he said, he said

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.

losing you

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.

remembering the tinman, epilogue and in defense of the accused

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

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?

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.

2009: my year in pictures

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.

memory like elephants

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.

memories are deceitful above all things

...

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.

a dream in april

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

love three-logy

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 4

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

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

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

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.

man of the moon

“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.