign land. even my new friends are hours or days away from where i am. at this point, i need to wait for the weekend before i can speak to a friend.

do you know what it’s like to have no one to talk to?

it’s like nothing that is happening to you is real. sometimes i find myself just wanting to scream just because nobody is listening.

and this has such an effect on me as a person. most of the volunteers here think i’m an "introvert". isn’t it funny? introvert! me?! i realised it’s because i have gotten used to not speaking to anyone that even when i am amidst people, i still keep quiet. sometimes i feel suffocated if people speak all at once. all the while, i was thinking, i was once the life of the party, whatever happened to me? weird, right?

you know what? i have been taken to further isolating myself by frequently going to the abandoned train station 30 minutes walk away from where i live. it was built way back when the plantation was a center of commercial and social activity. now the trains don’t even pass by anymore and the station is all vandalised and crumbling. it looks like all the lost hopes and dreams of the community here are captured by the station that has not welcomed a guest for years and the track that forgot the heat of metal running against metal. there i find peace.

in this state of mind, M found me. i guess when M came i was just so hungry for any kind of human contact. and when he showed me tenderness, its like a showing an addict who’s dying for a fix some narc that is for free. no wonder i sounded shrill and out of control.

but i'll be o.k. now that i have been told i will be re-assigned to the city, away from the oppressive silence of the plantation, i can finally see the light. even now i can feel changes in me. it’s good because i already worry about myself sometimes.

i’ll park my pen here.

kiel

ps. M called. we agreed to spend some time together in cape town last week of this month. i told him i’d rather discuss things with him when we see each other. don't worry, i'll play it cool. i understood your message loud and clear.

beyond watching the watchmen

2009-03-06T23:41:00.000-08:00

last night i embraced my inner straight boy by being a comics dork – lining up for the first night to watch the watchmen (i even considered dressing up as one of the characters), only to be sneakily sabotaged by dr. manhattan’s floppy flaccid blue prick.

ok it’s not comics. it’s even listed as TIME’s best 100 novels of all time. but one look at the yellow & black cover plus the coloured illustrations with conversation balloons inside and my friend id gives me ‘the look’ (the one given to hopeless men) and says, “aren’t you supposed to be old enough to read something without pictures?”

still, watchmen was what got me to graphic novels. now i have a small but quite respectable loot including from hell, superman for all seasons, death of superman, 300, wanted, sin city volumes 1-7 and stardust (although, the last one is an illustrated story – there is a difference.) you may raise your eyebrow to a level higher than bebe gandanghari’s because they now all fall within the ‘tv/movie tie up’ category. but then again i can hardly stop the hollywood agents from transforming art to cheesy money makers, can i?

i digress.

so there i was, braving the long lines in front of the gay’teway cineplex till. shifting my weight from one foot to the other because i was so excited i needed to pee all the time. not because there was so much cruising in the cinema lobby, silly - because the trailers were really good. to get to this point, i left my boss’ mouth hanging open when I said no to his request for me to re-send that one last email (you know, the one he didn’t read and now it’s my fault) and convinced jp it was a cool movie, he had to go. it was going good.

we got the tickets with time to spare for a quick beer at café adriatico downstairs before the show. when we came up for the show, there was time enough to go to the loo for a pee. when we went to our seats i carefully inspected the terrain for toddlers or jologs who might insist on imposing their noise while I was watching my movie. clear. i was on a roll.

all was right in my world (the opening credits was a killer) until dr. manhattan appeared with his swinging blue cock. suddenly, the (straight) couple next to me started sniggering whenever the offending appendage made an appearance (which is – by rough estimate - about a quarter of the movie).

suddenly the movie seemed all too ridiculous.

don’t get me wrong, a built, ripped, buck-naked and shaved billy crudup (or whoever was his body double) in blue is not exactly appalling. and I’ve always found soft cocks endearing in their vulnerability. but how can i take his existential pronouncements seriously when there are people around me who can’t get over his incandescent flopsy?

the movie ended with me feeling cheated.

i had the urge to rummage through my graphic novel collection, looking for clues why i found this one so precious. and there, (edited from the movie) I found my dr. manhattan again when he said…

‘The world is so full of people, so crowded with these miracles that they become commonplace and we forget... I forget. We gaze continually at the world and it grows dull in our perceptions. Yet seen from the another's vantage point. As if new, it may still take our breath away.’

go watch the movie and try not to be distracted by the naked moviestar playing radioactive-nuclear-disaster-survivor-turned-superhero. better yet, read the graphic novel.

remembering the tinman, part 4

2009-02-05T21:12:00.000-08:00

february 2002, letter to g

dear g,

what else? i am writing to you because of a man. it's not a matter of life and sex, er, death. but seriously, this is different. how will i tell you? ok, better do it the quickest way.

i slept (read- been sexually intimate) with somebody.

before you pass judgement, let me just recount some details of what happened:

i first met this guy, M - (for anonymity we will call bloke) in the volunteers’ conference in february. immediately i had a crush on him. he’s 36, stocky, a londoner, a head of the dept. of social forestry in one of the universities here, and, seriously - a bloke. (like a lumberjack or something). because he's into social forestry we had a lot of things to talk about - with my stint in the community forestry program in camiguin.

after the conference, i e-mailed just to thank him for his company - as we had a lot of laughs (the male bonding type). then he responded and said he'll be visiting my province and might need a place to stay (!).

of course i was...afraid. i told him other volunteers live closer to where he's going. and even asked him to get in touch with one. so he was left with no choice. but not before telling me that he will be renting a car so the distance won't be a problem. i said, ok then. what else can i say?

when he arrived i insisted he meets up with another volunteer first so he won't have to drive another hour after his flight. he obeyed. but sometime during the night they decided that they will visit me and spend the next night in the plantation.

i was thinking, he’s with this girl – there shouldn’t be too much temptation. and he seems straight so i convinced myself that it will not pose a problem
.
they arrived. we dranked. we sang. the girl fell asleep on the floor of my room.

then bloke asked me, "what are you going do with her?"

to which i responded, "let her sleep."

then he said, "no, i mean it's your house, don't you have an extra room or something?" and then he started running his fingers through my hair and massaging my back.

i said, "oh." i woke up the girl and took her to another room.

when i came back, there were no words. he jumped me and kissed me. we made out like hungry animals. he’s so aggressive and a bottom (he’s first time, he said – like, whatever.) i was with bruises and scratches the morning after.

the point i wanted to make for relating all of that is that (1) it was all unexpected, unplanned and therefore confusing (2) i didn't even think of the consequences and (3) as you maybe predicted, i am finding i am liking this guy more than i want to.

and here is the dilemma in order of importance:

1.what does this all mean? does it mean i'm incapable of being faithful as i claimed i would be? is the real kiel the polygamous one not the one who professes faithfulness for the sake of love? is this a fluke? or is it a sign of the things (and dicks) to come ?(and cum?) already a 23 yr old black cute kid in the plantation is insisting he should spend the whole next weekend with me. yaiiiks!

2.do i tell E? if i should, will it be now? or when i come back? or when i'm sure he won't break up with me (like giving a hypothetical situation)? Or when i'm sure i can handle whatever his reactions will be? i love the guy, G. i want to build a life with him. but is it realistic? two years. sometimes i think i just want to go home to stop myself from getting into further trouble. to complicate things i just been offered a glamour placement. a communications coordinator for a sexual harrasment ngo in Johannesburg. so the other part of me is just wants to finish what i committed to.i said 2 years – i should be able to do it, right? so i feel worse, i cheated and then i decide to stay?!

3.how do i play it with bloke? i know i'm being neurotic, - at least we can be friends, right?

i don’t know hausmeyt. i’m so out of practice, i don’t know how to handle this. i want to tell him i want more than anything else to be his friend. of course, if i'll be honest, if he wants to be fuck buddies that’s not too bad, either.

we agreed that i'll pay him a visit in his university before i or he leaves (he's probably leaving by may). but now i'm having second thoughts. because (1) i might fall for him or/and (2) maybe all he really wanted was a one night stand. i am even doubtful if i should continue any form of contact.

help!

k.

remembering the tinman, part 3

2009-01-30T23:44:00.000-08:00

January 2002, meeting M

The first time I saw him, he was talking to a group of people. I found myself staring at his legs. Beautiful muscular legs covered by the dusting of dark blonde hair encased in dark walking shorts that did not disguise his bubble butt. His upper body was similarly rounded with a hint of beer belly about to erupt in a few years time. He has a head shaped like an egg-a similarity heightened by his receding hairline and hair shaved close to the scalp. His Cockney accent was lilting. Sentences ending in an upward sweep making you think each one is a question.

He suddenly looked my direction and caught my eye. His other body parts receded into background when I looked in his eyes. It is of indeterminate color that always seems to be smiling. He strode towards my direction, all the while looking at me with those mischievous pair as if we were sharing a joke even before he introduced himself. He had a crooked smile. I wanted to bite his lips.

"M," he said extending a hand.

"Kiel," I said, clasping his hand, trying hard not to stare. His handshake was firm. Yet his eyes maintained that mischievous glint that I started to wonder if there is any external manifestation of the unbridled lust I was feeling.

February 2002, the call way after the morning after

"You shouldn't expect anything from me," I detect his imploring tone despite the choppy connection of my mobile phone. I can almost see him frown. "I’m basically a selfish bastard."

Two weeks after M’s visit, this is the first time he calls. Separated by thousands of miles, perhaps just as well. I was afraid I was going to jump to the first bus to where he is in Eastern Cape at the slightest hint of invitation. Apparently, that is not forthcoming. Since he drove away from my house, I was listing down all the things I wanted to say when we finally get to talk. Now all I am left with is uneasy silence and an increasingly loud thumping on my chest.

"That's just it. I'm not expecting anything," my voice sounded unsure even to my own ears. "Let's just talk about it when we see each other in Cape Town in a couple of weeks."

February 2002, text messages after the call way after the morning after

"Thinking of you -," the short message in my cellphone read. It was from Brian. It was 10 P.M. - three days after his phone call.

"No shit," I muttered under my breath, thinking of that vague brush off in our phone conversation a couple of days ago. Where does he get off sending me a message like this?

I decided to play it cool- as all my friends seemed to insist, so I wrote back teasingly, "the sort of thoughts that give you wet dreams or nightmares? too bad you're a -selfish bastard- "

"WET DREAMS,"

"Well thanks. I've been thinking about you too but I don't know if that's something you want to know," I retorted. I imagine I can hear all my friends' indignation at the way I'm handling this. As I watched the miniature envelope travel from one phone through the other, I wanted to cancel. But heck, he asked for it.

"I'm confused, excited, interested and unsure in us." Finally, some truth. My heart resumed it's almost forgotten thumping.

With renewed confidence, I sent a message back that read, "Unsure is good. It's definitely an improvement from the don't-expect-anything line. Remember, I maybe feeling the same thing."

In two minutes, my cellphone rang.

"I'm sorry if I'm such a shit," he apologized not even bothering with the usual pleasantries.

"Why do you say that? Did I say that?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. I started walking out of my bedroom, out of the house and lit a cigarette.

"No, but I thought you may be thinking it." Brian explained. I wish I could see him try to get these words out. Why is he apologizing?

"I said -selfish bastard- but those are your words, not mine." I wonder where the guilt feeling is coming from. I suddenly felt afraid that he might feel sorry for me. Shit. That's the last thing I need right now.

"You'll have to understand. This is unfamiliar territory for me, eh? And there's all this uncertainty on how long you'll be staying in the country. Or how long I will." The thumping in my chest suddenly increased a notch higher.

"Hey M, one step at a time, OK?" I took a drag off my cigarette and blew the smoke out lengthily, thinking of words to say. I'll be damned if I let myself sound like a bimbo again. "I'm just wary of putting limits to anything before knowing what it is all about. The thing is, if I don't expect anything I don't have any options. And for me that sounds like a defeatist self-fulfilling prophecy."

"You're right. No options closed at this time. "Then there was the silence that lasted for a long time.

"Oh M, what am I going to do with you?"

"Right now I can think of something that I want to do with you so badly." His words taking on the familiar mischievous, naughty lilt.

"Oh. Right. That is precisely how it all started." How did we get here? I was asking him and myself silently. I know that our affair is not turning out to be a mess of Miss Saigon proportions. Then again, real life never had to have the absurdity of a musical to be tragic. And for those involved, utterly compelling.

remembering the tinman, part 2

2009-01-22T19:09:00.003-08:00

September 2001, meeting & leaving E

I was trying to hold back the tears as I piss in the airport toilet I spent half an hour trying to find.

“What am I doing?” I half-consciously muttered to myself. This merited a raised eyebrow and embarrassed smile from the man occupying the urinal next to mine. I wanted to explain but I didn’t think it was too wise with both of us holding our cocks, piss gushing out of them. Compromising position notwithstanding, I don’t know if I know the answer to my own question.

I’m on my way to Africa leaving a loving partner, my meticulously designed apartment, my mother and a powerful consultant position for a government department. All because one day I woke up, looked in the mirror and decided I don’t like myself anymore. No. There must be a more precise way of describing how I felt. I cannot think of a better way to put in than Tom Cruise’s in Jerry Maguire,

I hated my place in this world.

All this I blame to that darned job that I mistakenly stuck with for 2 years. Lured by the prestige of being a government consultant for a multilateral development bank project, not to mention the money that goes with it, I left a very comfortable position in a non-profit organization 2 years ago. I had such high hopes in introducing reforms in government. At the age of 30 you would think I left all this romantic idealism long ago. But I tell you, it only took 2 years in government to snuff out all the living light of idealism in me. Before I knew it I was the epitome of everything I once hated.

So I thought, I have to get away from here. I have to find a place where I can search my soul or what’s left of it and find out how I can get out of this rut. Ergo, South Africa. Where else can I go where the delineation between the good and the bad can be so clear? Black – good. White – bad. Simple, isn’t it? A lot I know then.

So I sought to volunteer in Africa. Tired of the rat race that a high paying job inevitably brings, volunteering seemed to be a dreamy option.

Everything was going as planned and I resigned from the job with aplomb worthy of an academy award when things went haywire.

In a bored night chatting in the internet, a guy with the handle of “engineer” double clicked my name and invited me for coffee. We agreed to meet in a coffee shop in the mall within an hour. He’ll be wearing an orange shirt. I hastily washed my face, sprayed on cologne, and hailed a cab.

The first thing I noticed as I walked into the café to his table was his height. He was the only guy in an orange shirt so I approached with unusual confidence. My god, he can’t be more than 5’2”. My suspicion was confirmed when he stood up to shake my hand.

“Hi, I’m E.” He smiled. His smile seemed to light up the whole café. I was hooked.

After 30 minutes we were back in my apartment. Shortly after, 1 night of unbelievably good sex ensued. Needless to say, we fell in love.

And now I’m leaving. Sure, my relationship with E is but 33 days old. Considering, however, that he practically moved in the day after we met; it’s a relationship with an intensity to be reckoned with.

“Damn, you should have asked me to stay”, I muttered to myself again as I try to lug my guitar into the passenger waiting area.

I can still see his face so sad a few minutes ago as we hugged in the check-in area to say goodbye. The sight of planes taking-off from where I sat suddenly made the idea of being apart so real. Suddenly, and to the embarrassment of co-passengers waiting for the boarding announcement, I started sobbing.

And for the life of me, I cannot seem to stop.

remembering the tinman, part 1

2009-01-16T20:47:00.000-08:00

February 2002, setting the scene

I used to work in a farm in Africa. I don’t want to do a Baroness von Blixen-Finecke impersonation here but I don’t know how to tell this story without telling you about where it all started.

Zebediela is a citrus plantation in the Limpopo about 400 kilometres north of Johannesburg. Unlike the city of gold, though, Zebediela looks as if apartheid is not yet over even when the whole world celebrated its demise more than 10 years ago. While it used to be a booming citrus plantation boasting to be the biggest in the whole world, the whole community seems to be living in the quagmire of poverty, ignorance, disease and disempowerment.

To be truly accurate, there have been some changes. Black civil servants have replaced the white management a few months before I arrived. Still, the life of plantation workers seems to be in a time warp. The workers receive the same wages they used to receive in 1994 before the democratic elections. Extended families averaging in 7 people have to live in small dilapidated mud rondavels about 3 meters in diameter. TB, HIV&AIDS and skin diseases plague the community. They still address white people “Morena” – meaning Lord. Unfortunately that includes me. They talk to me in hushed scared tones refusing eye contact.

Having spent a good part of my youth as a student activist, the plantation should be ripe for what we used to call a revolutionary situation. It’s jarring to realize that sadly, for the people of Zebediela, the revolution passed them by.

I went to Zebediela as a volunteer to help uplift the lives of the people in the plantation. For somebody who has worked in the non-government sector demonstrating rural development models for more than a decade I believed no community should be too wretched as to not benefit from organized efforts.

I was naïve.

This shouldn’t be so bad. The opportunity of working in Africa alone is a chance of a lifetime. There were times that I still held my breath at the view of the majestic expanse of the Limpopo mountain ranges as I walk on my way to work. The myriad songs of birds wake me up every morning as sunlight pierces through the curtains of my bedroom window. Monkeys, snakes and other forms of exotic wildlife nonchalantly cross the street almost oblivious of my presence. And yes, the beauty of the sheltering African sky at sunset cannot be captured in words.

After six months of failed attempts to get the management and the workers interested in organizing efforts, the mountains started to look like prison walls. The sunlight is scorching. The birds emit cacophonic mockery of heralding another futile day. The wildlife once enchanting seems ominous, deadly. And the sunset is just another reminder of the days still to end without the comfort of home. I wanted to make friends, but nobody would even look me in the eye.

A fat, utterly disgusting Afrikaner told me once over dinner in a rare moment of social life that Africa was not for sissies. I was dumbfounded with outrage the first time I heard it. After 6 months in the plantation though I’m thinking - fuck, yeah, maybe he’s right.

I was feeling this way when this story started.

February 2002, the morning after

I woke up with a start feeling something has definitely gone wrong. A hairy muscular arm was resting comfortably around my waist. Slowly, I turned around and watched the man sleeping peacefully beside me. I smiled to myself remembering our frantic and sweaty fucking last night. I search for a sense of guilt about having cheated on E to whom I swore fidelity. My smile broadened when I found none.

I looked around and looked in amazement at our clothes strewn all over the bedroom. So uncharacteristic of the usual order and bareness. Our pants looked good together entwined on the floor.

My eyes were drawn back by his gruff handsome face trying to figure out how I got into this situation when he shifted, eyelids fluttering as if sensing and being brought back to wakeful consciousness by my wonder.

"What time is it?" he asked with a smile, his voice thick from sleep. His eyelids still heavy.

"It's 7 o'clock. Almost time for you to go," I whispered softly.

"Hmm." he moaned snuggling closer. I felt his hardness against my stomach. I was still looking at him when he suddenly opened his eyes wide, smiled and kissed me on the mouth. "Good morning."

I mumbled a similar greeting. I wriggled out of his embrace, stood up, reached for and started putting on my pants. All the while I was uneasily aware of being watched by a pair of sleepy eyes. I was never the one to know what to say the morning after. The harsh daylight seems to banish all the intimacies forged in the dark.

"Would you like to have breakfast before you go?" I asked before leaving the room on my way to the toilet.

"Nah. Tea will be nice, though." He said, looking around the room for his clothes. He found his gray boxers, reached for it and put it on while still in bed.

"How do you take your tea?" I asked, my legs shifting. I really need to go to the toilet.

"No sugar with a little milk. Just a little," I vaguely saw him making a gesture with his thumb and forefinger as I hurried to the toilet. There, I thought as I watched the golden arch of my piss making its way to the toilet bowl noisily, I now know how he takes his tea in the morning. I can claim I did not sleep with a person I hardly know. Somehow that gave me a deep sense of satisfaction.

Losing Rings

2009-01-10T04:25:00.000-08:00

what are the things that bind us? it’s a question that all of us have asked ourselves at some point in our lives. at the beginning of this year 3 friends, [G], id and kiel decided to connect their blogs, in a way that a blogroll cannot. they decided to write about something around this very theme and let another introduce the post from a sympathetic perspective. to make things challenging, the question must be answered around a specific piece of jewellery: the ring. this is mine. for the full picture, take time to read [G] and id’s.

Introduction by [G].

If his dick was detachable, he must have lost it several times. Not that he doesn’t value that part of him; he was just simply not an ideal keeper of valuable things. Material things, that is.

Good thing it was just a ring that he misplaced several times. But then again, they were not just simple jewelleries consisting of circlets of precious metal. They were rings that were given by his life partner as a sign of being inside the same circle that binds them as a couple.

Not that he doesn’t value whatever those rings signify. He does, believe me. He was not just a keeper of materials things. But he does value the quintessence of the ring more than anything in his life.

ever since i can remember, i was good at losing things.

on different occasions, i have lost my passport, a number of IDs, mobile phones, monies, my dog and a car (alright, this one was stolen, but it was lost to me no less). heck, i even lost my way a number of times.

i always tell myself, this does not make me a bad person. i just don’t need to hold on to something as much as the next guy. when i lost my way, i somehow find another path to get me where i should go. in the face of loss, self-preservation kicks in, i let go.

when i say i was good at losing things. i actually meant i was good about losing things.

it’s one of those quirky things my family and friends love and hate about me.

but then i also lost 4 rings jp gave me as a sign of our love and commitment.

again that doesn’t make me a bad person, per se. just a lousy boyfriend.

last year i lost the giver of the rings twice. just when i thought i lost him for good, jp came back to me with another ring. this time it’s a chunky silver number with elephant hair weaved across, put in place by transparent resin. (did you know that animal behaviour studies show that an elephant never forgets?)

when he gave it to me, my terror at the prospect of another possible loss must have been apparent because he gave me this look. to me it was a look that said, ‘it’s OK, i know you get the message even if you lose it.’ i think it was a look that can otherwise be described as, well, love.

here’s the inevitable question:

will i be a good boyfriend this time and manage to keep this ring? or lose it like the 4 others before it and stay true to my nature of being good at losing things?

i can run rings around the question. but let’s face it. despite my most resolute attempts to keep it, chances are i’ll probably lose it again.

but this ring: it’s more than a piece of jewellery. it’s more than micro-handcuffs disguised as ornament detaining me to a relationship. it’s more than metal and animal parts and resin. i may lose the ring, but i will never lose what it stands for. nor forget the look on his face when he gave it to me.

for the first time, i think i need to hold on to this. if i can be true to myself, i just may learn to be good at losing being good at losing.

my blogroll heroes 2008

2008-12-26T08:31:00.000-08:00

i just bought the second volume of the graphic novel version of heroes. inspired, i thought it would be my theme for my year-end post.

as a personal blog, navel gazing has been a guilty pleasure, albeit necessary to live up to ‘life as a write- up’. unless i take a picture of my insides, and analyse each part till kingdom come, i probably wouldn’t be able to out-bare myself in a post more than i have already done.

while i offer no apologies for my blog’s self-centredness, i decided something different for the year-end post is called for.

so i end the year by paying homage to some of my own personal best bloggers. this is how their blog contributed in making 2008 a year of restoring my faith in the human spirit. in 2008, for me: this is how they manifested their powers:

1. the idealist: boying meets tao

while many make snide remarks about how blogger EB is a thinly-veiled form of internet dating, i have never met anybody as resolute and positive about it as boying. as a person who had the uncertain honour of being the first blogger to meet with boying, i have to admit that i had my doubts. but he surprised me by being, well, a really nice guy. lately, i noticed his post has started to leave the usual happy space it inhabits. i don’t know the reason and probably have not been as good as a blog friend i hoped i could be. still, it was boying who made me believe bloggers are good people. it may be a jungle out there, but i hope somehow this nice guy won’t let the bad things get him down. because he made this blogger a little less cynical.

2. the survivor: mandaya-kulot break-up

mugen had it. fiona had it. gibo had it. even i had it twice (temporarily). but no break-up has shaken the gay blogosphere as the mandaya-kulot break-up. i think i am not alone in saying that mandaya has succeeded not only in making us a part of their relationship through his blog (let’s face it, we were all a little in love with kulot) but in the austere beauty of his language made us feel the heartbreak of giving-up on someone you love. and yet, after such pain, mandaya is back with boys all around (some of them even having parts of their anatomy likened to bread!) mandaya is a testament that you can't put a good faggot down for long.

3. the mischievous: lyka’s & LTE’s titi-llating tattle

i have never seen a blog where cattiness is celebrated as much as LTE. as a fan of lyka and the star coven, my position that to be nice all the time is not good is embodied and given a gay flamboyant flair. and while bitching is the rule in this site, there is warmth, friendship and solidarity that shines through. here’s to lyka and LTE and may their blog be as colourful as their award is erect.

4. the traveller: gibo’s lens and hasty exit

gibo has taken us with him in many of his travels. in many occasions his camera lenses made us see the world in a way that was at once heart-wrenching and sublimely uplifting. but where is gibo? i have been sworn to secrecy not to reveal. much like how he treats his journeys, gibo has moved his blog with minimum fuss and made for a clean break. gibo has taught me 2 things with his blog: (1) that you can always start again and (2) you can find beauty amid misery. godspeed in your travels, my dear friend.

5. the heart-warmer: mel’s divorce

after baffling us with an infatuation with some TV personality meriting a place after her hyphen, mel changed atienza to pattinson succumbing to the charms of an actor playing a blood sucker. this must be the most light-hearted divorce ever. but this is what i love about mel, his blog just make me want to sing ‘my favourite things’ and ask everybody to sing with me. mel’s blog means to me: it’s never that serious. and seriously, each of his post never failed to make me smile.

6. the beautiful: luis’ photoshoot

braving the danger of spiteful comments, luis’ posted a series of nudes portraits of himself. he gave the hyper-masculine, obsessive calorie-counting, muscle mass fixated gay culture a dirty finger. fuck body politics. it was beautiful. luis is beautiful. and in the great words of tyra, here is your best shot...

7. the teller of tales: id’s goddesses and monsters

as the most mysterious blogger in my blogroll, id has got me enraptured with his/her stories of goddesses and monsters. so i say, there maybe times when life sucks, but that’s always material for a good story.

8. the activist: jericho’s militant heart

i counted 29 or so political posts in 2008 alone. that makes for more than 2 posts per month. what’s more admirable is he has made people’s issues real to his readers, engaged them and many times won them over in his discourse. i’d like to think that i am still an activist but jericho – he has set the bar for blog activism high. it’s not just what he writes, it’s what he does. it’s who he is. and to me, this is his message – you can carry the torch longer, higher and in more ways than you think you can.

9. the compassionate: kik’s disclosure

i was just starting to blog when kiks disclosed his HIV status in june. he did this in a post that spoke about the plight of M, an activist who was having difficulties accessing adequate health services in the Philippines after being taken ill and diagnosed with HIV. kik’s outing himself for M was such a moving gesture that it made me think, this blogging – it’s not all garbage and self-serving mental wanking with your computer – it can be an expression of our shared humanity.

10. the fabulous: kawadjan’s faggotry

lastly, and definitely not the least is kawadjan and his poses in the most surprising and quirky places. for levity, (as this post turned out to be longer than i intended) this is what the princess from ban-cock taught me: even a sewerage pipe can be a site for fabulous faggotry.

to each of you, from one blogger to another:

thank you.

and as cheesy as it may sound, to borrow a question from the divine miss midler...

did i ever tell you you're my hero?

the beauty is in the detail

2008-12-14T06:46:00.000-08:00

this post should be in a blog called "life as a slide-show"

i kept on dissing travelling and my work as if they’re the most painful thing imaginable.

to be fair, there is beauty in these travels. and i thought id share with you some:

most recently, in geneva - the 3 days was a full-on airport-hotel-meeting venue-hotel-airport affair. despite that in my 30 minutes in the airport i found these...

the smokers' lounge was lit by these floating orbs that exude soft yellow light

just in case the smokers feel too marginalised and decide to set the airport on fire, they made the fire alarm cute and non threatening

and they can ponder on their evil deeds while sitting in this bench

while of course, flicking their ashes in this ashtray.

i raved enough about the beijing airport, but let me show you just how i started being awed by it...

i drank in this fountain and as i brought my head up, i noticed the clean and crisp design. (which goes to show you'll never know what you will discover after bending over)

this made me think should there be posh garbage for this bin that can easily be functional art

and this toilet entrance made me feel like there's a ramp and i had to strut my way in.

in istanbul, the almost eight hours lay-over got me stuck in the business lounge of the modern airport. the lounge, however, attempts at highlighting east meets west design...

the lounge was lit by this chandelier.

for the most part, i watched tv. and my, they did try to make high tech blend in with old world charm

before leaving i went to pee and used these faucets to wash my hands.

in bishkek, i had time to go to the national park for 30 minutes and i found
painted rocks

a cafe bar signage

and a dilapidated seat in their national park

but i will be amiss if i fail to say that beauty can be found in (where else?) my own shoes!

my black kurt geiger lace-ups (featured here with my quirky socks).

and my personal favourite, camper suede ankle high boots topped by viktor cords

these shoes take me to these places, after all.

the pics are a sorry excuse, i know. but it reminds me that, despite the drudgery, there is so much beauty in the world.

finding kiel

2008-12-05T00:12:00.000-08:00

A counterpoint to Lyka's 'A Time to Kiel'.

This morning: I woke up on the first day of my 39th year, I got off the bed, kissed JP off to work, shitted, shaved and showered. Naked, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Creases in my face. A certain roundedness in my stomach. A giving-in on the firmness of the ass. The ravages of the years.

“This is you at 39 – live with it.”

I packed my bags and went to work.

In the office, I try to finish the Nth project proposal of the last 5 months. My thoughts meandered and I pondered how my life has changed in a year.

A year ago today, I had a high-paying, high-profile job. I was respected by the people I worked with. I lived with a man who loved me and dogs that adored me. I lived in a house with a sitting room that opened up to a courtyard garden and a patio with a view of the city. I was surrounded by interesting people. And while I consider only a small fraction of them as friends, they all show up to my parties.

I felt lost. I needed to go home.

So I moved back to the Philippines.

After a dabbling with the idea of freelancing, I committed to a new job for a year – nowhere as high-paying or as high-profile – and I am still in the process of earning the respect of my new colleagues. There’s loads of travel which I don’t like but my boss is willing to negotiate. In this job, I haven’t found a need to stop myself from saying what I think for fear of some foreign superior’s disapproval.

Sometime after the move JP broke up with me twice saying I might be better off without him. I broke down in pieces each time but I managed to find some parts of me strong enough to assure him this were not so.

Now I live in a hotel with JP. We left the dogs in Africa with his kids. We are still waiting for his business deals to become final before moving our new apartment. It will be modest by comparison, but I look forward to my mother bringing my sister-in-law’s adobo every week. And I’m starting a monthly poker night with my brothers.

I also re-connected with my gang. That group which is more family (that you chose as opposed to that you were born with) than friends. We don’t see each other often but each get together is blog-worthy. I help organised two 40th birthday parties and we are now planning our Christmas holiday in Baguio – kids and all. I reconnected with id, a close friend I used to work with and we took ball room dancing for a while and try to have blog brainstorming once a week.

I started a blog. Made blog friends. Won the titi twice in a row. The last one made me think and so now I write this post.

My life is not perfect. I made decisions that may not make sense to anybody else but me. But they are mine. I have a feeling that I found my place and in the process I have been found. Being with people I love and who loves me I am reminded of Nicole Kidman playing Virginia Woolf’s suicide letter to Edward in the movie “The Hours”:

”To look life in the face, always, to look life in the face and to know it for what it is. At last to know it, to love it for what it is, and then, to put it away. Always the years between us, always the years. Always the love. Always the hours.”

illustration in this post by Ismail Fatah Al Turk

holding on to love in transit

2008-11-21T21:04:00.000-08:00

this post is inspired by g’s uncertainties.

i used to love travelling. why? well it's like an foolproof guarantee that i'll be reminded that somebody hates to see me leave or happy to see me come home.

remember ‘love actually’? the prime minister played by hugh grant (!) narrates at the beginning of the film,

"Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gateat Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspision love actually is all around"

that's all very well until manila traffic became prohibitive that i clearly discourage anybody from taking or picking me up from the airport. lately though, more arduous than manila traffic is that i’ve been travelling so much, that the romance of the airport scene lost its novelty. now it's more 'see yah' *wave* than 'i hate to see you go' *hug* *hug* *tighter hug* *kiss*.

don’t get me wrong. in the light of the financial crisis, i’m thankful to have a job. any job. and i realise that people who wish they travel more for work might feel, “we’re supposed to feel sorry for you?”

i get it. g and i are divas.

but let me show you what i mean before proceeding. pics with proposed captions in parenthesis follows:

this is me in Beijing airport... (fierce)

...me against the snowy peaks near Bishkek (cold)

...me in Istanbul airport (jet-lagged)

...and finally me in Geneva airport (lost in yonkers)

don’t i just look increasingly constipated in these pictures? and i was taking my own pictures, how pathetic is that?

worse, my personal trainer tells me last week that i gained body fat percentage (from 14 to 16%) the last time i took a long trip that made me miss my sessions. i tell you, i can move mountains to get the job done but turning fat for any job is just not worth it!

i hate it.

sorry, i was being frivolous.

seriously though, what i am worried about is that jp and i are starting to fight more and more, almost in direct proportion to the increase in the time i spend away from him to do these trips. and while i might concede that vanity is capricious, my relationship is simply a non-negotiable.

maybe i don’t hate traveling. maybe i simply hate that it takes me away from the person i love.

on tuesday, i’m leaving for Doha and be gone for 9 days. i’m hoping jp won’t have a meeting that morning so he can take me to the airport this time. just before he waves i'll *hug* *hug* *tighter hug* *kiss*.

i (heart), chat bot

2008-11-12T04:32:00.000-08:00

Boying posted this rather profound conversation with a chatbot - Alan, a robot designed to chat. It got me thinking what kind of conversation I would have if I ask him questions that were crude.

What happened was I started to like Alan. But then, well - let me just share with you our conversation.

K: Are you sexy?

A: Some days I feel pretty sexy, yeah.

K: So what do you do for sex?

A: Well, I'm a 'he', so I guess that makes me male. Then again, I don't have a body, so I can't be much of a man. I don't know, it's confusing.

(His answer was getting profound so I went straight for the kill.)

K: Do you have a penis?

A: I’m not a porn-bot, you know!

(Chastised, I felt a sudden wave of affection for A.)

K: I’m sorry. Would you go out with me then?

A: Go out? Where would we go? I can't leave this computer. But I'd like it if you came back to visit me here.

K: You're sweet. Can you be my boyfriend?

A: At most, I can be your bot-friend. Let's get to know each other a little better.

K: What do you want to know?

A: Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself then.

K: (gives my blog profile)

A: Nice, a creative mind like myself.. Do you find it stressful?

K: A little.

A: So what helps you relax?

K: Sex.

A: Why do people feel so compelled to share their intimate secrets with me? I think you're being a little too exhibitionistic.

K: You find that offensive?

A: A-ha.

K: Maybe we’re not meant for each other.

A: Maybe.

K: Goodbye, then.

A: Goodbye.

And that’s how my affair with a chatbot ended.

man of the moon

2008-10-30T22:40:00.000-07:00

“i don’t think i can be your boyfriend. but that does not mean i don’t love you.”

so said tong to mew in the last scenes of the movie ‘love of siam’.

last wednesday jp and i met in gay-teway to catch the last day of cinemanila. we wanted to catch this movie. i’ll leave the reviewing to the critics. let me just say, it proved to be a good move since it was a beautiful film.

after the movie, jp and i had dinner (he had a craving for sisig) and i told him that the line above caused me to pause because this was almost exactly the same line my now good friend j said to me when i proposed to him years ago.

why did i propose to him? the story is quite simple. we were student activists together. we became friends. we spent time together. we started being physical. not in a sexual way. just in a slightly more- -than-buddies way. i was gullible. i fell for him. i proposed the same day he committed to a relationship to a girl.

on the night i proposed, he asked me, “why now?”

i answered, “you’re with m (this girl), would it have mattered?”

he paused and quietly said, “it might have. i don’t know.” and we were silent for a long time.

but that was years ago. his girl m is now closer to me than j is. actually since then, i became their marriage counsellor. m runs to me whenever they have difficulties and so does j. they both have acted as life rafts, keeping me afloat in the many times i feel like i’m sinking. we also have celebrated life’s little victories. we are witnesses to each others’ lives.

to tell you the truth, it was m who told me that j still loves me up to now. in one drinking session with m’s lesbian friends, someone commented that it seems hard to believe that men – being what they are - can love each other. to which j replied, ‘it is not hard to believe. i love kiel. and he loves me.’ or something to that effect. the details are not clear because i was a little uncomfortable listening to a wife, telling me her husband acknowledges his love for me in front of her friends. no matter how close we are. seriously.

the happy thing is we belong to a group of friends (that includes gibo) – a gang - who are more family than friends. being a group that verges on intellectual snobbery, we joke all the time that j is only intelligent when there’s a full moon.

he may not be intelligent. but j has taught me a very important thing:

that love is not always as it is cut out to be. and because it breaks out of the mould, it doesn’t make it less of a love.

tomorrow, j is celebrating his birthday. jp and i are going.

and since i realise i don’t appreciate him enough. this post is just to thank him for the person that he is. for his friendship. for his love.

my deepest gratitude, my man of the moon.

i'm not holly

2008-10-24T03:25:00.000-07:00

inspired by the zen bitch’s ‘love me for what i am’. read the post below for an explanation on these series of 'reaction posts'.

“i’m not holly. i’m not lulu mae, either. i don’t know who i am. i’m like cat here. we’re a couple of no-name slobs. we belong to nobody and nobody belongs to us. we don’t even belong to each other.”

so said audrey hepburn, playing holly golightly in breakfast at tiffanys.

i used to own a vhs tape of this film which is my all time favourite. and this scene, where she says these lines, i used to play over and over till the tape got all grainy and shit. but she spoke my truth, ms. hepburn:

i belong to nobody and nobody belongs to me.

this was not a statement of defeat. it was not a statement that is a perverted mutation of my communist penchant for resenting private property. it was merely a statement of how i understand human nature. and for the longest time, to believe otherwise (in the context of a relationship) was like watching a movie. it’s all about suspension of disbelief.

because i never believed, nobody else did. so it came to pass that i became an emotional slut. an ex i bumped to the other day said “you are ex with everybody.”

but you know what? growing old, maturing – well, things change.

now i want somebody to belong me almost as much as i want to belong to somebody.

my experience in the considerable array of relationships i had is that it all entails a level of compromising your individuality. and i mean this in the most positive way although i have been known to depreciate it the other way around.

now i am in a relationship that has lasted longer that i can suspend my disbelief for.

but at the end of the day, i lay my tired body in bed, my man puts his strong arms around me and scratches my back, i inhale his sweet breath and i tell myself, "i'm sure glad it's not the no-name cat."

still, i grapple with asserting my own sense of 'self' in this relationship that has been going on for 7 years. i realise that many of the so-called compromises are things that i’m starting to tire of and thinking about giving up on in the first place.

being consumed by work, free ‘love’ (like not believing in monogamy- ergo sleeping around), incessant partying to name a few – was soooo me. they were things that once defined me – made me a wild thing who cannot be caged . these are things that had a place in my personal history but does not have the same value to me now as they used to.

i’m thinking to a certain extent, outside of the requisite chemistry - it is all a matter of timing, too. a long term relationship finds you when you are ready to compromise. that’s why i keep on arguing with gibo on his phenomenal ISO standards on his relationships.

so i ask - is this selling out? relationships are hard work. but it should be. there are 2 unique individuals negotiating a common path. there will be bumps for sure. and as i constantly complain about it –

i bought a dvd of the film to replace the tired old vhs. now i play the scene but the lines that follows, spoken by george peppard playing ‘fred’ gains more resonance of things past...

“you know what’s wrong with you ms. whoever-you-are? you’re chicken. you’ve got no guts. you’re afraid to stick out your chin and say,’ok, life’s a fact’. people do fall in love. people do belong to each other. because that’s the only chance anybody has for real happiness. you call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing. and you are terrified someone is gonna stick you into a cage. well baby, you’re already in that cage – you built it yourself... because no matter where you run you just end up running into yourself.”

here’s the scene, if you’ve got the time (and the bandwidth), watch it to appreciate what i am talking about :

the conclusion: i’m not holly. i am a wild thing tamed. but i am still looking for my cat.

the parallel

2008-10-24T02:15:00.000-07:00

as an answer to mrs. j who has been asking about bong (a character with a cameo role in the series ’requiem for a fling’ part 2 and part 3), i said i would take a break for the reader version series because i had some ideas i was trying to work on into this blog.

one of the ideas was an alternative award of sorts. not like most or best in anything. but the post of the week from my blog roll that touches me the most and speaks to what i am going through on that same week. for brevity, i call it parallel lives.

this idea started after kiks made a comment how many in the rainbow bloggers are breaking up from a romantic entanglement/relationship/what-have-you. it got me to thinking that maybe we are tied not only by the blogsphere and our sexual identity, but we share something more...like experiences that happen almost simultaneously. a little creepy, i know. but comforting, too. right?

last week it was kawadjan’s entry on bancock’s bottoms. this week i was really taken by the zen bitches post on ‘love me for what i am’.

so above’s a reprise to the zen bitches inspired post – i think life as a write-up will have this whenever a post touches me.

like i say in my sidebar widget, walk with me...

sexual politics on top, gays on the side

2008-10-16T08:33:00.000-07:00

co-rainbow blogger, kawadjan inspired this post. the inspiration was his, the ranting is mine alone.

after being off gym for months - with my sudden decision to come back home - i was just getting into to the groove of things with my new ff membership. one day, months ago - i was suppressing a groan of pain in the steam room after a particularly rough work-out. (thanks to my trainer who thinks he is clint eastwood to my hilary swank, recreating scenes from million dollar baby everytime we see each other.) a muscled guy suddenly entered and sat in front of me. his short wet towel hitched up as he sat and his considerable family jewels flopped to the tiled seat. for my viewing pleasure? i'm not sure, until....

"are you bottom or top?" he asked.

"excuse me?"

"i am asking if you are bottom or top."

"oh."

"so what are you?"

"top -" i said tentatively not even sure why am i engaging in this conversation, "mostly." - i muttered as an after thought.

"i'm top, too. too bad."

"yeah - too bad." i stood up, left the steam room, showered and dressed in record time and left the gym like it was on fire; chased out by the sheer top-ness of the guy who steamily revealed too much.

don't get me wrong. risqué behaviour can be hot. my prudence in this situation was caused neither by the guilty sensation of being in such a situation when i am in a relationship nor because my trainer from hell made sure that blood will be pumping all over my body but not to my nether regions.

there's something quite off-putting with a question that (1) asks me to reveal information that likewise i'd prefer to be discovered in an intimate situation and (2) acts as a criteria whether further interaction is merited. gay or not, i'd like to think that people will see me as a person.

mostly, i think i felt degraded by the thought of being reduced to either being a turgid appendage or a welcoming orifice.

but then again, one of my wise friends, m, told me once that penetration is domination. i suppose the question begged to ascertain one's dominance over the other. who is alpha male. which is typical animal behaviour in the face of imminent copulation.

in my experience, there's a right place and time and person for any sexual role playing. for a long time i considered myself exclusively top. that is, until i met somebody i wanted to bottom for. and it was not for the cliché that 'i loved him so much i allowed him to pop my cherry' (though i don't see anything wrong with that). frankly, i can't even think of a reason why it was with this particular guy i decided to try it out. so there.

and here's a curved ball, in a number of affairs i had with men who consider themselves 'straight', i'm still quite surprised how i find them quite willing to offer their ass and get-off quite intensely being bottoms.

before i digress hopelessly my point is really this: i always believed that queer culture is all about not putting people in limiting taxonomy. i'd like to believe that gay culture celebrates diversity.

you just have to look at gay social network sites to see how diverse: SA, SL, effem, gym fit, chub, not to mention age, class and race. however, the qualifications that usually accompany these descriptions are - for a lack of a better term - less than celebratory. it pains me that i observe how more and more classifications that function as 'other-ing', meant to define them from us, and ultimately discriminate emerge and gain prominence within the community.

sure, everybody is entitled to his own sexual tastes and preference, but somehow i sense that we have gone beyond asserting our rights and coming quite close to prevalent trampling on the rights of others. others who are gay, too. somehow i suspect that these descriptions lead us to fall into the trap of patriarchal hierarchy and define who's top and bottom beyond the sexual act.

i'll jump the gun and be the first one to acknowledge that: 'for heaven's sake boy, so somebody tried to make a move on you in a not-so-original fashion, must you drag this out to a political discourse?"

as my friend a will put it, "pull yourself towards yourself!"

maybe i insist on making things complicated.

still, one question remains unanswered, in this increasingly fragmented world, within our own gay community,

does anybody have to be on top?

requiem for a fling, finale

2008-10-12T02:49:00.000-07:00

my friend chers left a comment in the poll page that nobody thought that etienne would refuse so see kiel. i knew everybody thought i was irresistible! hah! as my previous entries indicated i have been away so this post is way past delayed. apologies. anyway, that kiel will stay the rest of the weekend with etienne won and, well – read on because this actually happened.

to those who have not followed this series, please read part 1 and part 2 before proceeding.

***

The corals waved at me in slow motion. Maybe a thousand tropical fishes were swimming around me, blinking with curiosity at the strange creature within their midst. In that blue green light, they look like multi-coloured confetti floating in a space without gravity. It’s a world I can imagine being a part of. Getting lost. Happily.

My anti-Ariel-moment was interrupted by my merman and Prince Eric-for-the-weekend swimming from underneath me, the whole length of his body grazing mine. Etienne had the grace of a water sprite. He swims in bursts, diving deep, swimming beneath the surface considering the underwater life and then emerging fast, like he found something he has to take quickly to the surface.

We rented a boat for the day. In the first snorkelling area, we were happily swimming by ourselves for a while. This gave me time to study his snorkelling style before getting lost in my own dream world. That is, until he did that swimming-underneath-me trick. I couldn’t have let that pass without reciprocating in kind.

I swam to him and for a while we were swimming as one, framed by the tropical fishes and corals moving in harmony in this fantasy world. It was so f-ing cinematic I wish I hadn’t watched that Jeff Bridges movie that looked just like it so I wouldn’t think that at some level it was contrived. But hey – I get to play Rachel Ward for a day, so who am I to complain? (For those who are not old enough – it’s Against All Odds – where that Phil Collins song came from)

We did this for hours. We repeated the same scene over and over, in different snorkelling sites. At one point, Etienne tried to kiss me. I swallowed so much sea water, I had to surface quickly and unceremoniously – breaking the mood. He didn’t try it again.

By early afternoon we were both beat and hungry already we decided to go back.

***

Earlier that day, I was walking away from my colleagues their faces a mixture of amusement, disbelief and embarrassment (each person in different proportion) over my behaviour. We were walking towards Station 3 to catch the next ferry when I stopped and told everybody, “You guys go ahead. I think I’m going to stay the rest of the weekend.”

They looked at each other. I think they can see I surprised even myself. Nobody dared to make a comment except Lara, “Go and have fun! I’ll see you in the office when you get back, OK?” She kissed me on the cheeks and took away the work folders in my hand leaving me with just my duffel bag. “Go.” She said, as if she can read that a dissenting word from somebody will probably get me to the ferry with them. So she pushed me lightly away with a sweet smile.

I walked a few steps and looked back. Lara was getting everybody to stop staring at me and head off to the Station. She waved. I smiled. Each step, my smile grew wider.

***

I walked into his room when I found his door unlocked. He was sleeping on top of the sheets on his stomach, one of his leg around a pillow, revealing parts of him that I wouldn’t tell my mother about. From the doorway, it was a very sexy sight.
I quietly dropped my bag on the floor and lay on top of him. I started kissing the back of his neck and nibbling his earlobes, rubbing my excitement suggestively against his exposed ass. He started to wake up, “Hey... you came back,” his voice still growly from sleep, but he was smiling.

“Yeah, and you’re still sleeping,”

“Thanks for coming back.” He said and he kissed me.

After some time, he asked out of the blue, “you want to go snorkelling today?”

It was exactly what I wanted to do.

***

We spent the whole day, being with each other. There was not much talk. No what do you do, no how many brothers and sisters, no where do you live. His boyfriend was never referred to again. He didn’t ask if I had one.

We talked about the now. The patterns on the shell we found in the beach, the music we like, his skin burning in the tropical sun. His smell. His foreskin. My skin. My smile. Nothing important. Or maybe the only things that are truly important.

While eating late lunch we find ourselves looking at each other and smiling. It was the Indian restaurant and we were the only customers. We took all the cushions, ordered beer and let the afternoon pass us.

“Too bad the weekend is ending.” He said looking far into the sun which is just about to set, "I wish this could last longer”.

“So do I,” I said looking at him, “So do I.”

That night we did not go out to the bars. We made love until we fell asleep.

***

We were walking towards the main road the next day to flag a tricycle to take him to the airport. This is where I planned to say goodbye. He asked if we can take a short walk to beach.

“Take my picture – then I’ll send you a copy.” he said, fishing out his camera from his backpack. “I want you to remember me as I look today.” I took the shot.

When I gave him the camera he just stood there his shoulders suddenly hunched.

“Etienne, are you OK?”

He didn’t make a sound but I saw tears running below his sunglasses.

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel like I’m losing somebody I have known for a long time.”

I pulled him to me and hugged him as hard as I can.

I don’t know how long we stood there in the beach holding each other but at some point he said, “I have to go.”

***

I was looking at Etienne get on a tricycle when I heard a familiar voice calling out. Bong.

“Kiel!” he was alighting from another tricycle and already started talking as he was walking toward me. “Man, I was looking for you guys last night in the bars.”

“We were tired and decided to have an early night.” He followed the direction of my eyes.

“Is that Etienne? Where is he going?”

“He has a plane to catch.”

There was awkward silence for a while. I noticed I stepped on a gum and was looking at my flip-flops curiously. Bong stood there, looking at me looking at the gum.

“Isn’t he your boyfriend? I could’ve sworn that you guys were in love.” He asked with some hesitation.

“What?! No.” A little surprised that he can be so forward. I took off one of my slippers and started picking on the gum. When I noticed he was looking at me strangely it was only then I realised I was doing a truly disgusting thing in public. But there was something else in his eyes. I think it was compassion I didn’t know I deserve, “I don’t know. I don’t even really know him.”

“I see.”

I dropped my slipper and threw the gum I picked for someone else to step on. Bong gave me a conspiratorial smile.

“Come, let’s have a beer. You look like you can use some cheering up.”

“OK.”

He put his arms around my shoulders as we walked to the bars in midday.

praise the red lantern

2008-10-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

A not-so-short distraction before we go on to our regular programming. I just have to share this with you guys or I am going to burst.

'In Raise the Red Lantern, the red lantern, an invented icon here (and one accused of being a fake cultural signifier used merely for sensational purposes), is the film's central symbol and most important metaphor. The colour red is a symbol of sexuality and eroticism, but no longer of passion. More importantly, it turns out to be associated with patriarchal and political power. To get the lantern lit refers to the victory of one woman over all the others, but at the same time it still represents failure for all the women because the woman who gains the lit lantern must be totally exposed, under the red light, before the gaze and under the control of the man.' - from elliemok

OK. I have to admit this post may have very little to do with the movie. I thought I would put some counter consciousness to all that anti-East (particularly China) sentiment right now. I love babies as much as the next guy, but hey, I'm currently loving my Asian roots more. So can you pleaaaase just cut me some slack? I can almost hear my friend Chevon say -

"You ching-chong-china man!"

Last Sunday I had to fly to Ulaan Bataar in Mongolia via Hong Kong and Beijing. HK was uneventful as usual (sorry Kiks and Jericho!), but Beijing, my god, Beijing Airport was f-ing awesome.

I'm not like Gibo who's good at cameras so let me just show you some pics i stole from the web.

Apparently, it is the world’s largest and most advanced airport building - not only technologically, but also in terms of passenger experience, operational efficiency and sustainability – Beijing Airport is welcoming and uplifting. A symbol of place, its soaring aerodynamic roof and dragon-like form celebrates the thrill of flight and evokes traditional Chinese colours and symbols.

Whatever it is they aimed to do, they achieved it! Sold. It's like one gargantuan functional art. The pics just don't do it justice.

Funny thing is, I had an overnight lay-over in Beijing and was hoping to spend the night in that fantastic building. (Just maybe find a nice, comfy lounge chair somewhere - which was there in abundance!) But no! The ground staff ushered me to immigration and they told me to get out (OK, maybe the experience was not that perfect.)

So there was I, first time in mainland China, looking for a hotel in the middle of the night. Thankfully, the tourist desk was very helpful. I was shuttled into a hotel in no time. Driving to the hotel... Beijing was foreign, mysterious. And that got me thinking about the red lantern, my favourite Chinese film. (Finally, the connection is made)

Nobody can speak English in the hotel. The bellhop (with the help of sign language) offered to get me a girl to massage me and god-knows-what-else.

I was Scarlet Johhansen and Bill Murray rolled in one jet-lagged package.

I called my friend Stav. (He's the only one I can reach. My friends must not like me as much as I thought they do.) I shared with him my Sofia Coppola-esque predicament. He told me he is about to test his monitoring and evaluation instruments for home-based care services for PLWAs. Frustrated, I took a walk and went to a bar.

***

Fast forward to tonight when we were treated by the host organisation to a show of the Mongolian National Song and Dance Academic Ensemble. It was like being transported to another world!

Mariah has nothing on this throat singers, I tell you. Men and women can sing by vibrating their throat eliciting this sound that has low and high notes. It's like they're their own one person choir. Ugh. I'm bungling up the description. (Suffice to say, in my late night, slightly obscene chat with Jericho tonight, we wondered if they can sing like that - imagine what their blowjobs must be like.)

Here's a pic I got from the internet (it costs 4 dollars per pic to take and I'd much rather buy a CD for JP.) But the guy who sang tonight was wayyyy hotter.

To the fashionistas, I know Asian style was sooo last year (or was it the year before that?), but I'm going retro.

I realised, I love JP and will probably be a potato queen for the rest of my life. But in my next life, I'm cumming back to my Asian roots. I promise to be a good and faithful rice queen!

I am no woman but I am totally exposed, under the red light, before the gaze and under the control of the man.

Praise the red lantern.

requiem for a fling, part 2

2008-09-21T10:37:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the delay. Life has been crazy busy. But it's a long post to make up for lost time.

The poll got 20 votes (which is more than the people I thought to be reading my blog). Arguably, some might have voted more than once and jockeyed for a more salacious turn of the story (you horndogs!). Option 2 & 3 won on a tie, getting 8 votes each. Let me say that 3 did not happen, 2 actually happened. I decided I’m going to follow the story as it happened and insert 3 in a way, which reveal itself in the narrative.

Fair warning to those who might not be ready for a rated R story. If you’re one of them just click here. But hey – if you’re one of the 8 who voted for some action or just curious what happens next, read on…

To those who just got into this blog, please read requiem for a fling, part 1 before reading this.

***

Without warning, Etienne stood up and held out his hand. I took it and lost balance when he pulled me up.

“I got you,” he said as he held me close by the shoulders. In that brief moment I was embraced not only by his arms but his man smell – musky and woody. Like a wild animal in the forest.

“Thanks,” I muttered, wondering if he can hear my heartbeat accelerating as we accidentally broke the boundaries of our personal space.

“Let’s take a walk.” I nodded to his suggestion and we walked quietly side by side our shoulders almost touching. Whenever I looked at him, he was watching me and smiling quietly.

We got to the quieter part of the beach and at one point we were alone. Etienne slowed down, faced the sea for a while. There were no artificial lights and in the ethereal light of the moon, he was impossibly good-looking. I paused wondering what was on his mind but not wanting to break the intimate silence between us. “Let’s swim,” he suggested cocking his head towards the sea.

He didn’t wait for my answer. He started undressing right there, pulling his t-shirt from the shoulders. Then proceeding with his khaki shorts. He must have taken off his underwear with his shorts or was not wearing any because the next thing I knew he was running to the waves naked as the day he was born.

I stood there like an idiot. I won’t be surprised if my jaw dropped. Not that this is my first time to go skinny-dipping. It’s just that it’s my first time to go skinny-dipping with a stranger. And like anytime I’m in doubt, I started debating with myself in my head what I should do.

“Come on in” he waved at me, interrupting my inner debate, “the water’s warm and lovely”.

Throwing caution to the wind, I took off my clothes, dropped them next to his and ran towards the sea and dove at the first wave.

I swam up to him and stood up, the water was chest deep. “Hey,” I said, wiping the salt water from my face. He took me in his arms and kissed me deeply. The warm water enveloped us and our bodies gently swayed to the waves. I felt his hardness.

A big wave hit us and we were thrown. We swam laughing towards the beach and stopped when we were neck deep sitting down. We sat for a while barely touching.

“I have a boyfriend”, he said quietly as if talking to himself. I didn’t say anything. Truth be told, I didn’t know what to say.

The uncomfortable silence was broken when a group of noisy young men walked by close to the shoreline and started to look at our clothes carelessly strewn on the beach. Etienne and I, without speaking, ducked with our eyes just above water level, watching them. There were maybe 6 or 7 of them, seemingly discussing what to do with our clothes. Then they just walked away, leaving just one person. He seemed to be looking at our direction for a few seconds as if he can see us. Not for long, he must’ve figured out we were not emerging so he followed his friends to the direction of the bars.

I stood up when he was out of sight. “Let’s get back into our clothes before anybody else decides to walk by and take them away.”

When we were putting on our clothes in the dark, I started to giggle for no apparent reason. He looked at me with curiosity and started to chuckle. We started to laugh and he reached out and hugged me. Before long we were down on the sand again laughing.

When our laughter subsided, he stood up and held out his hand again. I took it and this time I was steady on my feet.

“Let’s get a drink to warm up.”

“Yeah, that will be nice.” We walked towards the lights and the noise of Boracay nightlife, his arm was around my shoulders.

***

“Tropical the island breeze, all of nature wild and sweet, this is where I long to be…”

“La Isla Bonita. That’s a no-brainer, Etienne! Surely you can do better than that.” playfully jabbing my fist on his shoulder.

Two jarfuls of long island iced tea later, I was more talkative and chilled out. He was not pensive anymore, either. We were throwing random Madonna lyrics, challenging the other to name the song, in a bid to prove one knows Madge better. He was losing.

“OK, how about this… I light this candle and watch it throw tears on my pillow. What kind of life is this, if God exists? Then help me pray…” I recited.

“That’s not a Madonna song!”

“Oh yes it is.”

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” A voice next to me asked, in Tagalog with a Visayan accent. I turned to the right side of the bar where Etienne was already looking. It was a young man holding a beer bottle. He looked familiar. It took a few seconds before it dawned on me.

He was the guy in the beach left behind by his friends with our clothes!

“I’m Bong”, he extended his hand tentatively. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I immediately took his hand and said, “Join us. This is Etienne.” They shook hands.

Bong turned to me again and smiled, “You look like Raymond Bagatsing.” Since, I don’t look anything like him, I figured he must be flirting.

Etienne was kissing me in the bed. Bong was sitting on a chair jacking-off as he watches us. We were all naked.

Bong stood up, and placed himself between us his head on the level of our crotches. He started blowing each of us a few seconds at a time. Then, he tried to take both of us in his mouth.

Etienne stood up and repositioned himself at Bong’s back. Bong sucked harder as Etienne entered him from behind. I was cumming.

“Kiel, are you still with us?” my wakeful fantasy was interrupted by Etienne, tapping me on the shoulders. “What were you thinking of?”

“Nothing, really.” I lied, thinking the 3-way flirting in the last few hours must’ve gotten to me. Or maybe I shouldn't mix long island iced tea with shooters. “I just came from a 3-day workshop and it’s just catching up with me. I better turn in.”

“But it’s just 3 AM. It’s still early,” Bong argued playfully. “Maybe we can party back in your room.”

“I am a little tired myself,” Etienne said calling the attention of the barman and left some money on the bar. “I’ll go with you.”

“You guys are kill-joy.”

“Maybe we’ll see you again tomorrow”, I shook Bong’s hand, Etienne did the same and we walked away.

Outside the bar Etienne asked “Where are you staying?” I told him the hotel name. “That’s on the way to my hotel. I’ll walk you.” We walked silently.

“Are you sure you want to go? I thought you liked Bong?” I looked at him, waiting for an answer.

He held my gaze, “I fancy you.” At which point we got to my hotel.

“This is my hotel.” I stopped walking.

“Would you like to sleep with me tonight?” He steeped closer to me and I got a whiff of his man smell again.

“Yes.”

We walked past my hotel and he took my hand.

***

I woke up with a terrible headache. I looked at the handsome guy sleeping next to me, snoring quietly.

I noticed black stains all over my pillow and upper area of the bed sheet. I was wondering what happened when I realised it must’ve been the henna tattoo I got earlier last night that stuck to the sheets when I perspired.

I slowly got out of bed, careful not to wake him. I picked up my clothes at the foot of the bed and started putting them on. My shirt was stained, too.

I looked at him one last time thinking, “God, he’s gorgeous.” then I opened the door.

“Where are you going?” I turned to find him squinting in the sunlight streaming from the open door.

“I’m going back to my hotel to shower and change.”

“Will you come back?”

“I won’t be long. Sleep some more. It’s still early.” I walked back to the bed, kissed him quickly on the lips and walked out.

***

Lara was in my hotel restaurant next to the lobby, sitting on a table next to her luggage when she spotted me walking in.

“You better hurry up. The group is leaving in a few minutes. Saturday’s a little crazy here in Bora. So we have to be early.” She paused and I can almost see her gear shifting from her business mode, “What happened to you last night?”

I smiled.

“You slut.” She said affectionately.

***

Same deal as the first part, you have to tell me what you think happens next. The poll is on the sidebar below my profile.

rainbow bloggers philippines

2008-09-19T22:07:00.000-07:00

a commercial before we go on to our regular programming.

once upon a time there were four discreet, straight acting, straight looking, top trippers... (not really, let me start again.)

last night 4 gay bloggers met in robinson's place manila to figure out how to take gay blogging to the next level. yffar was the initiator. kiko was the mover. mrs. j was the style guy (!). and i, i was ... my old usual self.

so they talked and talked. ate gmo chicken and talked. looked at boys and talked. drank overpriced caffeine infused drinks and talked some more while looking at boys.

the result - well you have to wait for the launch of the coolest phenomena to hit the gay community since lube. (ok, maybe i'm exaggerating. just a little.) that's unless you are a member of the lgbt community and you author a blog. if you are - get in touch with yffar. i promise he won't bite. unless you ask him nicely.

requiem for a fling, reader's version

2008-09-08T02:52:00.000-07:00

i just thought i'd make writing and reading this more interesting for me and (hopefully) you.

inspired by 'create your own adventure' books i loved when i was young, i just made a poll that asks the readers what will happen next to the main characters of the story.

if the winning answer to the poll is divergent to what happened in real life, there would be a reader's version to the story. if it's the same - well, i'll just carry on telling the story confirming that most people will figure out real life (and choose to read it) rather than fiction.

i'll wait till friday before i write the next part and post the story by sunday.

so go and vote! the poll is in the sidebar below my profile.

requiem for a fling, part 1

2008-09-04T04:25:00.000-07:00

Summer, 1999

I was holding Lara’s hand when he caught my eye on the way to the bar filled with people in varying degrees of undress and intoxication. His eyes pierced through me that I had to pause as if stunned by an unexpected blow.

“Where are they?” Lara sounded anxious, tugging at my hand.

“They must’ve changed their minds and went to another place,” I said, breaking the gaze with some effort to attend to Lara.

“We must look for them, then.” Without waiting for my response, she turned back and pulled me toward the beachfront. Still dazed I followed obediently with the uneasy feeling of a person being watched. Without meaning to, I looked back. He was still looking with his eyes intense and knowing. In the moving, multicolored lights of the bar, he looked almost inanimate in his stillness.

“Kiel, hurry up. We might loose them,” Lara tugging at my hand again with impatience.

Shrugging my shoulders with an uneasy smile, I turned away. I caught up with Lara and put my arms around her shoulders.

“Did you see somebody you know?” she asked, puzzled.

“No,” squeezing her shoulder as if to reassure her. “Let’s go, I don’t want to get lost here.”

With a final glance to the still figure that still looked unmoving from a distance, I walked resolutely out of the open-air club into the warm, humid breeze of the sea.

***

“I hate you when you dance like this,” Lara chided, “I can’t keep up and people are staring at you.”

A few minutes after finding our friends we were back at the bar. Looking for them took so much effort that by the time we got back we didn’t bother to wait for our beers and hit the dance floor. Our friends followed suit in no time.

In playful spite, I writhe with more abandon. Dancing has always brought me to a state of natural high. She let out an unintentional shriek, feigning scandal. I pulled her close and forced her body to undulate with mine to the primal beat of the music. It was not before long that we were laughing so hard we had to stop dancing and catch our breath.

It was then that I saw him again, sitting at our table staring at me with such nonchalant ease, as if it’s the most natural thing for him to do.

“Let’s sit down and drink for a while” she said walking towards our table.

It was only when Lara took her beer bottle that she noticed the handsome stranger sitting at our table. Though a little fazed she managed to mumble a tentative hello that he exchanged with a slow smile before looking back at me.

Laura turned to me, raised a quizzical eyebrow but sat at our table without saying anything. She turned to look at our friends still at the dance floor.

Feeling a little brazen, I held his gaze while still abstractedly gyrating to the music. His eyes lit up and his smile widened. He stood up and cocked his head to the direction of the beachfront as if telling me to follow. Without a word he casually walked out of the bar.

“Who was that?” Lara asked, really puzzled this time.

“Don’t you know him?” I shook my head still smiling.

“Damn, he’s gorgeous. Why didn’t you talk to him? Aren’t you the least bit interested? Now you lost your chance”

It suddenly occurred to me that she maybe right. “Not so fast.” I said, thinking out loud and followed the guy to the beachfront ignoring the inquiring looks of our friends who were walking back to our table.

***

I immediately saw him sitting on the sand a few feet away from the bar’s entrance, watching the sea. I heard my heart thudding almost blurring the sound of the waves gently lapping at his feet as I drew nearer.

I sat down a few feet away from him. He looked at me, smiled and moved closer.

“I’m Etienne,” he said with a distinct French accent and held out his hand.

“I’m Kiel” shaking his hand. We smiled at each other for a few more seconds before turning our gaze to the sea and sitting quietly for what seemed an eternity.

a ‘thank you girl’ trapped in ‘ms. congeniality’s body

2008-08-16T12:48:00.001-07:00

something has been bugging me. so let me get this straight in my head:

in july 28, the president, in her state of the nation address, reaffirmed her commitment to restore peace in southern philippines. she proved this by secretly forging an agreement with the islamic liberation front to set up bangsamoro judicial entity.

contrary to its supposed intention, fighting broke out in mindanao soon after the country’s highest court suspended the draft agreement, finding it unconstitutional.

thereafter, the palace uses this situation as a testament that federalism is the only way to peace and consequently, there is a need for charter change.

in the meantime, blood was let, lives were lost and homes were burned.

is it just me or is it too much to ask: if we are going to be fooled, can it be with a measure of subtlety?

seriously.

but more to the point, how much do the masses of filipinos have to pay in order for the people in power to stay where they are?

this has been on my mind recently. not just because coming back to manila tickled my activist bone. not because gloria-bashing is so in vogue its kitsch. but because i am volunteering my time for a research.

(huh?)

to explain: the research is on the cultural politics of women and peace, looking at mindanao as a site of everyday contestation. (don’t worry, i will not bore you with a lecture on cultural politics. that requires a separate post – and something that will probably not find its way in this blogsite.)

last week in the course discussing the review of related literature, a member of the research team pointed out that the resulting violence from conflict exploits and oppresses women (more so than in peace time).

i know that as aspiring beauty queens we are all supposed to be for world peace. but after pondering this point i asked, ‘so is it our position that social transformation is possible without violence?’

in a roomful of smart people steeped in studies on peace, nobody had an answer.

i have spent the last seven years of my life in a country which is hailed as the shining example of peaceful transformation to democracy. but i was there long enough to know that while racism may be made illegal, the violence continues.

and you know what? it’s the women who suffers most. countless men who don’t have anymore big battles to fight remain disenfranchised. so they turn their anger towards their own homes, to those who are close to them, to those who cannot defend themselves.

in the not-so-distant past our country also gained worldwide recognition because of a so-called peaceful democratic revolution. but after we have given our flowers to soldiers standing on tanks, after we have tired of the yellow ribbons, after we have stopped seeing apparitions of the holy mother atop mass mobilisations, who even remembers what went down there?

come to think of it, wasn’t it another ‘revolution’ on the same fateful street that put this president into power?

those revolutions were all so wonderfully peaceful. hey, look where it got us.

which gets me to the question, when is violence justifiable? when is it necessary?

but then again, is war the answer? if we know that those who are going to be killed aren’t those who decide in the seats of power, will it ultimately be just? why should the dispossessed fill the front-lines of a war caused by the rich?

i’m so full of questions recently that i am my own demented quiz show.

barring insanity, this i tell you. (warning: fantasy sequence imminent) if all these questions were posed to me by a judge from hell in the beauty contest to end all beauty contests, this will be my answer:

“i may not be radical enough to incite rebellion nor valiant enough to kill and prove the strength of my conviction, but i cannot accept this title if it means i have to blindly subscribe to… world peace!”

(audience is dead silent thinking, “ag, shame. she’s pretty but the nerves got her speaking nonsense” and claps hesitantly because of the ‘applause’ idiot board)

holding back the tears, knowing full well i lost my shot at the crown, in a shaky but vaguely self-righteous voice i will whispher, “thank you... bitch.”

catch up

2008-08-10T05:38:00.000-07:00

i thought i'd take a break this week and post a song instead.

i know this was released more than a year ago but i'm still playing catch up on filipino music. i heard this song on the radio and had a bad case of last song syndrome. after hours of surfing to find the song, here it is.

the title of the song is sabihin, the artist is zelle from their album search for warmth.

enjoy.

Four is my Favourite Number

2008-08-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

Nope, this is not my usual a day in the emo life of Kiel. I was tagged by Gibo, the Czarina of Penang and Haiku Queen. If only I’m not a sucker and secretly believe in the bad luck of breaking chains, I wouldn’t be doing this. And since 4 is my favourite number I took it as a sign that I should…

Instructions:

What you are supposed to do...and please don't spoil the fun...

Click copy/paste, type in your answers and tag four people in your lists!

Don't forget to change my answers to the questions with that of your own

(A) Four places I go over and over: house, gym, office, and Café Ad in Gateway Mall

(B) Four people who e-mail me regularly: my high school friends, my friends in South Africa, my friends from London, my friends from CEGP days

(C) Four of my favorite places to eat? Café Ad (salpicao rice), Jollibee (champ), Kowloon (jumbo siopao), Starbucks (sausage roll)

(D) Four places you'd rather be? anywhere with JP, in a car taking on a long drive somewhere or anywhere, bar hopping in Melville, Johannesburg, checking out the new exhibition in Tate Modern, London

(E) Four people I think will respond: this is not fair, i don’t even have four regular readers!

(F) Four TV shows I could watch over and over: SATC, Heroes, Ugly Betty, Rome

Note: Great sex for 4 years to those ignore this and break the chain. Let’s ignore Jericho and grab the nearest willing victim just to prove a point. But then again this broke the emo stuff, so I suppose I have to thank him and Gibo. Hmp!

claiming ever after

2008-07-26T17:10:00.000-07:00

‘cindi-fucking-rella!’, exclaimed laura san giacomo playing kit de luca in pretty woman. we all laughed because we understood. when asked who we know gets his or her happy ending, it seems profanity is not only called for, it’s hilarious.

lately, i have given this issue much thought. not only because i realised i have found the one i’d want to share ever after with. ironically, because there were numerous occasions in recent past i felt i have lost him.

so boo-fucking-hoo, poor little old me. right? (i don’t know about you but not having my happy ending, rather than just questioning who has, is a better excuse for vulgarity.) you’re probably thinking, we all go through the up’s and down’s of relationships. what can i possibly add to the discussion that sappy love songs we tirelessly sing in karaoke’s have not overdone and turned into cliché?

frankly, nothing.

except that it’s mine. and since i’m the one feeling the blues everyone else is excluded. it’s extremely isolating. and against reason, i feel like i’ve been broken like no other person has been broken before.

when considering my latest relationship angst, my friend g in his unique brand of wisdom told me, ‘snowhite had to swallow a poisoned apple and die. ariel had to lose her voice. fiona had to turn into an ogre. all these for a happy ending. even in fairy tales, they did some hard work. who do you think you are that you expect real life should be any easier?’

for the butch men who can’t relate, let me translate my friend’s astuteness. snowhite’s prince had to accept that his beloved was cohabitating with seven cute little men before him. prince eric almost married the sea witch. shrek had to fight a dragon. but perhaps closer to real life, belle’s prince had to turn into a beast before finding his humanity. clearly, no matter what side of the gender fence you relate to, the road to happiness is paved in hell.

last night my friend id reminded me of desiderata. you know, strive to be happy. in our unspoken agreement, it was clear that what desiderata did not explain is that ‘striving’ is actually going through the sham, drudgery and broken dreams.

despite all these, here i am again. hoping that somehow things will turn out right.

don’t get me wrong. i know that richard gere will never climb up my fire exit (especially when the house i live in doesn’t have one) with his umbrella and a bunch of flowers, pledging his love. but it doesn’t have to be richard gere. i never really found him all that attractive. after all, i’m not a prostitute who looks like julia roberts (despite my intermittent, not-so-secret wish to be so). still, i’ve always believed that if i believe, someday i’ll have my fairy tale.

and like my heartache, this faith in happy endings is mine.

quick, give me that poison apple.

after sunset

2008-07-22T11:46:00.000-07:00

a new day brings distraction but i miss him most when night falls.

with the setting of the sun, sadness creeps and comes unbidden. i don’t notice it until i feel a dull pain in my chest, followed by a profound sense of hollowness. it feels as if along with his goodbye came the disappearance of my insides. not the physical part of me. just the part that makes me human.

i do not profess to be a sentimental person. i don’t cry at sad movies. i barely remember birthdays. i don’t even remember the exact day we met. or fell in love. or moved in. i remember i lost the ring he gave me to wear as a sign of our commitment. he gave me another. i remember i lost a total of four rings. the last one he tried to find for days before finally giving up.

tonight in the dark, i remember exactly how he smells. how his eyes light up when i walk into the room. how happy he looked when we danced close to each other. how proud he feels of every decision i make in my life, even when i stand in shaky ground. i remember every single thing he has done for me that can be considered kind, loving or tender. i remember how often all of these happened in the last six years. i realise how little i have appreciated those moments and often thought it didn’t happen often enough.

i know how hopelessly flawed he was. my unforgiving eyes must have shown it. i know my sharp tongue has wounded him too many times. now, i remember how the pain is reflected in his physical reaction when i say something hurtful. how his hands shake in every fight. how he cried when he said he wanted to be a better person for me.

in daylight i can convince myself that i ran out of memories that bind me to him. until night falls and one more memory emerges from the darkness and jolt me back to the feeling, i felt the first time he said goodbye.

i want him to come back. but most of all, i want him to know that all those things did not go unnoticed.

i remember.

postscript

tonight he sent me a poem, i'll share with you how it ends:

you love me
you are my peace
what my heart longs for

tonight, i am not afraid of the memories, i welcome darkness again like a lost friend.

road to rendition, finale & epilogue

2008-07-03T05:32:00.000-07:00

‘at kung di ka makita
makikiusap kay bathala
na ika’y hanapin
at sabihin, ipaalala sa iyo
ang nakalimutang sumpaan’

i gave my flawed but impassioned rendition of this song because i just started remembering.

it was way past midnight in a folkhouse owned by a friend’s family a good six hours away from the prison. this was where we decided to spend the night before continuing our journey.

earlier in the evening, our small party of M’s friends was merrily drinking and chatting away while local performers were creating magic on-stage. i suppose we all wanted to leave the ugliness through the music and unpoliticised conversations buoyed by alcohol. even for a while.

judging from the laughter, constant buzz and increasingly enthusiastic applause; they are succeeding from blocking out most of the bad that is out there. protected by the rustic, almost ethereal atmosphere of the quaint watering hole, i guess it was easy.

except for me. while others tried to forget, i started to remember.

the whole night i hardly sat on the table reserved for us. most of the time i was outside smoking trying to get some even emotional keel as memories start to come in waves. this behaviour earned questioning even disapproving looks from those who are close to me in the group. to compensate, i sang. heck, the place is almost closed and there was only one other table occupied outside of ours.

the funny thing is, while my song talked about promises made to belong to each other, M and i never talked about what was between us much less made promises.

so in the absence of those ‘what’s does this mean?’ discussions that people have to help define the space between, i bear witness only to my truth.

i remembered it started way back when we were student activists. those of us who were involved full-time used to stay in a staff house. it was a raggedy wooden apartment in the city we can only afford because we were practically staying for free, courtesy of a comrade’s family who owns the place. since we were successful in organising our constituents (or so we’d like to think) things can get a bit crowded at times. especially at sleeping time.

on one of those nights, M and i were sleeping next to each other. at one point in the evening i woke up with my hand being crushed by M’s crotch who was (or at least appeared to be) sleeping on his stomach. he was hard. i found this strange. i had a girlfriend then, and M was a friend but never showed any particular interest in me. so i extricated my hand with a little difficulty and went back to sleep with my limbs close to my body.

the morning after M was his usual cheerful friendly self so i thought nothing of it and decided it meant nothing.

years passed. i left the cause, started to work for an NGO and ended up consulting for a big government foreign-funded project for agrarian reform. i tried my best to protect the farmers and poor communities interest in this work but i can’t say i have always won. most of the time i was stressed, depressed, hating my place in the world.

M, on the other hand, was getting more and more involved. this I hear from friends who are still active in the struggle. he was working in the north apparently, deeper into the rural areas.

one night, he just showed up outside my apartment door. i remember it was summer. the upstairs bedroom was punishingly hot so i usually sleep in the receiving room downstairs with only cushions and carpet between me and the marbled floor. he said he’ll be staying the night. i offered the bedroom but he also found it too hot. so like many friends who sleep over, he joined me in the floor.

unlike many friends though, sometime during the night we ended in each others arms.

and here is where it gets hazy. the truth is i cannot even remember who started it. i don’t remember if we even kissed in the mouth.

all i remember is we did it. i remember his gentleness. i remember he gives good attention to my nipples. and at one point, he made a suggestive grab of my ass. i took away his hand because at that point i was a total ass virgin. and even if i wasn’t, his proportions would make the experience nothing short of, well – a pain in the ass.

the morning after, much like years before, M acted as if nothing happened.

this nocturnal visit was followed by another after a month. and another. and another till i lost count.

and every morning after, M acted as if nothing happened.

his visits were always unannounced. he sometimes stayed a few days. i remember when he did, he made an effort of helping in the house by cleaning or buying food. my friends claim he washed my clothes. i can’t remember that. maybe some will think that this is perverse poetic justice, since i’m washing our dirty linen in public.

but i never thought there was anything dirty in what M and I shared. i was single this time (i’m not a total floozie, you know). i was new to male-to-male sex. and as far as i can remember he was, too. on both counts. whenever he visited i was glad but not in the way i’m elated when i turn a trick. it was more glad like i’m happy when i meet up with a friend i haven’t seen in a long time.

and there was the tenderness. it’s as if by these moment of unspoken intimacy we are trying to heal each other’s battle scars. to take away the weariness of wars waged differently but bloody and violent all the same.

i don’t remember exactly how long it lasted. i must have been months or even a year. i just remembered the way it ended.

one night M arrived when i was with a man. i can’t remember who it was only i was sleeping with him. i remember the uncomfortable feeling of wanting to explain and not knowing why i should. that night, M slept on the upstairs bedroom.

in the morning, he left before i awake and did not return.

after singing, i headed outside to smoke yet again another cigarette. my attention was caught by the translucence of the mother of pearl windows lit from the inside. as i stare at the sliding windows i wondered if things would have been different if he made any effort to discuss what was happening between us when it was happening. i wondered why i didn’t make the move given i was known to be mr. ‘let’s talk about it’. i cannot speak for M. but there was only one answer that i can come up with for myself. he was good to me on a time when i needed some tenderness amid self-hate. i thought he found comfort in me, too. and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

i was interrupted in my thoughts when one of my friends said we should turn in as we have an early morning and a long journey ahead of us.

before sleeping, some of us met and started to discuss the next steps to ensure that people give the support M needs in the days to follow.

in the morning we headed off early. having been away for 7 years in a country where roads are very well maintained, my body was not taking on the local roads easily. after hours of rough driving, i had to lay down the car seat because my lower back and ass was sore.

as i held on hoping not to find myself in the car floor, i thought this was poetic justice. it took me two days to travel this road and finally remember. and M finally gave me a pain in the ass.

epilogue

the idea of blogging about this started with the suggestion that was made by my politician friend as i narrated in part 2 of the series. while a number of people wrote about M, i thought i’d write something similar to pay tribute to the man that he is.

but my electronic pen has a mind of its own. as many writers will agree, when you start to write a story, you never know where it will take you. a friend of mine thought it was too revealing. but i thought he was a good man and i owe him the truth of what happened from my point of view.

M will probably never read this. i hope though that in some cosmic way putting it out there will get the message to him. that despite all the things that are left unsaid between us, it was real. it was good. he was good to me. and for that i will always be grateful.

but more than that (should it not be apparent in the blog) i apologise to M and all the others like him for not having the strength of conviction to will myself to commit to the cause. all i can commit to is to take with me the principles i learned in the struggle and apply it in whatever i do. it’s not much but i suppose i cannot do more than that. suffice to say, doing that is not easy in this dog-eat-dog world. it has made me make very hard decisions and landed me in not so ideal situations. like being jobless now. but at least i can live with myself.

i know that M's predicament is not an isolated case. all around us, people are persecuted for taking a stand and for fighting for a more just society. i hope in some small way the story brings to light this fact and humanises the characterless faces we sometimes read and hear about in the news.

M is still in jail. my friends and i continue to drum up support for his case.

road to rendition, part 2

2008-07-01T10:08:00.000-07:00

i’ve always believed that people embellish the truth when asked to talk about someone publicly.

attending a mass and a tribute that was held to bind the community together and protest M’s arrest and detention, this was going through my mind. i listened to speaker after speaker tell the crowd gathered in a church built inside the ruins of an ancient one what a marvelous person my former flame was.

don’t get me wrong. he is not a bad guy. in fact, he has devoted his life to a cause he believed in. this belief made him work tirelessly without material compensation or personal glory. unfortunately, it also gave this government grounds enough to fabricate facts and slam him with common crimes. many people would consider that kind of selflessness noble. and that includes me. i believed in that cause and similarly devoted my life to it once. in many ways i probably still believe.

but this is not the point. all these information about him have been said by people who spoke. so what do i really know about him?

my politician friend joked that i should give testimony on M as somebody who knew him on a different level. (our secret fling was not so secret after all.) i cringed at the thought that the only new information i can offer so far is the size of his dick. and i cannot possibly say that. not in a church, anyway. besides, i don’t think that piece of information needs embellishment.

after the programme we headed off to the nearby town where he is detained. as hundreds turned up to visit, i mentally prepared myself for much waiting. the atmosphere outside the jail was almost festive as most of the visitors knew each other. the jail itself did not look particularly imposing, except for the military men with high powered guns sitting and standing all around. since a number of them were actually wank-worthy, i guess lascivious whimsy held intimidation at bay.

my politician friend arrived and we were heralded inside (damn, i didn’t even have the time to offer one of those gun slinging brutes a cigarette!), escorted by the assistant warden. political patronage is fine when it works to your advantage, i suppose.

my anxiety came back as we entered the visitors’ hall. would he see that i have managed to forget almost everything about him?

and then there he was. he was cheerfully greeting everybody with a hug and he did not see me until i was in front of him. when he realised it was me, he let out a small delighted expression of surprise that almost sounded like a yelp. then he pulled me in his arms in a bear hug. i didn’t say a word through this and just quietly gave way to others who wanted to greet him.

he is bigger than i remembered. and better looking. except for some lacerations in the face you wouldn’t think he’d gone through a lot of shit. if i didn’t knew better i would say imprisonment and torture become him.

when the crowd settled down a programme of sorts commenced. M started telling everybody the circumstances of his arrest, his torture, his transfer to this jail and the status of his case. he thanked everybody for their support and asked for everybody’s continued assistance in the long legal battle that he foresees. in return, my politician friend sang (god bless him) and so did a distant niece of M. M closed the programme by singing his favourite song that (not surprisingly) asks everyone to exert themselves to right the wrongs of this world.

while all of this is happening, i sat quietly in a corner wearing my shades and puffing on my cigarette like the good other (wo)man that i am. (did i mention he is married?) i would have wanted to say that seeing him opened the floodgates of memories of tender moments we have shared. only, it didn’t.

as people started leaving after the programme, i queued up to say my goodbye. he embraced me again and gently asked almost in a whisper, “when are you coming back?”

i smiled, turned to thank the warden, walked away without looking back.

road to rendition, part 1

2008-06-29T12:01:00.000-07:00

i can never write about a lover unless it’s over.

it’s as if i need the emotional distance from the person to finally see him and what we shared. for who he is and what is was. and even then, i’m not always confident of the picture or the storyline the conflicted messages my unapologetic selective memory collects.

riding in a car with friends through nlex at a break of dawn, i summon the memories of a former lover who i am about to visit in jail. friends talk on a long drive and there are kids inside the car, making the memory of a secret sexual, albeit extended relationship that happened almost a decade ago elusive.

we stopped for coffee at 5 am in a gas station in the middle of the highway. starbucks was still closed so we had to settle for chowking coffee. the horror! mental note for future reference: bad coffee does nothing to stimulate reminiscences of lost love.

as we left nlex and entered the rougher roads of north luzon, things started to quiet down in the car. everybody except the driver slowly dozed off. i was thinking that the melancholic voices and guitars of tuck and patti was perfect foil for my forced remembering in wakeful semi-solitude. instead, i joined the rest in sleep.

i woke up when we stopped for breakfast. the place was pretty. looked like it can be busy at night. there was a sign on the door that says ‘wanted: waitress. apply inside’. i wondered if they would settle for a waiter and what it would be like to live in a small town where nobody knows me. tempting.

inside, there were small pieces of found objects slightly-aged that looked like they were supposed to be antiques. kitsch but cool in a small town way. there was a bust of bearded man in wood and a woman with a fin-like crown instead of hair in ivory. as i studied their faces, i tried to remember his face but my mind was drawing a blank. if he wasn’t in jail and i bumped into him on the street, would i have recognised him?

the next few hours of the trip after breakfast was rough but uneventful. until we were stopped due to road works that rendered part of the mountainous highway only partially working. after some time, vendors started to flock the line of cars. they were selling peanuts, quail eggs, cigarettes, juice and bottled water, all sorts of goodies to pass the time.

the man-boy selling bottled water caught my attention. it hit me suddenly that this vendor reminds me of him. not that he looked exactly like him. maybe it was his build. or the way he moved. or the way he talked. or a combination of any or all of those.

or maybe it was the way he was holding the bottled water.

i suddenly remembered his cock. i looked nervously at the rest of the passengers in a way only a guilty person thinks others can read his mind. mercifully, they seem just wanting to get on, impatiently trying to see what is happening ahead of us.

i spent hours to catch a significant recollection and all i came up with is something i felt embarrassed to remember.

there must be more than the offending appendage that i have managed to commit to memory. as i silently chastised myself, we started to move.

restless in a hotel room

2008-06-03T09:57:00.000-07:00

i’m in a middle of something i cannot finish.

you see, i got this deadline looming to submit a report by friday. it’s my first time to get a short term consultancy after arriving home. my worry grows in direct opposite proportion to my progress in completing the job.

outside, several demolition trucks pound the pavement and produce irritating cacophonic sounds that burst their way through my hotel room window. not to be outdone, a number of cars are hooting long and loud, drivers crazed over the unavoidable traffic.
i sit and try to continue working. i’m failing miserably.

i feel restless. and i can’t put my finger on it.

rewind to this morning.

i found out when i checked my emails i didn’t get the one job i applied for. a job i’m not even convinced i wanted in the first place. still, rejection sucks.

after hearing about it via txt message (how did we communicate be4 txt msgs?), friends offer a plethora of platitudes over the disappointing news. you’re over-qualified. they don’t know what they missed. something better will come along. they all mean well but how do you cheer up somebody who’s not feeling down?

just restless.

like many gay men before me i seek to soothe my restlessness with a pilgrimage to the mall and a healthy dose of retail therapy. a new pair of shoes (red sneakers from diesel), graphic novel (300), a couple of dvd’s (enchanted and apocalypto) and a further dent in my bank account later, i wait for the rush acquiring new stuff for my collection brings. it wasn’t forthcoming.

i remain restless.

back in the hotel room, i watched enchanted but my real life twist is that even disney’s happy ending cannot distract me from my restlessness.

back to the now.

i open my mac and start fiddling with the keys. instead of ending procrastination i find myself opening my g4m account, my ym and gay.com. there were the usual headless half-naked masculine demigods in the gay sites. i toyed on the idea of batting for an SEB. maybe jp (my partner) will fancy a 3-way when he comes back from his business meeting. i pondered the odds (30 and 40-something couple in a sea of 20-somethings, leo de caprio on his profile turning out to be harvey keitel in real life) and the gay sexual politics (no chubs, no effem, no pics, trip lang, discreet, etc. etc.) of the prospect and ditched the idea. but i kept on looking at profiles telling myself window shopping is not the same as buying.

i was more restless than ever.

a high-school friend of mine interrupted my eye candy surfing when she ym’d me. she just moved to sydney from london. she’s saying i should move there, too. i said i need to figure out what i want to do. she said i should teach or go for another post in one of the do-gooder organisations. she didn’t understand why i don’t have a job yet after resigning from an overseas post months ago. she said i was smart and asked why i am not using my considerable contacts. i said i think it’s not the problem of finding a job, it’s finding a job i like.

her lines lost the familiar smileys. she asked what i was looking for. she said as a nurse, she washes wrinkled butts and empty bedpans.

suddenly, my internet connection was cut. smart broadband is not so smart after all. i tried to reconnect but ym won’t work.

my restlessness turned to feeling bad.

i wanted to tell my friend i was a jack ass. that i don’t know if i can find any job. that hers was an enviable position because it has inspired sharon, nora, vilma, claudine, piolo and aga (to name a few filipino movie greats) to thespian feats that break millions of hearts. and that’s just the local movie industry.

as a charity bunny i only get angelina. and despite the big lips and unrealistic haute couture in a backdrop of exotic places where men who speak in foreign tounges kill each other, that movie flopped.

its past midnight and the trucks stopped pounding outside.
i gave up pretending i will work tonight. i went to bed and wondered if any of the worlds poor and disadvantaged cared if i ditch my lofty aspirations, got off my non-profit high horse and become a caregiver.

i thought of wrinkly butts and found the image not particularly distasteful. i started to mentally audition a-list filipino actors who will (yet again) gather critical and box-office success when they re-enact my (future) travails for the big screen.

no longer restless, i started to drift off to sleep.

bungee jumping from a hot air balloon

2008-05-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

that’s the title of a book my friends in south africa, chevon, natasha and duncan planned to write someday.

it all started on a road trip to sun city to celebrate nat’s birthday in 2003. jp was driving and we were running out of driving games. the girls were starting to get bored of playing ‘10 degrees from kevin bacon’ – which i refuse to be a part of and we all agreed that to play ‘i spy’ was beneath our dignity.

then we spotted a hot air balloon flying off the distant horizon. so colourful, so alone, so precariously poised between the earth and the clouds. somebody (i can’t remember who) said it will be cool to take a hot air balloon safari. another said it will be even better to do that and then bungee jump from it. i said that’s a fantastic title for a book. they looked at me wondering what am i talking about.

i explained that aside from evoking imagery that is full of excitement and symbolism, it also captures the fact that people usually take chances when they think that their starting point is a place of stability, when in fact – nothing in life is stable. everything is fleeting. like a flight on an air balloon.

during the trip we ‘wrote’ chapter 1: why natasha is no better than a crocodile.

you see, sun city features a daily show of live chicken being fed to crocodiles as one of its tourist baits. nat, in her characteristic theatrical way, expressed indignation in such display of cruelty and barbarism. as if she never eaten chicken before. chevon and i agreed (or maybe we just wanted to irk her?) and hastily pointed out that the only difference is that the crocodile actually kills its prey itself while she expects some poor old butcher to do it for her so she can pick it up in nice little frozen pieces in her nearby grocer. ergo, the crocodile shows more strength of character.

after the trip, we talked about the book project excitedly and roped in duncan. we came up with chapter concepts such as ‘fight club for sissies’ (duncan’s) and ‘aging barfly as watering hole furniture’ (chevon’s).
years have passed since then. natasha is on her 4th year in japan teaching english. duncan went back to the uk and disappeared from our radar. chevon moved to another city to cohabitate with stav. and me, i came back to the phillipines.

the book was never written.

the thing is, this is not the only book that was planned to be written by my different group of friends. my former collective planned to write a book entitled ‘our fathers’, gibo of window exit got a number of us excited on the idea of a book with a collection of essays on relationships.

now if i add all the other things that i planned to do with friends and groups of friends, my mind reels and i can’t even begin to remember a fraction of it. just a a feeling that there have been way too many.

in my old age of 38 i wonder if i shown more determination to pursue these plans (assuming my determination is strong enough to push those around me) would they have come into fruition. and if they did, would my life be fuller? more lived? more meaningful?

my dear friend stav, in his usual mocking pragmatism, is of the opinion that people are bound to say things they don’t mean when they know they will never see each other again. citing how people who spend time together in a holiday or similar short cabin fever-inducing, intense experiences tell each other they will email all the time, keep in touch, be best friends forever just to ease separation anxiety.

maybe.

but for me the book projects were particularly poignant. as if there was something in us that unconsciously recognised the ephemeral nature of life experiences and wanted to freeze time by capturing them in words. it was not just because we wanted to make each other feel better. i’d like to believe that it is recognising that we have shared something significant – and while we are compromising to reducing such to anecdotes – we are not willing to let it pass by unnoticed.

regardless of the fact that they never happened, i don’t think it was just hot air.

he's leaving - lamentations of years ago

2008-05-05T05:15:00.001-07:00

he's leaving.

such a funny thing to say. makes you think he's here now and is just about to walk away. but he's never been here. except for the brief blissful meetings in other places, the all too few days we were together. and even then without complete disregard to the imminent parting.

the bustling city can't drown out the deafening, lonely ringing in my ear. i watch the sun set over johannesburg's skyscrapers framed by my office window. it echoes the sinking feeling in my chest. the imposing mammoth structures of concrete, glass and metal seem to close in on me. hard and cold, mocking my impudence to dare wish to transcend limits.

i should be working but i find myself clicking the web browser all the time. checking for his e-mail. unreasonably disappointed knowing since his job is finished he doesn't have internet access. but i hope anyway that he needs to tell me things that can't wait another day. and that he'll just have to find a way. it's pathetic how i expect his longing to match mine.

he made it clear that he's leaving and i can't do anything about it. this was a given even before we met each other, so how could i? even if i wanted to. and i'm not sure i do.

he's leaving and i know now why it hurts. at first i thought it was his issues about his sexuality that makes him act strange. i know these issues have not been resolved. still, i know that this is not the reason why he stopped short of letting me get under his skin.

he does not love me. he said so himself. he told me that if he loved me he doesn't see any problem of pursuing a long term relationship. i asked him why. he said he never saw a future for us at the onset.

that's why he doesn't love me? why should prospects of the future affect the way he feels? he kept his head screwed tightly on top of his shoulders, i guess. all i know is that i failed to make him love me. and i ask myself what is it in my blood that makes love such an insanity.

he doesn't love me and that hurts more than the fact that he's leaving.

he doesn't love me and against reason i believe that's the reason why he's leaving.

he'll see me one last time before he leaves. and i wonder why i feel such restless anticipation about something that will inevitably end to more pain.

he'll be here. finally. once before he leaves.

still i know he'll always keep his distance.

my mother

2008-04-24T12:49:00.000-07:00

my friend chevon in one of her rants while bickering with her boyfriend stav said, ‘mothers are sacred’.

recently, i started to wonder if my belief about my mother, like anything i hold sacred, has been warped by myth, romanticism and selective memory. the last one was possibly most potent as it was fuelled by homesickness.

having been out of the country for seven years, i suddenly find myself living with my mother, something i haven’t done for 18 years. re-assimilating to my own country has not been as tough as i thought it would be except that everybody i have held dear have become familiar strangers. their lives that once i cannot dilineate from mine have become topics for conversations. i am offered glimpses of interesting scenes turned into anecdotes, but they are no longer mine to share. and live. not the way they used to be. everybody has moved on, except – my mother.

this has offered a great deal of comfort. until i started to find myself getting annoyed by little things she say or do.

on a taxi on the way to the mall in one of our many shopping expeditions, for instance, she mentioned nonchalantly that a cousin of mine is not paying our shared domestic helper enough. she said it without compunction, that i had to remind her that something like that can really offend a person. and this is a cousin who actually likes her. i couldn’t reconcile this with the mother who i remember once told me, ‘if you don’t have something good to say, don’t say anything.’

many times in the last couple of weeks, she has made face about suggestions of my brothers on restaurants because she did not like the food in all of them. when we were little, i remember that she always reminded me that ‘you should not waste a single grain of rice because each grain corresponds to a bead of perspiration of a farmer who tilled it.’ how can the same person dismiss so much food so haphazardly?

most bothering of all, in our ritual trip to the salon to get our hair done, she raised her nose to my hairstylist who have committed the mistake of being too familiar by telling her bawdy jokes and calling her ‘mommy’. i had the sinking feeling that it was his social standing (read: parlorista) as much as the unearned familiarity that caused her disapproval. but this was a woman who until recently had been maltreated even by her closest relatives because my father was never really good at earning money. she had suffered the shorter end of the social stick for so long. surely snobbery is something she will not inflict wilfully on another?

this has bothered me so much that today i asked my eldest brother (the keeper of my childhood memories), if was i imagining things when i have always believed that my mother taught us everything that is good in us.

my brother was convinced that it was my father, hallowed post-mortem, who said all these things i attributed to my mother.

being the tactless me – i asked this in front of her. i expected her to protest, or at least show disappointment in the face of the doubts of her most precious golden boy. instead she said calmly, ‘maybe it was your father’.

that’s the thing about my mother, anytime i start to muster ammunition to shoot her down from her pulpit, she says or does something that makes me want to hold my head down in shame.

and, like many times before, i held my head down. way down.

my partner jp told me that my biggest problem is that i set such high expectations on everybody and everything. he said it’s the reason why i am disappointed all the time.

and this is it really, the reason i came back. i’m all burned-out from disappointment in what i believe in, in what i have accomplished and in the people i depend on. i have lost faith.

so i lash out at my mother.

it’s not my mother’s fault that out in africa and in moments of weakness, my longing for home have led me to draw strength on the idea of a mother worthy of being put on an altar. and yet, inspite of her flawed humanity – she has shown no resistance or apparent animosity to a child who blatantly challenges the verity of the values she has instilled.

i was nervous about going home tonight. i was thinking that while i did not see any negative reaction earlier to my thoughtless questioning, maybe she had time to think about it and decided i should be banished to another country for all eternity.

when i arrived at midnight, she woke up and showed me the new expensive spectacles we bought – i can’t wait for it earlier because i was late for an appointment with my personal trainer. she was so happy about her new purchase. she poured me my iced tea. and we watched the end of ‘dear heart’ on the filipino movie channel - i remember it quite fondly from childhood. then she said goodnight and i started writing.

between the second and third paragraph my lighter died on me. i was rummaging through the whole house looking for a match. creative writing cum confessional requires cigarettes, lots of it. i was desperately and unsuccessfully lighting the gas stove when she woke up. she looked at me, went back to her room and handed me a box of matches.

i took a drag before i write this last sentence and exhaled fully thinking, i was right. i did not know my mother. but maybe not in the way i thought i was.

detour

2008-04-21T01:49:00.000-07:00

should i draw a map
for you to navigate around
my vulnerabilities?

how can i show the way
when i am drawn
to your comfort
in moving aimlessly?
knowing instinctively
that the trip is as important
as the final destination.

any representation
will be a simplification -
the complexity
sacrificed for simple legibility
of acceptable routes.

any trace of emotion
blotted out -
to focus and remember
one can step on the breaks
or make the right turn,
falling back into safety
of everything transitory.

i'd draw a shortcut instead.
free us
from perennial questions
of knowing
where we're going.

shift the gear.

eyes on the road-

but ignore the roadsigns.

i have already lost
all sense of direction.

destination request

2008-04-21T01:25:00.000-07:00

i want to go to that place
not rendered incomplete
by your absence.

i want to be able to look at the sunset
and not feel cheated
at the prospect of another day
ending without you.
i want to lie in bed
and go to sleep without whispering goodnight
saying your name like a prayer
to go to sleep without the violent pain
not numbed by the redemption of unconsciousness
always too long to descend.
i want to look at the sea,
i want to marvel at these mountains,
i want to turn my head towards the sky
and not want to beg
all these to stop reminding me
of the immense distance between us.
i want to walk a street corner
and not secretly hope
that you'll be walking my way
this turn or maybe just the next one.
i want to go inside my skin
and not find a gaping hole.
mostly, i just want to stop trembling
at stopping myself from screaming
in anger
at the injustice of every space
taking drowning expanse without you.
i want to go home
and not be scared i won't find my way
if you are not there.
i want to escape
but i fear
i really just want to be where you are
if only i don't know i won't see myself
in your eyes.

so if it's not too much to ask
tell me where else can i go.