And just like that, I decided to travel to Marinduque two nights ago. I was buying myself (read: shopping) some clothes at Glorietta in the afternoon of Friday and even managed to meet briefly with a friend and his brother early evening when I set my thoughts to the quiet waters of Marinduque at around 9PM. I left Manila by bus two hours later for the three-hour ride to Lucena in Quezon province where I took the 4AM ferry for another three hours to get to my destination. I'm thankful I got to Boac, the capital of Marinduque, in one piece despite the gusty winds the whole time during the trip wrought by a typhoon.
On one hand, I'm happy I'm here because I visited some sites I missed during my last trip here. On another hand, I wish I just stayed home and memorized Webster's instead. The cold weather here is cutting through me. I'm on my blue mufflers all the time with my blue windjacket. It must be my unconscious in the works but somehow, they reinforce the blue feeling I have. The only thing reminding me that I should stay on is the red sleeveless shirt I have beneath.
The worst thing is I'm alone in my hotel bed tonight. Maybe I should request for additional blankets. I will definitely open the red wine I brought along while I'm curled up in bed. Or maybe I should stay in the hot shower the whole night.
I just had dinner in one of the restaurants near my hotel. Of course alone. The vegetables were good. They make me want to go right up my room and down the wine. I was walking leisurely on my way back when I chanced upon an internet shop. I thought maybe some people out there might want to be updated.
Anyway, I gotta run. It will take a while for me to use the cork remover. And I have to wake up early to get to the airport. I'm on waitlist for this 19-seater plane for my travel back to Manila. It just occured to me now, and I don't believe it will cost me around 21 times more than the ferry ride I took. But anyway, in half an hour, I'm back to the maddening city again.
Catch you all later!
12.28.2003
12.25.2003
I'm still here
It's been a week exactly. I didn't know I was going to miss writing that much. There have been times I was itching to go online and write something. I didn't have anything in mind to write about, but I just had this urge to weave letters and blabber. Somehow, I managed to keep myself from turning towards my computer at home and instead glue my sight to the TV or my walls which I have long wanted to paint.
However, most of the time, I found myself outside the building where I live. Not just outside-outside, but some kilometers away, far enough for my cordless phone not to work. I would walk aimlessly, look far out aimlessly, and just be in the mood to do aimless things. I guess you could say I was in a senti mood, as my friend A. carefully put it. I don't know what got into me, but just for one time, I was in love with the feeling of being melancholic and abandoned.
So while everyone else was exchanging lavish gifts and feasting on fattening food, I was home watching Tom and Jerry which I would switch to National Geographic every now and then. I let my help take the day off to be with her sisters so she doesn't succumb to the same crude feeling I was drowning myself into. I said, she can be off till after christmas. And so, I was alone in my flat. I had to switch on the TV and the radio to give the illusion that there are other people in the room. But I didn't go to the extent of kissing people on the latenight TV show or worse, to stay up late just to hear the newsreader say goodnight or merry christmas to me. I was conscious I shouldn't reach that far. Otherwise, it was better off to just slice my wrist. Fortunately, I don't have suicidal tendencies.
Anyway, I guess I let myself go through that episode to make me more human,. There have been lots of times recently when I would stay up there in the flighty orgasm of good times that rolled for days and more days. I missed crying. I missed seeing myself portray those heavy martyr roles on local movies that I would catch on cable TV.
And besides, I needed to affirm that I am, after all, a really good actor. Christmas comes but once every year so there's not much other better time to perfectly execute crying roles.
However, most of the time, I found myself outside the building where I live. Not just outside-outside, but some kilometers away, far enough for my cordless phone not to work. I would walk aimlessly, look far out aimlessly, and just be in the mood to do aimless things. I guess you could say I was in a senti mood, as my friend A. carefully put it. I don't know what got into me, but just for one time, I was in love with the feeling of being melancholic and abandoned.
So while everyone else was exchanging lavish gifts and feasting on fattening food, I was home watching Tom and Jerry which I would switch to National Geographic every now and then. I let my help take the day off to be with her sisters so she doesn't succumb to the same crude feeling I was drowning myself into. I said, she can be off till after christmas. And so, I was alone in my flat. I had to switch on the TV and the radio to give the illusion that there are other people in the room. But I didn't go to the extent of kissing people on the latenight TV show or worse, to stay up late just to hear the newsreader say goodnight or merry christmas to me. I was conscious I shouldn't reach that far. Otherwise, it was better off to just slice my wrist. Fortunately, I don't have suicidal tendencies.
Anyway, I guess I let myself go through that episode to make me more human,. There have been lots of times recently when I would stay up there in the flighty orgasm of good times that rolled for days and more days. I missed crying. I missed seeing myself portray those heavy martyr roles on local movies that I would catch on cable TV.
And besides, I needed to affirm that I am, after all, a really good actor. Christmas comes but once every year so there's not much other better time to perfectly execute crying roles.
12.18.2003
Still so vivid, Last
When the maid and I finished gathering all my things, I didn't realize we had formed a small mountain on our big bed. My work clothes mixed with my biking gears, small books stacked on bigger books, and my toiletries stuffed snugly inside my shoes. I stared at them coldly. I refused to be emotional. I couldn't afford to be emotional. By then, it was around 9pm already and I was truly exhausted. But I wasn't a bit bothered. I just wanted to save myself from the misery of having to sleep one more night on that bed. Even the maid's constant pleading that I stayed saying things will be patched up the following day didn't make a difference.
It was too late already when I found out I didn't have any luggage nor a big bag to stuff my things. I brought in my things one at a time in small backpacks from my apartment which I was sharing with some other people. I didn't notice I have moved a lot of things already. I had no choice but rush to the kitchen to where our large black plastic trash bags were kept. I got five.
Seeing all that I owned jammed and squeezed inside those trash bags were too much for me. That's when I started to sob again. I felt homeless. I felt forsaken. I felt dreadfully sad, that kind that makes you sigh deeply yet bereft of any depth and profundity. I mean, how unfair can things get? You work so hard on issues that value and preserve your relationship and you're not even granted a chance to air your side.
A friend came by later to pick me up. It took a lot of prodding and a bit of raised voice to make the maid help me carry my things down to the garage. I quietly glanced at her on her way down and was surprised to see her crying. She loaded everything in the trunk except for the giant teddy stuff toy I got from W. She gave me that, and goodbye as she hugged me.
Inside the car, nobody spoke for at least ten minutes. My friend and I both stared far out the window as far as our eyes can see. And then all of a sudden, I broke down. My friend suddenly had a misfortune of having to console a friend and holding on the steering wheel at the same time. We finally reached the deserted breakwater along Manila Bay. It was there that I wanted to rest for a while. It was there too that another friend came to meet us and comfort me.
And it was there, in the stillness of the night, when the whole city was asleep, when only the dead stones and crashing waves were near, that I recounted to my friends what happened. I cried for the last time and prayed that the relentless waves will carry my hurt far out from me never to show up again.
It was too late already when I found out I didn't have any luggage nor a big bag to stuff my things. I brought in my things one at a time in small backpacks from my apartment which I was sharing with some other people. I didn't notice I have moved a lot of things already. I had no choice but rush to the kitchen to where our large black plastic trash bags were kept. I got five.
Seeing all that I owned jammed and squeezed inside those trash bags were too much for me. That's when I started to sob again. I felt homeless. I felt forsaken. I felt dreadfully sad, that kind that makes you sigh deeply yet bereft of any depth and profundity. I mean, how unfair can things get? You work so hard on issues that value and preserve your relationship and you're not even granted a chance to air your side.
A friend came by later to pick me up. It took a lot of prodding and a bit of raised voice to make the maid help me carry my things down to the garage. I quietly glanced at her on her way down and was surprised to see her crying. She loaded everything in the trunk except for the giant teddy stuff toy I got from W. She gave me that, and goodbye as she hugged me.
Inside the car, nobody spoke for at least ten minutes. My friend and I both stared far out the window as far as our eyes can see. And then all of a sudden, I broke down. My friend suddenly had a misfortune of having to console a friend and holding on the steering wheel at the same time. We finally reached the deserted breakwater along Manila Bay. It was there that I wanted to rest for a while. It was there too that another friend came to meet us and comfort me.
And it was there, in the stillness of the night, when the whole city was asleep, when only the dead stones and crashing waves were near, that I recounted to my friends what happened. I cried for the last time and prayed that the relentless waves will carry my hurt far out from me never to show up again.
12.17.2003
Still so vivid, Part 2
After a few minutes of paralyzing silence, I stood and, without raising my voice, said no. I wanted to keep the ring. I didn't care if my reply was awkward and crude. At that time, it felt good to just let the heart rule your mind. I think W. understood why.
That ring that W. wanted back was the first ever that I had. That's why it meant so much and actually found it very difficult to part with it. I have faithfully worn it since that night at the coffee shop when W., during an animated conversation about vows and rings, suddenly took out something from an inside pocket, laid it on the table, and asked if I can wear it. My jaws dropped like I was dazed as I stared on the gold band, that kind usually worn during weddings. In between smirks and one-liner jokes, I took it and slid it on my left ring finger. It fit so perfectly. And just like that, I was taken. For W., deciding to wear somebody else's ring actually meant agreeing to partner with the one who gave it. I don't know where that came from and I don't even want to know if that makes sense. But it felt good.
Anyway, W. never asked for the ring back. I inquired how were we going to divide those things given us. I was told to bring all those I wanted and just leave the ones I didn't fancy. The whole time, W.'s back was facing me which was unbearable. When things became extremely uneasy for us inside the bedroom, W. turned for the door to leave. Just before reaching the door, with all sincerity, I requested for one last hug. We then held for a few seconds until W. broke free and rushed out of the house to the car weeping.
I sat on the bed sobbing after that. For how long, I don't quite remember. I sensed it must have been a while since the maid knocked on the door and asked if I was OK. I asked her to come in and fix all my clothes because I was leaving that night.
The most heartwrenching part was not actually leaving the house nor seeing your partner go. For me, it was undefined torture to go through each of the drawers in the closet we had and sorted everything --- from shirts, shorts, underwears, hankies, socks. I showed the maid how to arrange the clothes back. I then headed to the bathroom and got my shaver, shampoo, toothbrush, perfume. I also made sure that all my books were collected, including the coffee mug that I use. I didn't want to leave any trace there. What I wanted was leave the place as if I was never there.
to be continued
That ring that W. wanted back was the first ever that I had. That's why it meant so much and actually found it very difficult to part with it. I have faithfully worn it since that night at the coffee shop when W., during an animated conversation about vows and rings, suddenly took out something from an inside pocket, laid it on the table, and asked if I can wear it. My jaws dropped like I was dazed as I stared on the gold band, that kind usually worn during weddings. In between smirks and one-liner jokes, I took it and slid it on my left ring finger. It fit so perfectly. And just like that, I was taken. For W., deciding to wear somebody else's ring actually meant agreeing to partner with the one who gave it. I don't know where that came from and I don't even want to know if that makes sense. But it felt good.
Anyway, W. never asked for the ring back. I inquired how were we going to divide those things given us. I was told to bring all those I wanted and just leave the ones I didn't fancy. The whole time, W.'s back was facing me which was unbearable. When things became extremely uneasy for us inside the bedroom, W. turned for the door to leave. Just before reaching the door, with all sincerity, I requested for one last hug. We then held for a few seconds until W. broke free and rushed out of the house to the car weeping.
I sat on the bed sobbing after that. For how long, I don't quite remember. I sensed it must have been a while since the maid knocked on the door and asked if I was OK. I asked her to come in and fix all my clothes because I was leaving that night.
The most heartwrenching part was not actually leaving the house nor seeing your partner go. For me, it was undefined torture to go through each of the drawers in the closet we had and sorted everything --- from shirts, shorts, underwears, hankies, socks. I showed the maid how to arrange the clothes back. I then headed to the bathroom and got my shaver, shampoo, toothbrush, perfume. I also made sure that all my books were collected, including the coffee mug that I use. I didn't want to leave any trace there. What I wanted was leave the place as if I was never there.
to be continued
12.16.2003
Still so vivid
Somebody recently asked me which one, of all the radiant and picturesque moments in my life, would always be perfectly captured up to finest details even after a thousand narrations. It didn't take so long for me to decide. I knew exactly what it should be.
Since I sort of moved in the three-bedroom apartment that W. rented ten years ago with two other friends, my Saturdays were almost always predictable. I would bike around the village in the morning and spend the afternoon quietly lazing around the house to read or catch up on sleep. I would make sure to wake up before 6pm since I know W. will be arriving soon, and I didn't want to be caught snoring with my mouth agape and drooling. Upon arriving, W. usually heads straight to our bedroom, kiss me on the forehead, and head back to the dining room where the flowers would be arranged or instructions on what to prepare for dinner would be given to the maid.
That particular Saturday in April ten months into the relationship was going to be one that will live with me vividly forever. It was unusual for W. to be late. It was getting past 7pm already when the car pulled in the garage. When the engine died down, I was expecting the door to soon swing open and a loud "Hi! How was your day?" would thunder around the room. Nothing of that happened.
I rushed out of the bedroom wondering what happened. There, I found W. in the dining room tidying the flowers in absurd silence. I am sure he knew I came out of the room but he didn't care to look. Surprised, I muffled a quick hello and headed to answer a phonecall for me. Just before I hanged up, I saw W. head to our room, still ominously silent. I don't know if the maid and the driver sensed anything unusual, but I did. I followed W. inside.
My heart pounded so hard and it sank as I saw W. pull out our pictures neatly framed and arranged on top of the dresser. Those pictures chronicled happy moments over the months since we got together. W. then looked for our photo albums stacked by the TV rack and went through each of the pages pulling out every photo there is.
I could only manage a silent, "W., what's happening?" And without turning to face me, he replied, "Please give me back my ring." I froze. Just like that. I sat by the bed with my shoulders almost falling to my knees. It took a while before I could find my words.
to be continued
Since I sort of moved in the three-bedroom apartment that W. rented ten years ago with two other friends, my Saturdays were almost always predictable. I would bike around the village in the morning and spend the afternoon quietly lazing around the house to read or catch up on sleep. I would make sure to wake up before 6pm since I know W. will be arriving soon, and I didn't want to be caught snoring with my mouth agape and drooling. Upon arriving, W. usually heads straight to our bedroom, kiss me on the forehead, and head back to the dining room where the flowers would be arranged or instructions on what to prepare for dinner would be given to the maid.
That particular Saturday in April ten months into the relationship was going to be one that will live with me vividly forever. It was unusual for W. to be late. It was getting past 7pm already when the car pulled in the garage. When the engine died down, I was expecting the door to soon swing open and a loud "Hi! How was your day?" would thunder around the room. Nothing of that happened.
I rushed out of the bedroom wondering what happened. There, I found W. in the dining room tidying the flowers in absurd silence. I am sure he knew I came out of the room but he didn't care to look. Surprised, I muffled a quick hello and headed to answer a phonecall for me. Just before I hanged up, I saw W. head to our room, still ominously silent. I don't know if the maid and the driver sensed anything unusual, but I did. I followed W. inside.
My heart pounded so hard and it sank as I saw W. pull out our pictures neatly framed and arranged on top of the dresser. Those pictures chronicled happy moments over the months since we got together. W. then looked for our photo albums stacked by the TV rack and went through each of the pages pulling out every photo there is.
I could only manage a silent, "W., what's happening?" And without turning to face me, he replied, "Please give me back my ring." I froze. Just like that. I sat by the bed with my shoulders almost falling to my knees. It took a while before I could find my words.
to be continued
12.15.2003
A friend's friend
If you line up all my friends side by side, the world will be bewildered with a kaleidoscope of colorful people. It will be a sight to behold like a lake of fallen leaves in autumn. Sometimes, I give myself a pat on the back for having found a way to be part of the lives of these people --- some of whom are single-mothers, professionals, blue-collars, drop-outs, rich, poor, catholic, atheist, dark, fair, gay, straight, virile, frigid.
These friends have surrounded my life with stories as colorful as the lives they live. I have had the privilege of being the only ear to savor the juicy details of things illicit and allowed. I have been trusted with very personal information that can make or break a person. I have spent time drenching a friend's tears and at the same time trying my luck as a stand-up comic in my effort to lighten up things. I have been frequently dumbfounded with some facts that were shared to me in confidence. And I have probably drank hundred liters of coffee by now listening to all my friend's pains and anguish. There are times that I start to ponder, this may have been my life's calling or vocation: To make a difference in other people's lives.
Tomorrow, I will travel three hours up north with another friend to be at funeral of our friend E.'s mother, who succumbed the other day to renal failure. We will be there because we deeply feel occasions of loss like this. We will be there because that's probably where we should be of most help. We will be there because we believe friends should never be allowed to go through painful moments alone. We will be there, not because a favor has to be repaid, but more because we try to be our friend's friend.
I don't know what words can offer comfort to my friend E. who may be in deep sorrow as I write this. I don't even know if they are ever within my realm of ability to feel and provide. But this one I know, that I have to be there as my modest gesture to prove how friendship works.
These friends have surrounded my life with stories as colorful as the lives they live. I have had the privilege of being the only ear to savor the juicy details of things illicit and allowed. I have been trusted with very personal information that can make or break a person. I have spent time drenching a friend's tears and at the same time trying my luck as a stand-up comic in my effort to lighten up things. I have been frequently dumbfounded with some facts that were shared to me in confidence. And I have probably drank hundred liters of coffee by now listening to all my friend's pains and anguish. There are times that I start to ponder, this may have been my life's calling or vocation: To make a difference in other people's lives.
Tomorrow, I will travel three hours up north with another friend to be at funeral of our friend E.'s mother, who succumbed the other day to renal failure. We will be there because we deeply feel occasions of loss like this. We will be there because that's probably where we should be of most help. We will be there because we believe friends should never be allowed to go through painful moments alone. We will be there, not because a favor has to be repaid, but more because we try to be our friend's friend.
I don't know what words can offer comfort to my friend E. who may be in deep sorrow as I write this. I don't even know if they are ever within my realm of ability to feel and provide. But this one I know, that I have to be there as my modest gesture to prove how friendship works.
12.11.2003
Mini-mini-mo
In less than two weeks, it'll be christmas. I'm slowly becoming frantic since I have yet to finalize my plans. I have been working on this for the last month or so and I'm still having a hard time deciding where to go. The what-to-do part is easy. I certainly want a firm bed for my back and all the time there is to read books to keep my mind off some things. I have initially shortlisted three possible spots perfect for how I planned to spend my holidays. But I have yet to make up my mind if I really wanted to do mountain or water or aging gays.
A place called Batad in far north Banaue topped my list. I have been there several times already, about ten I think. The place is about 16 kilometers from the main town (Banaue), a good one-hour jeep ride to a junction road from where you start hiking for two hours to reach the village. At this time of the year, I bet I will have to bring my fleece and mufflers because of the cold weather up there. Electricity hasn't reached the village and worse, cellular phone signal is non-existent. This means that I would be completely isolated from everyone, a time I hoped would be spent sleeping with Buble and Groban, reading Dalai Lama books, downing bottles of red wine, perfecting my three-set-100-rep crunches, dipping in the waterfalls, or just staring out to the terraces as far as my eyes can see.
I may also opt to hide in far away Gasan in Marinduque, a town by the beach in an island off Manila. I will likely stay in a resort fronting the beach and allow the crashing waves to lull me to sleep, day in , day out. If I don't forget my sunblock, I may decide to wander around the beach during early morning and ask the waiter to serve my breakfast there. The feel of the earth beneath your feet during early mornings is infinitely refreshing. When the sun starts to sting, I'll head back to my room and cool off in the tub. The bubbles will surely put me to sleep. When night falls, I'll set out to the garden and enjoy red wine while I will forcefully try to entertain myself with karaoke. I'll watch out for a local singing contest and just might join one for the kicks of it. That is, if I'm not too drunk yet.
And finally, I may just wake up one day and decide that all that holiday traveling fuss will only tire me and make me remember my home. So there's a good possibility that I may just stay in the city but, on christmas day and probably a few days after that, be in this place in Pasay housing old and some homeless gays. I thought it may be a good idea to spend christmas with courageous people who have led many years ago the battle for respect and affirmation. I will do this to honor them and all their spirit. I will also make sure I will pay tribute to all their warm and heart-wrenching stories of love and loss. I think a whole day spent in a bubbly exchange of funny and titillating stories with them would be so humbling and good for the soul. I hope a few hours spent in sincere friendship and reverence with them will make me kinder, more thankful, and compassionate.
A place called Batad in far north Banaue topped my list. I have been there several times already, about ten I think. The place is about 16 kilometers from the main town (Banaue), a good one-hour jeep ride to a junction road from where you start hiking for two hours to reach the village. At this time of the year, I bet I will have to bring my fleece and mufflers because of the cold weather up there. Electricity hasn't reached the village and worse, cellular phone signal is non-existent. This means that I would be completely isolated from everyone, a time I hoped would be spent sleeping with Buble and Groban, reading Dalai Lama books, downing bottles of red wine, perfecting my three-set-100-rep crunches, dipping in the waterfalls, or just staring out to the terraces as far as my eyes can see.
I may also opt to hide in far away Gasan in Marinduque, a town by the beach in an island off Manila. I will likely stay in a resort fronting the beach and allow the crashing waves to lull me to sleep, day in , day out. If I don't forget my sunblock, I may decide to wander around the beach during early morning and ask the waiter to serve my breakfast there. The feel of the earth beneath your feet during early mornings is infinitely refreshing. When the sun starts to sting, I'll head back to my room and cool off in the tub. The bubbles will surely put me to sleep. When night falls, I'll set out to the garden and enjoy red wine while I will forcefully try to entertain myself with karaoke. I'll watch out for a local singing contest and just might join one for the kicks of it. That is, if I'm not too drunk yet.
And finally, I may just wake up one day and decide that all that holiday traveling fuss will only tire me and make me remember my home. So there's a good possibility that I may just stay in the city but, on christmas day and probably a few days after that, be in this place in Pasay housing old and some homeless gays. I thought it may be a good idea to spend christmas with courageous people who have led many years ago the battle for respect and affirmation. I will do this to honor them and all their spirit. I will also make sure I will pay tribute to all their warm and heart-wrenching stories of love and loss. I think a whole day spent in a bubbly exchange of funny and titillating stories with them would be so humbling and good for the soul. I hope a few hours spent in sincere friendship and reverence with them will make me kinder, more thankful, and compassionate.
12.10.2003
Musings about Dad
Now that my parents are based abroad, I think of them more fondly now, something I wouldn't normally do when they were still here. Especially my Dad. But then, that's not entirely true. I would think of him too when he was still close by. It's just that, probably the idea that he would call on weekends anyway and we'd be in touch on the latest back home never really reinforced my missing him.
This time, it's different, a lot different. Almost always, the fond thoughts now easily move me to tears. Maybe the distance has a lot to do with it. Or maybe some very personal incident that happened recently. Or maybe my tear ducts are damaged beyond repair that they can't hold back tears anymore. But nevertheless, when I think of my Dad now, I smile. A few times, I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer for him. That should speak well about our relationship now. Truly, something really improves with age.
Having said all of these, I'm still overwhelmed about certain things I came to know about my Dad that makes him a cut above the rest.
A few weeks before I was born many years ago, my Dad received a letter from the US Department of Agriculture formally offering him a job that would take him to Maryland. It was said he set aside the letter right away. My Mom, an unmistakably brave woman, encouraged him to consider the offer saying the whole family was there for support anyway. She even bribed him with joyful thoughts of a growing baby following him soon in that new place. My Dad remain unperturbed. He decided to stay and be with my Mom as they waited for their first-born child spring to life. I found out about this story when I was growing up and I was asking my Mom how come my other cousins lived abroad and we stayed in a quiet and quiant town. I may never fully understand my Dad's decision, but his devotion as a father and husband will always warm my heart.
As a child growing up in a small town, it was not unusual knowing everybody's name in the community. But it was completely unthinkable for one to be greeted by everyone and spoken of highly by most people. However, my Dad, I'm proud to say, is this unusual man. For as long as I can remember, I rode with him at the back of his motorcycle and got distracted with people calling out his name or just plainly say hello as we pass by. To humor us, he would even sometimes say hello to cows and goats grazing the hills saying he was just returning their hellos! I sometimes think those rides with him shaped me to be so perceptive about things and people around me and how they move. My Dad gave me valuable lessons on being friendly with people and making efforts to touch their lives regardless of how big or small the difference you make.
I wish all fathers are like him. I wish all fathers are at the forefront on a campaign to lead their children into a world of good friends and good life.
This time, it's different, a lot different. Almost always, the fond thoughts now easily move me to tears. Maybe the distance has a lot to do with it. Or maybe some very personal incident that happened recently. Or maybe my tear ducts are damaged beyond repair that they can't hold back tears anymore. But nevertheless, when I think of my Dad now, I smile. A few times, I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer for him. That should speak well about our relationship now. Truly, something really improves with age.
Having said all of these, I'm still overwhelmed about certain things I came to know about my Dad that makes him a cut above the rest.
A few weeks before I was born many years ago, my Dad received a letter from the US Department of Agriculture formally offering him a job that would take him to Maryland. It was said he set aside the letter right away. My Mom, an unmistakably brave woman, encouraged him to consider the offer saying the whole family was there for support anyway. She even bribed him with joyful thoughts of a growing baby following him soon in that new place. My Dad remain unperturbed. He decided to stay and be with my Mom as they waited for their first-born child spring to life. I found out about this story when I was growing up and I was asking my Mom how come my other cousins lived abroad and we stayed in a quiet and quiant town. I may never fully understand my Dad's decision, but his devotion as a father and husband will always warm my heart.
As a child growing up in a small town, it was not unusual knowing everybody's name in the community. But it was completely unthinkable for one to be greeted by everyone and spoken of highly by most people. However, my Dad, I'm proud to say, is this unusual man. For as long as I can remember, I rode with him at the back of his motorcycle and got distracted with people calling out his name or just plainly say hello as we pass by. To humor us, he would even sometimes say hello to cows and goats grazing the hills saying he was just returning their hellos! I sometimes think those rides with him shaped me to be so perceptive about things and people around me and how they move. My Dad gave me valuable lessons on being friendly with people and making efforts to touch their lives regardless of how big or small the difference you make.
I wish all fathers are like him. I wish all fathers are at the forefront on a campaign to lead their children into a world of good friends and good life.
Hopefully not sad
I keep putting it off my mind, but somehow it manages to find its way back to me. The more I try to forget, the more it becomes so vivid. And I'm bothered. I think this is going to be my saddest christmas.
Not because I'm not surrounded by friends old and new nor is it because I won't be invited to wholesome and wild parties left and right. It's not even because there wouldn't be any lavish christmas dinner to be prepared with just me and the maid partaking of it assuming she decides not to take the day off. One friend suggested that it may be because I still don't have christmas tree and trimmings in my new place. I doubt it. I would have bought the fanciest decors and lined them up side by side from the building elevator to my entrance, and I'm sure I'd still feel heavy everytime I head home.
I have two theories:
One, maybe it's just the way it is when everything and everyone grows older. Things change, people change. Some stay, others move. You sometimes think about things and wonder at how strangely different they have become each year. This year will be one in the records for us. You see, I come from a really small family, one that normally considers christmas a time to cement relationships so everyone tries to be home. We're only four -- my younger sister and I, and our parents. Our folks are now living in far away Uwes-A and my sister is currently doing her graduate studies in Jakarta, Indonesia, and I'm here in Manila. Each of us will be where we are this holidays, an unthinkable situation especially for my parents who both are very sentimental.
Two, maybe I'm just old. Or maybe I'm bordering on depression. It's always the case when you live alone and certain occasions come to rock you off. You look at things differently once you reach 30. More often, you become more melancholic. You start recalling happy times in the past when everyone else was present. All of a sudden old and funny stories and private jokes become funnier and you start to laugh from the heart, and the ironic thing is no one else is there to laugh with. Everywhere you look at seem familiar. Their voices reverberate in the room. You know exactly how they say their greetings and how you answer.
Oh well, I may be one of one thing and a bit of another. But that shouldn't really be alarming. What's alarming is I have planned for some personal quiet time in some really quiet places outside Manila this christmas, and the northeast monsoon will suddenly unleash its fury and I would end up staying in my place. That's going to kill me. So in the meantime, while I'm still up, help me pray for good weather, good health, and some really good time.
Not because I'm not surrounded by friends old and new nor is it because I won't be invited to wholesome and wild parties left and right. It's not even because there wouldn't be any lavish christmas dinner to be prepared with just me and the maid partaking of it assuming she decides not to take the day off. One friend suggested that it may be because I still don't have christmas tree and trimmings in my new place. I doubt it. I would have bought the fanciest decors and lined them up side by side from the building elevator to my entrance, and I'm sure I'd still feel heavy everytime I head home.
I have two theories:
One, maybe it's just the way it is when everything and everyone grows older. Things change, people change. Some stay, others move. You sometimes think about things and wonder at how strangely different they have become each year. This year will be one in the records for us. You see, I come from a really small family, one that normally considers christmas a time to cement relationships so everyone tries to be home. We're only four -- my younger sister and I, and our parents. Our folks are now living in far away Uwes-A and my sister is currently doing her graduate studies in Jakarta, Indonesia, and I'm here in Manila. Each of us will be where we are this holidays, an unthinkable situation especially for my parents who both are very sentimental.
Two, maybe I'm just old. Or maybe I'm bordering on depression. It's always the case when you live alone and certain occasions come to rock you off. You look at things differently once you reach 30. More often, you become more melancholic. You start recalling happy times in the past when everyone else was present. All of a sudden old and funny stories and private jokes become funnier and you start to laugh from the heart, and the ironic thing is no one else is there to laugh with. Everywhere you look at seem familiar. Their voices reverberate in the room. You know exactly how they say their greetings and how you answer.
Oh well, I may be one of one thing and a bit of another. But that shouldn't really be alarming. What's alarming is I have planned for some personal quiet time in some really quiet places outside Manila this christmas, and the northeast monsoon will suddenly unleash its fury and I would end up staying in my place. That's going to kill me. So in the meantime, while I'm still up, help me pray for good weather, good health, and some really good time.
12.08.2003
Compulsions
A. is the acknowledged authority when talks start exploring the dark and unknown territories of sexual compulsiveness. He's not ashamed of it much less try to hide it. He doesn't openly volunteer talking about the subject but you expect him to go into the finer details to reinforce a point. Straight from the horse's mouth, he says. We had a good conversation yesterday about this over coffee.
From a little over than ten years since he started grazing the scene, he said, he's probably had partners running up to four digits. That means a thousand at the very least. My jaws fell when I heard him say that. Nothing normally shocks me, but this one was just startling. I asked him if that was something he was proud of, his head moved slightly embarrassed from side to side.
A.'s intelligent. He did physics in college and carries a masters degree in information technology. You could say he sort of did a self-check and diagnosed himself to be sexually compulsive after reading medical reference books one after another on the subject. He was prompted to do this after getting alarmed for his unusual appetite for sex. It was so bad, he revealed, that even if he didn't feel like it, he would be out there in the wild because he felt he needed it. That's how he became a fixture in bars, orgy parties, malls, and just about any other public place. He's had it in all imaginable places and time. There was even that late night that it took place right there on a dark busy sidewalk of a highway fronting a mall. That was the last straw. He sought medical help afterwards and began a drastic lifestyle change. He's done well so far, he said.
From his story, I realized that sexual compulsion lives like any of the other silent yet prevalent maladies in our midst. Like marital rape, incest, kleptomania. It lives among us and yet isn't one that's intelligently understood by most. For one, sexual compulsive people are frequently thought to be promiscuous creatures who would do it with any person anytime, anywhere completely erasing from the picture people who don't seek multiple partners but who would masterfully masturbate seven times a day, and are considered sexually compulsive as well.
What's the fuss with all these? Breaking myths.
From a little over than ten years since he started grazing the scene, he said, he's probably had partners running up to four digits. That means a thousand at the very least. My jaws fell when I heard him say that. Nothing normally shocks me, but this one was just startling. I asked him if that was something he was proud of, his head moved slightly embarrassed from side to side.
A.'s intelligent. He did physics in college and carries a masters degree in information technology. You could say he sort of did a self-check and diagnosed himself to be sexually compulsive after reading medical reference books one after another on the subject. He was prompted to do this after getting alarmed for his unusual appetite for sex. It was so bad, he revealed, that even if he didn't feel like it, he would be out there in the wild because he felt he needed it. That's how he became a fixture in bars, orgy parties, malls, and just about any other public place. He's had it in all imaginable places and time. There was even that late night that it took place right there on a dark busy sidewalk of a highway fronting a mall. That was the last straw. He sought medical help afterwards and began a drastic lifestyle change. He's done well so far, he said.
From his story, I realized that sexual compulsion lives like any of the other silent yet prevalent maladies in our midst. Like marital rape, incest, kleptomania. It lives among us and yet isn't one that's intelligently understood by most. For one, sexual compulsive people are frequently thought to be promiscuous creatures who would do it with any person anytime, anywhere completely erasing from the picture people who don't seek multiple partners but who would masterfully masturbate seven times a day, and are considered sexually compulsive as well.
What's the fuss with all these? Breaking myths.
12.04.2003
Five tens
Ten things inside my ref now:
1. Anchor fresh milk
2. Eggs
3. Strong Ice beer
4. Coke Light
5. SanMig Light
6. Brownies
7. Hersheys syrup
8. Quickmelt cheese
9. Jumbo hotdogs
10. Sweet ham
Ten things in my bathroom:
1. Cetaphil
2. Vaseline shampoo
3. Pantene shampoo
4. Scented candle
5. Palmolive bath gel
6. Shaving cream
7. Shaver
8. Footscrub gel
9. Aquafresh toothpaste
10. Ang pamatay, Kojic Acid soap
Ten things inside my badminton bag:
1. Yonex MP-100 racket
2. Carlton Powerflex racket
3. Wrist band
4. Towel
5. Reebok badminton shoes
6. Spare Yonex BG-68Ti gut
7. Bandage
8. Bengay
9. Facial wash
10. Coins
Ten things in my kitchen:
1. Microwave
2. Oven toaster
3. Coffee maker
4. Gas range + oven
5. Blender
6. Tabletop fountain
7. Refrigerator
8. Thermos
9. Ceramic plates
10. Ceramic mugs
Ten permament grocery items:
1. Button mushroom
2. Evaporated milk
3. Condensed cream
4. Sardines
5. All-purpose cream
6. Pineapple slices
7. Diet Pepsi
8. Nova chips
9. Chocnuts
10. Hopia
1. Anchor fresh milk
2. Eggs
3. Strong Ice beer
4. Coke Light
5. SanMig Light
6. Brownies
7. Hersheys syrup
8. Quickmelt cheese
9. Jumbo hotdogs
10. Sweet ham
Ten things in my bathroom:
1. Cetaphil
2. Vaseline shampoo
3. Pantene shampoo
4. Scented candle
5. Palmolive bath gel
6. Shaving cream
7. Shaver
8. Footscrub gel
9. Aquafresh toothpaste
10. Ang pamatay, Kojic Acid soap
Ten things inside my badminton bag:
1. Yonex MP-100 racket
2. Carlton Powerflex racket
3. Wrist band
4. Towel
5. Reebok badminton shoes
6. Spare Yonex BG-68Ti gut
7. Bandage
8. Bengay
9. Facial wash
10. Coins
Ten things in my kitchen:
1. Microwave
2. Oven toaster
3. Coffee maker
4. Gas range + oven
5. Blender
6. Tabletop fountain
7. Refrigerator
8. Thermos
9. Ceramic plates
10. Ceramic mugs
Ten permament grocery items:
1. Button mushroom
2. Evaporated milk
3. Condensed cream
4. Sardines
5. All-purpose cream
6. Pineapple slices
7. Diet Pepsi
8. Nova chips
9. Chocnuts
10. Hopia
12.03.2003
Sick and alone
For once, I thought I was really invincible against simple colds and coughs. I've been climbing mountains seriously for the last two years or so in sometimes really harsh conditions of exhausting heat in the lowlands and blustering wind and rain up in the mountains, but I have never really gotten sick. I guess I must have been loved after all.
The worst was when I got my dose of high altitude sickness after pitching my tent on the designated campsite on Mt. Pulag, the highest mountain in Luzon. We recorded the temperature to be around 8 degrees Celsius during the night and it was so cold. I just slept afterwards. My climb buddy woke me up hours later with a steaming soup and few spoonfuls of our lovely dinner. He had to feed me literally at times since I was just to weak to coordinate my movements. But it was gone in the morning. I was able to wake up ahead of the others at 4am ready for our assault on the mountain's peak.
Yesterday, I took a leave from work because I had the worst-sounding coughs. It was so bad I thought I was meant to stay indoors for a day or two. Otherwise, I would end up miserable in a humiliating self-pity when I see people run for cover as soon as they hear a wheezing sound thinking it's some firecracker about to explode. You see, I feel that my lungs would burst everytime I cough. I sometimes have to hold my chest as I cough to partly relieve some discomfort. I am on antibiotics now so I hope I'd be fine soon.
Anyone who lives alone should never get sick. This has always been my prayer. And I mean it deeply. The despicable feeling of being alone is heightened when you get sick and there's just you in the room. The feeling is not for those with a weak heart. No matter how strong you project yourself to the world, when that time comes, you're practically reduced either to some cursing bitch trying to question things and order in this world, or you suddenly become meek and just tear-wet the pillows in deep sadness.
In the few times that I reflected about life's humor, this came to me: The private confines of one's bedroom has this extraordinary privilege to invigorate and refresh and at the same time reduce any superman or superhero into one helpless creature.
No hero or no superman can survive the mighty and lethal powers of an abandoned room with just you, your thermoter, and your Kleenex.
The worst was when I got my dose of high altitude sickness after pitching my tent on the designated campsite on Mt. Pulag, the highest mountain in Luzon. We recorded the temperature to be around 8 degrees Celsius during the night and it was so cold. I just slept afterwards. My climb buddy woke me up hours later with a steaming soup and few spoonfuls of our lovely dinner. He had to feed me literally at times since I was just to weak to coordinate my movements. But it was gone in the morning. I was able to wake up ahead of the others at 4am ready for our assault on the mountain's peak.
Yesterday, I took a leave from work because I had the worst-sounding coughs. It was so bad I thought I was meant to stay indoors for a day or two. Otherwise, I would end up miserable in a humiliating self-pity when I see people run for cover as soon as they hear a wheezing sound thinking it's some firecracker about to explode. You see, I feel that my lungs would burst everytime I cough. I sometimes have to hold my chest as I cough to partly relieve some discomfort. I am on antibiotics now so I hope I'd be fine soon.
Anyone who lives alone should never get sick. This has always been my prayer. And I mean it deeply. The despicable feeling of being alone is heightened when you get sick and there's just you in the room. The feeling is not for those with a weak heart. No matter how strong you project yourself to the world, when that time comes, you're practically reduced either to some cursing bitch trying to question things and order in this world, or you suddenly become meek and just tear-wet the pillows in deep sadness.
In the few times that I reflected about life's humor, this came to me: The private confines of one's bedroom has this extraordinary privilege to invigorate and refresh and at the same time reduce any superman or superhero into one helpless creature.
No hero or no superman can survive the mighty and lethal powers of an abandoned room with just you, your thermoter, and your Kleenex.
12.02.2003
Turning 30
When I turned 30, one of my friends asked me in a devilish kind of way how it felt to be finally hitting one-third of a century. I answered with just three words which captured fittingly how I really felt. I said nonchalantly,"I feel old!"
And just like that, I surrendered my thoughts and opted to be vulnerable. I realized I wasn't in control anymore, I didn't want to keep my thoughts to myself anymore. Normally, I would just shrug my shoulders and refuse to say anything that will give other people infinite joy of having probed my thoughts and feelings. This time, it was different.
Something really improves with age. Not just handwriting, but a whole lot of other things.
The most striking of all these changes is one nice surprise. Oftentimes, people equate getting old with being bumped into the fringes of the dating market. No matter how one masters the Lord's Prayer in asking for some divine intercession, some people still think they have been cursed to singledom and forever just be a guest or a sponsor in friend's weddings.
My friend says I shouldn't despair. The older one gets, the more he becomes in the market. Things have changed, he says. I asked for proof. My friend then started to list down names, presumably his friends and friends of friends, who have hooked it up with people a lot younger than them. I got some good rebuking. The last thing I remember hearing was some sort of encouraging words meant to push me ahead. He said younger people now ache to be with older men. That supposedly should appease me.
I stopped and thought for a while. In a few seconds, I was deluged by questions left and right, some with answers, a lot more with no certain replies. One of the most pressing thought I had was this: Do younger people genuinely prefer somebody older than them or are we older ones who get drawn to these younger set? Do they desire for stability brought forth by many living years or do we really relish youth and wish for the old days to come by?
And just like that, I surrendered my thoughts and opted to be vulnerable. I realized I wasn't in control anymore, I didn't want to keep my thoughts to myself anymore. Normally, I would just shrug my shoulders and refuse to say anything that will give other people infinite joy of having probed my thoughts and feelings. This time, it was different.
Something really improves with age. Not just handwriting, but a whole lot of other things.
The most striking of all these changes is one nice surprise. Oftentimes, people equate getting old with being bumped into the fringes of the dating market. No matter how one masters the Lord's Prayer in asking for some divine intercession, some people still think they have been cursed to singledom and forever just be a guest or a sponsor in friend's weddings.
My friend says I shouldn't despair. The older one gets, the more he becomes in the market. Things have changed, he says. I asked for proof. My friend then started to list down names, presumably his friends and friends of friends, who have hooked it up with people a lot younger than them. I got some good rebuking. The last thing I remember hearing was some sort of encouraging words meant to push me ahead. He said younger people now ache to be with older men. That supposedly should appease me.
I stopped and thought for a while. In a few seconds, I was deluged by questions left and right, some with answers, a lot more with no certain replies. One of the most pressing thought I had was this: Do younger people genuinely prefer somebody older than them or are we older ones who get drawn to these younger set? Do they desire for stability brought forth by many living years or do we really relish youth and wish for the old days to come by?
11.30.2003
Mother earth
My first brush with AIDS was in 1998 when I attended a Health, Interaction and Values (HIV) seminar along with 25 other young people sponsored by non-government health group. That Saturday afternoon, we were made to form a circle for an activity called Wildfire. What I initially thought was just an ordinary learning module turned out to be an unexpected reality check that hurt some of us really deeply and even made the most burly of us meek and rueful crybabies.
Wildfire illustrates the swiftness and betrayal of HIV transmission. The ten of us in my group were made to sit forming a circle. I was seated between a friend's partner to my right and a new friend to my left. The facilitator began the session by asking us to be mindful of our sexual history for any behavior or practice which might have put us in danger or in extreme risk. To cap the activity, he said, he would covertly infect one of us through a secret touch and then we were asked to mingle with everyone in the group with a handshake to simulate sexual contact. We were sternly instructed to be extra sensitive for that distinct kind of touch or handshake from any one we came in contact with. That signals we got the virus. Once infected, we can then decide to stop and get settled in our seats or go on connecting with more people.
The ensuing discussion was heartbreaking as it was enlightening. More than half in the group openly cried as they related their reactions upon getting infected. R. cried the most. He cried some more when he shared his life story and longings. He admits being a drug dependent and living in a condition where easy and careless sex has practically surrounded him. The sight of him shrinking in shame and regret crushed most of us. I'm normally the crybaby, but that afternoon, I ended up playing the mother earth role with two people resting their heavy heads on my two shoulders while I comforted them as they cried. The need to comfort somebody was just too immense that time so I completely became unmindful of my tears.
The next time I encountered AIDS was for real this time. I personally knew J. and, at some point, I even grew up seeing him every now and then.
As the eldest in a brood of probably eight or nine siblings, J. took on the responbilities as head of the family at such a young age of 16 when his father died of cancer many years ago. I knew him by name. That was not surprising. It turns out everyone in our place became familiar with his name and their family's tragic story. The old women in the village would weep with the mere sight of J. They would say, "But how frail are his shoulders. How can he endure all these?" And they would weep some more.
But my memories of J. will always be bright and cheery like himself. I have known J. to be a feared pitcher in the softball team. He would sometimes anchor his school's relay team in the annual athletic meet in the province. He was friendly and responsible. He left his town after high school to pursue college and find work in the city afterwards.
I don't know the life he lived during these times. He died around three years ago of AIDS. Although painful, some voice tells me it's reality Wildfire by itself. So his life becomes a living reminder for us. Let us be pragmatic. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking you're invincible when it comes to AIDS. The truth is, in its face, we are as naked as we first came into being in this world.
======
Postscript: December 1 is World Aids Day. Hope you did your part today!
Wildfire illustrates the swiftness and betrayal of HIV transmission. The ten of us in my group were made to sit forming a circle. I was seated between a friend's partner to my right and a new friend to my left. The facilitator began the session by asking us to be mindful of our sexual history for any behavior or practice which might have put us in danger or in extreme risk. To cap the activity, he said, he would covertly infect one of us through a secret touch and then we were asked to mingle with everyone in the group with a handshake to simulate sexual contact. We were sternly instructed to be extra sensitive for that distinct kind of touch or handshake from any one we came in contact with. That signals we got the virus. Once infected, we can then decide to stop and get settled in our seats or go on connecting with more people.
The ensuing discussion was heartbreaking as it was enlightening. More than half in the group openly cried as they related their reactions upon getting infected. R. cried the most. He cried some more when he shared his life story and longings. He admits being a drug dependent and living in a condition where easy and careless sex has practically surrounded him. The sight of him shrinking in shame and regret crushed most of us. I'm normally the crybaby, but that afternoon, I ended up playing the mother earth role with two people resting their heavy heads on my two shoulders while I comforted them as they cried. The need to comfort somebody was just too immense that time so I completely became unmindful of my tears.
The next time I encountered AIDS was for real this time. I personally knew J. and, at some point, I even grew up seeing him every now and then.
As the eldest in a brood of probably eight or nine siblings, J. took on the responbilities as head of the family at such a young age of 16 when his father died of cancer many years ago. I knew him by name. That was not surprising. It turns out everyone in our place became familiar with his name and their family's tragic story. The old women in the village would weep with the mere sight of J. They would say, "But how frail are his shoulders. How can he endure all these?" And they would weep some more.
But my memories of J. will always be bright and cheery like himself. I have known J. to be a feared pitcher in the softball team. He would sometimes anchor his school's relay team in the annual athletic meet in the province. He was friendly and responsible. He left his town after high school to pursue college and find work in the city afterwards.
I don't know the life he lived during these times. He died around three years ago of AIDS. Although painful, some voice tells me it's reality Wildfire by itself. So his life becomes a living reminder for us. Let us be pragmatic. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking you're invincible when it comes to AIDS. The truth is, in its face, we are as naked as we first came into being in this world.
======
Postscript: December 1 is World Aids Day. Hope you did your part today!
11.27.2003
First meetings
I don't profess to be a dating expert and I know I don't come anywhere near it, but I would always end up getting asked for my opinion on when or how or where should my friends meet their dates. Initially, I sort of got excited about playing Oprah but over time, it made me think if my friends are asking for advice because I was just a phone call away or was it because I speak my mind pretty much.
Just so you would know, I have never wavered. I would always tell my friends the same thing regardless of the season. There's a reason why I would insist that first dates should be met over lunch as much as possible.
I think it's the safest. Both of you know exactly that you only have one hour window to spare. If it turns out you need a quick rescue and it doesn't come right away, at least you only suffered for an hour. Which is fairly tolerable. Suffering wouldn't really lead you to ponder suicide just yet. If you want to appear really gentlemanly and refined, and opt to give your full attention, at least it's within the realm of earthly possibilities to work on extending your attention span to about 45 minutes maximum. The rest you can spend to either engage the waiter in a prolonged conversation as you choose what to order or excusing yourself to go to the restroom to practice smiling, not smirking. You should be very cautious on this otherwise bad karma will come haunting you back in no time.
But here's the sweet sweet side of things. If your date turns out to be some manna from heaven, the one-hour meeting will obviously be so unbelievably quick that it's possible you're still up there on cloud nine by the time the waiter comes to give you back your change. You'll likely end up not being able to work the rest of the afternoon and also more likely to discover that you have this talent for weaving romances in your dreams with the two of you in them.
This time and age of quickies and online dating should make all of us educated on the right ways of meeting and going out with people. Not for anything else, but to make sure that we end up being friends with everyone and we invite only good vibes. That, I think, should be the wisest way to start off a romance. Besides, the community is soooo small beyond belief. You cannot afford to offend other people without them being connected, like Friendster or Ringo, to some of your friends.
Any other tips on first dates you might want to share?
Just so you would know, I have never wavered. I would always tell my friends the same thing regardless of the season. There's a reason why I would insist that first dates should be met over lunch as much as possible.
I think it's the safest. Both of you know exactly that you only have one hour window to spare. If it turns out you need a quick rescue and it doesn't come right away, at least you only suffered for an hour. Which is fairly tolerable. Suffering wouldn't really lead you to ponder suicide just yet. If you want to appear really gentlemanly and refined, and opt to give your full attention, at least it's within the realm of earthly possibilities to work on extending your attention span to about 45 minutes maximum. The rest you can spend to either engage the waiter in a prolonged conversation as you choose what to order or excusing yourself to go to the restroom to practice smiling, not smirking. You should be very cautious on this otherwise bad karma will come haunting you back in no time.
But here's the sweet sweet side of things. If your date turns out to be some manna from heaven, the one-hour meeting will obviously be so unbelievably quick that it's possible you're still up there on cloud nine by the time the waiter comes to give you back your change. You'll likely end up not being able to work the rest of the afternoon and also more likely to discover that you have this talent for weaving romances in your dreams with the two of you in them.
This time and age of quickies and online dating should make all of us educated on the right ways of meeting and going out with people. Not for anything else, but to make sure that we end up being friends with everyone and we invite only good vibes. That, I think, should be the wisest way to start off a romance. Besides, the community is soooo small beyond belief. You cannot afford to offend other people without them being connected, like Friendster or Ringo, to some of your friends.
Any other tips on first dates you might want to share?
11.26.2003
Sex for pay
I had been asked to be paid for sex only once in my entire life. I don't know if this is a good batting average, but it's nonetheless a good conversation piece when nothing else seems to be interesting to accompany bottles of light beer or cruiser vodka.
I was probably 23 or 24 that time and has been single only for a a few weeks after a ten-month serious relationship. My friends brought me to this swanky bar at around midnight one weekend to check on what I have been missing since my recluse. They practically dragged me to this place saying it's where I'm supposed to be, to see and be seen. Giraffe Bar, my friends said, was the hangout to be on weekend nights if you enjoy hobnobbing with the beautiful and perfumed Manila crowd or at least not be in a place where both people and music are lousy. I trusted my friends since they are permanent fixtures on Manila's trendiest nightspots.
Two burly men greeted us as we entered. We went passed the main door and stationed ourselves in an area close to the bar near the ledge. From our spot, we can see those who are coming in and people from as far as the other end of the bar. From midnight until early in the morning when it closes, Giraffe is transformed into an interesting kaleidoscope of different people whose sexual preferences are as diverse as the drinks they order. Some are naturally preppy, others try hard to fit in; some are obviously still in school, others have had their share of class reunions; some come is stylish hairstyles, others in bizarre-looking toupees. However, there seemed to be an unwritten placement rule in the house even when people are squeezed in the place, the right side as you enter is mostly occupied by straight people while the left area is predominantly gay.
I headed to the bar for Kurant. As I was standing there waiting for my drink, this guy in black ensemble came right beside me. It was sudden, it was quick, it was smooth.
"Hi! My name is X. and I've been looking at you since you came in," he said while extending his right hand.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes, and I wanted to ask if you want to come with me."
"Ha? Go with you where?"
"My place. I'll give you 1,000 bucks for it."
"Is that all I'm worth?" I quipped trying to find out how adamant he can get.
"I'll double it then. Let's go to the comfort room now. I'll give you the first 1,000. And give you the rest afterwards."
I froze. I had mixed feelings. I didn't know if there was something wrong with how I looked or combed my hair or my perfume that made the guy think I was a hustler. I swear I'll never ever wear RL again if that makes one look a hooker. Or Eternity.
Very calmly, I pointed to him where my friends were. I said, I was with them for the night after my sensational escape from the seminary. Then I said thanks and left.
Looking back now, there's nothing flattering about having someone offer to take out a wad of money just to have you on their bed and moisten their sheets. How can one's being be measured by a few paper bills? Maybe I'm just old-fashioned or worse, I should have been a religion teacher that's why I think so oddly about Mr. X's offer.
I wanted to know, how do the experts do it? How do they manage to do quickies, on one hand, and, on the other hand, still triumph to build a strong sense of self? I wanted to know, if I took on the challenge, what would that have brought me?
I was probably 23 or 24 that time and has been single only for a a few weeks after a ten-month serious relationship. My friends brought me to this swanky bar at around midnight one weekend to check on what I have been missing since my recluse. They practically dragged me to this place saying it's where I'm supposed to be, to see and be seen. Giraffe Bar, my friends said, was the hangout to be on weekend nights if you enjoy hobnobbing with the beautiful and perfumed Manila crowd or at least not be in a place where both people and music are lousy. I trusted my friends since they are permanent fixtures on Manila's trendiest nightspots.
Two burly men greeted us as we entered. We went passed the main door and stationed ourselves in an area close to the bar near the ledge. From our spot, we can see those who are coming in and people from as far as the other end of the bar. From midnight until early in the morning when it closes, Giraffe is transformed into an interesting kaleidoscope of different people whose sexual preferences are as diverse as the drinks they order. Some are naturally preppy, others try hard to fit in; some are obviously still in school, others have had their share of class reunions; some come is stylish hairstyles, others in bizarre-looking toupees. However, there seemed to be an unwritten placement rule in the house even when people are squeezed in the place, the right side as you enter is mostly occupied by straight people while the left area is predominantly gay.
I headed to the bar for Kurant. As I was standing there waiting for my drink, this guy in black ensemble came right beside me. It was sudden, it was quick, it was smooth.
"Hi! My name is X. and I've been looking at you since you came in," he said while extending his right hand.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes, and I wanted to ask if you want to come with me."
"Ha? Go with you where?"
"My place. I'll give you 1,000 bucks for it."
"Is that all I'm worth?" I quipped trying to find out how adamant he can get.
"I'll double it then. Let's go to the comfort room now. I'll give you the first 1,000. And give you the rest afterwards."
I froze. I had mixed feelings. I didn't know if there was something wrong with how I looked or combed my hair or my perfume that made the guy think I was a hustler. I swear I'll never ever wear RL again if that makes one look a hooker. Or Eternity.
Very calmly, I pointed to him where my friends were. I said, I was with them for the night after my sensational escape from the seminary. Then I said thanks and left.
Looking back now, there's nothing flattering about having someone offer to take out a wad of money just to have you on their bed and moisten their sheets. How can one's being be measured by a few paper bills? Maybe I'm just old-fashioned or worse, I should have been a religion teacher that's why I think so oddly about Mr. X's offer.
I wanted to know, how do the experts do it? How do they manage to do quickies, on one hand, and, on the other hand, still triumph to build a strong sense of self? I wanted to know, if I took on the challenge, what would that have brought me?
11.24.2003
No more dark years
Most people will describe their college years as fun, funny, and funky. These were energetic years spent in celebration of youth and adventure, sometimes inside and at times outside the bedroom. What makes this period really memorable are the countless records of firsts that will remain incontestable for the years to come, where all succeeding experiences will be judged upon. First boyfriend, first torrid kiss, first motel stay, first drug overdose, and to some, first-born child.
In my case, I never fail to make a tsk-tsk sound when people ask me about how I spent college. I raise my eyebrows in exasperation and describe them as my dark years. When pressed some more for details, I just say I wish I didn't grow up with so much twisted ideas on love, life, and most especially, acceptance.
No, it's not what you think. I finished college on time, I never had a failing mark, I was done with my thesis one semester ahead, I was your Mom's typical ideal student. More than this, I lived alone and I was adept at budgeting money to doing laundry to self-massage.
The trouble starts ten years later after graduation when you start reminiscing. Some friends will marvel you about their sexual escapades you never thought were possible in those years. Some will regale you about nights spent boozing and cruising. Everyone seemed to have grand stories to tell. Except me. I'm then forced to lend my ears to all of these while trying so hard not to beat myself in reproach.
On one end, I'm glad I delivered what was expected of me by my parents. That was the least I can do. But the good feeling ends there. The other end of the story chides me no end for falling into the trap of trying to fit in the mold, to please everybody, to allow stereotype to camouflage what was the real me. Putting it bluntly, I was practically living up to other people's expectations at the expense of self-discovery and the joy that comes from it. How I lived, how I behaved, how I reacted to the world, unfortunately, were dictated by what most people would consider ideal or good or perfect. I was living at the mercy of other people's perception of good and evil.
Those were dark years I'm glad are over now. I have since held a good grip on life and lived one that's genuinely me. I feel strongly on many things and have my opinion heard on certain things. I am no push-over, I am independent, I am pragmatic, I'm no longer defined by anyone's standards. I am proud of myself now, I feel good, I feel light, and, the best part of it all, they know.
In my case, I never fail to make a tsk-tsk sound when people ask me about how I spent college. I raise my eyebrows in exasperation and describe them as my dark years. When pressed some more for details, I just say I wish I didn't grow up with so much twisted ideas on love, life, and most especially, acceptance.
No, it's not what you think. I finished college on time, I never had a failing mark, I was done with my thesis one semester ahead, I was your Mom's typical ideal student. More than this, I lived alone and I was adept at budgeting money to doing laundry to self-massage.
The trouble starts ten years later after graduation when you start reminiscing. Some friends will marvel you about their sexual escapades you never thought were possible in those years. Some will regale you about nights spent boozing and cruising. Everyone seemed to have grand stories to tell. Except me. I'm then forced to lend my ears to all of these while trying so hard not to beat myself in reproach.
On one end, I'm glad I delivered what was expected of me by my parents. That was the least I can do. But the good feeling ends there. The other end of the story chides me no end for falling into the trap of trying to fit in the mold, to please everybody, to allow stereotype to camouflage what was the real me. Putting it bluntly, I was practically living up to other people's expectations at the expense of self-discovery and the joy that comes from it. How I lived, how I behaved, how I reacted to the world, unfortunately, were dictated by what most people would consider ideal or good or perfect. I was living at the mercy of other people's perception of good and evil.
Those were dark years I'm glad are over now. I have since held a good grip on life and lived one that's genuinely me. I feel strongly on many things and have my opinion heard on certain things. I am no push-over, I am independent, I am pragmatic, I'm no longer defined by anyone's standards. I am proud of myself now, I feel good, I feel light, and, the best part of it all, they know.
11.23.2003
A little help from Friendster
Today's papers all carried a piece on Alex Santiago's burial. And I read all of them with mixed emotions. On one hand, I couldn't understand why somebody so young at 22 like him would take his life with a gun so I wanted to understand or at least take on morsels of personal details that come far and in between. On another hand, there's a noble voice behind my back that tells me I should always make myself available for my friends in case they needed help.Or even when they don't ask for it, I should cultivate a heart that feels things with them.
If you were like me who got so intrigued with Alex's death, you know that there's nothing new about him to find in the papers other than what was written about him before: 22, single male, youngest son of an ex-senator, in law school. No article featured him more than these basic descriptions. This drove some people to even think that he was probably gay and had a hard time dealing with it. I didn't like how this sounded because it makes me rage in deep frustration personally knowing the hurt of going through something so depressing and there's no one to even share this.
I think my detective-researcher instinct suddenly reminded me that one of the hottest in-things these days might just offer help. Friendster gave me a refreshing find. Like all of the young people in Manila, Alex too was on Friendster.
I'm still catching my breath with some new details I learned about him: That his last login was on 19 November 2003, a day before his suicide. Police said he was likely dead midnight of the 20th, which made me think he was likely doing Friendster up until the last minute. Doing what? I don't know, but there's something unnerving about certain entries he had. For instance,
Occupation: Attempted Law Student, Dead Man Walking
Interests: Goodbyes
Who I Want To Meet: Let's hope it's Saint Peter on the other side.
Urrggghhh. It's creepy!!
If you were like me who got so intrigued with Alex's death, you know that there's nothing new about him to find in the papers other than what was written about him before: 22, single male, youngest son of an ex-senator, in law school. No article featured him more than these basic descriptions. This drove some people to even think that he was probably gay and had a hard time dealing with it. I didn't like how this sounded because it makes me rage in deep frustration personally knowing the hurt of going through something so depressing and there's no one to even share this.
I think my detective-researcher instinct suddenly reminded me that one of the hottest in-things these days might just offer help. Friendster gave me a refreshing find. Like all of the young people in Manila, Alex too was on Friendster.
I'm still catching my breath with some new details I learned about him: That his last login was on 19 November 2003, a day before his suicide. Police said he was likely dead midnight of the 20th, which made me think he was likely doing Friendster up until the last minute. Doing what? I don't know, but there's something unnerving about certain entries he had. For instance,
Occupation: Attempted Law Student, Dead Man Walking
Interests: Goodbyes
Who I Want To Meet: Let's hope it's Saint Peter on the other side.
Urrggghhh. It's creepy!!
11.20.2003
Red flags
I have yet to find somebody who genuinely hates dating. I think even my friends who vehemently say they're up in arms against the idea may actually be thrilled deep in their hearts. That's my fearless forecast. They're just too shy to admit. I don't know why they have to exert so much effort trying to put up a mighty image, one that will put China's Great Wall in shame.
They're missing a lot. There is so much about dating that gets one lightened up and excited and bubbly like everyone else. At least for me, I relish at the thought that it's actually a convenient opportunity to dress a little more than usual, to be more refined than usual, to look better than usual, to smell better than usual, and to feel better than usual. I especially adore the last one. I think this is the reason that drives most people nuts and decide to go out there and meet people regardless of whether there have been awful moments before. Every date is a step towards ending the chase and finding relief. Every date represents a glimmer of hope that our lifelong wish for a fairytale romance finally comes true.
But not all dates are made in the heavens. In my case, there have few instances in my dating past when I wanted to run home as fast as I can no later than half an hour into the date. Call me rude, call me prude, but I just can't help it. There are only three possible reasons that make me do this.
In no time, I found out that M just came from a three-year relationship just weeks before we met. Right there and then, I backed off. It has always been a non-negotiable for me to date people who have just been from broken relationship. And my reasoning I think is as scientific as it is practical. I think I'm giving the guy more favor by giving more time for himself to enjoy his newly-found status and to reflect on things. That's my RedFlag #1.
I think it's also scary to date somebody who calls his ex's names. I don't care if he has had 20 people who came before me. What matters to me is how he relates to them. If I find him in talking terms with all of them or at least be civil when they meet, I'm floored. I think it reflects so much about his character. But if I hear him call any one of them an asshole or stupid, then I run for cover. RedFlag#2.
My last red flag should hold true for all. I always tell myself and all my friends that it's never worth the risk to date somebody who does drugs. I don't care if he makes Queen Elizabeth drool. It's just not wise.
They're missing a lot. There is so much about dating that gets one lightened up and excited and bubbly like everyone else. At least for me, I relish at the thought that it's actually a convenient opportunity to dress a little more than usual, to be more refined than usual, to look better than usual, to smell better than usual, and to feel better than usual. I especially adore the last one. I think this is the reason that drives most people nuts and decide to go out there and meet people regardless of whether there have been awful moments before. Every date is a step towards ending the chase and finding relief. Every date represents a glimmer of hope that our lifelong wish for a fairytale romance finally comes true.
But not all dates are made in the heavens. In my case, there have few instances in my dating past when I wanted to run home as fast as I can no later than half an hour into the date. Call me rude, call me prude, but I just can't help it. There are only three possible reasons that make me do this.
In no time, I found out that M just came from a three-year relationship just weeks before we met. Right there and then, I backed off. It has always been a non-negotiable for me to date people who have just been from broken relationship. And my reasoning I think is as scientific as it is practical. I think I'm giving the guy more favor by giving more time for himself to enjoy his newly-found status and to reflect on things. That's my RedFlag #1.
I think it's also scary to date somebody who calls his ex's names. I don't care if he has had 20 people who came before me. What matters to me is how he relates to them. If I find him in talking terms with all of them or at least be civil when they meet, I'm floored. I think it reflects so much about his character. But if I hear him call any one of them an asshole or stupid, then I run for cover. RedFlag#2.
My last red flag should hold true for all. I always tell myself and all my friends that it's never worth the risk to date somebody who does drugs. I don't care if he makes Queen Elizabeth drool. It's just not wise.
11.19.2003
Negative/Positive
There are times when waiting is a such a sweet pleasure. There are occasions when it's a little infuriating. And there are moments when it becomes like death. I am used to the first two having been through them several times already. But for the last one, however, I am not sure if even a thousand journeys will ever make a difference.
I was sweating profusely while I was seated and waiting for my name to be called outside the doctor's third floor-office. It felt so hot the airconditioning seemed useless. I would stand and walk a few steps to the window looking outside how Manila skyline was on early summer afternoon. I whistled a few times hoping some fresh air would squeeze their way through the window panels and comfort me. Up until that time, I never imagined that waiting to get your HIV test results would be so paralyzing. If the attending doctor's not my friend, I would have dashed outside the building not to be seen ever again.
Dr. F. then called me in. He probably saw my nervous look he led to a chair across his desk. I was facing him so there was no way I can hide how agitated I was. I tried to be calm as I watched his every move and observed all his facial expression hoping I'd get a clue on what the results would be like. It didn't work. As a standard procedure, we went through the highlights of the pre-test counseling I underwent a few days back. He made sure I was emotionally ready to face the verdict. Soon after, he took out something from the drawer and handed me a small envelop containing my test results. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I wanted to die.
No amount of prayers can ever make you ready for the time when you finally tear the envelop and find out the results. If it were possible, I would want to buy some more time. For a moment, I started berating myself for ever deciding to undergo the tests. But the doctor friend was there waiting for me to disclose the results so he knows exactly how to intervene.
I skipped breathing for a while when I saw the word negative. I was extremely relieved and thankful. I literally wanted to shout and kiss the heavens. Had my doctor friend asked me to perform Annie as in the musical play Annie, I wouldn't have any problem doing it.
But as I walked out the building, I was consumed by faint feelings of guilt and grief. I thought, I can never imagine how it would be like for those whose results were different from mine. And I can never understand the anguish of having to live knowing that, sooner or later, the end is near. It's so weird how just one word would carry so much meaning at one time that it practically dictates how you would run your life until life itself melts away.
The question is, will you let that happen?
I was sweating profusely while I was seated and waiting for my name to be called outside the doctor's third floor-office. It felt so hot the airconditioning seemed useless. I would stand and walk a few steps to the window looking outside how Manila skyline was on early summer afternoon. I whistled a few times hoping some fresh air would squeeze their way through the window panels and comfort me. Up until that time, I never imagined that waiting to get your HIV test results would be so paralyzing. If the attending doctor's not my friend, I would have dashed outside the building not to be seen ever again.
Dr. F. then called me in. He probably saw my nervous look he led to a chair across his desk. I was facing him so there was no way I can hide how agitated I was. I tried to be calm as I watched his every move and observed all his facial expression hoping I'd get a clue on what the results would be like. It didn't work. As a standard procedure, we went through the highlights of the pre-test counseling I underwent a few days back. He made sure I was emotionally ready to face the verdict. Soon after, he took out something from the drawer and handed me a small envelop containing my test results. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I wanted to die.
No amount of prayers can ever make you ready for the time when you finally tear the envelop and find out the results. If it were possible, I would want to buy some more time. For a moment, I started berating myself for ever deciding to undergo the tests. But the doctor friend was there waiting for me to disclose the results so he knows exactly how to intervene.
I skipped breathing for a while when I saw the word negative. I was extremely relieved and thankful. I literally wanted to shout and kiss the heavens. Had my doctor friend asked me to perform Annie as in the musical play Annie, I wouldn't have any problem doing it.
But as I walked out the building, I was consumed by faint feelings of guilt and grief. I thought, I can never imagine how it would be like for those whose results were different from mine. And I can never understand the anguish of having to live knowing that, sooner or later, the end is near. It's so weird how just one word would carry so much meaning at one time that it practically dictates how you would run your life until life itself melts away.
The question is, will you let that happen?
11.17.2003
Demystifying basketball
I remember only two occasions in my entire life that I ever played basketball. And on both occasions, I was forced.
The first one was in fourth grade. There was an upcoming athletic meet that time and I was dragged to the try-outs for the school team. I had a feeling my mother asked the coach, who was my grandfather’s friend, to look for me and have me checked over if they have a use for me. I knew something was off that morning when the coach came by our classroom and called out my name. My classmates were jeering at me since they have never seen me play basketball before. And because peer pressure was too much, there was no escaping. I proceeded to the court where the other boys were. All eyes were on me and I got so annoyed and conscious. Like what the others did, I dribbled the ball three times and aimed for the ring. Of course I missed. I never heard from the coach.
Six years later, I played my second and my last basketball game. My friends Mao, Doc, Jimboy and I were playing in the rain one stormy afternoon. We were just moving around town on our bicycles when we passed by the court in the town center. They wanted to play two-on-two basketball and, sensing that they needed one more guy and there was no one else there, turned their peering eyes on me. They pushed and shoved me to the court until Mao passed me the ball and I had no choice but to play along. They ended up having a really hilariously entertaining game that afternoon, one that I’m sure they will always remember since they spent more time clutching their sides as they laughed so hard.
I have always known that basketball will never succeed to tame me and I can never learn to love it. For one, the seemingly endless and senseless action of running back and forth trying to chase the ball just doesn’t appeal to me. I see more challenge in bait fishing or trekking tricky mountains or in perfecting a pasta sauce.
Having said all that, I’d like to confess that I really intended not to learn to play basketball as a form of protest. I never understood why it should become a tool to discriminate people -- that you’re definitely straight if you master the rhythm of dribbling and shooting and likely to be gay if you’re completely oblivious of it.
Since when basketball rightfully depicted one’s personhood?
The first one was in fourth grade. There was an upcoming athletic meet that time and I was dragged to the try-outs for the school team. I had a feeling my mother asked the coach, who was my grandfather’s friend, to look for me and have me checked over if they have a use for me. I knew something was off that morning when the coach came by our classroom and called out my name. My classmates were jeering at me since they have never seen me play basketball before. And because peer pressure was too much, there was no escaping. I proceeded to the court where the other boys were. All eyes were on me and I got so annoyed and conscious. Like what the others did, I dribbled the ball three times and aimed for the ring. Of course I missed. I never heard from the coach.
Six years later, I played my second and my last basketball game. My friends Mao, Doc, Jimboy and I were playing in the rain one stormy afternoon. We were just moving around town on our bicycles when we passed by the court in the town center. They wanted to play two-on-two basketball and, sensing that they needed one more guy and there was no one else there, turned their peering eyes on me. They pushed and shoved me to the court until Mao passed me the ball and I had no choice but to play along. They ended up having a really hilariously entertaining game that afternoon, one that I’m sure they will always remember since they spent more time clutching their sides as they laughed so hard.
I have always known that basketball will never succeed to tame me and I can never learn to love it. For one, the seemingly endless and senseless action of running back and forth trying to chase the ball just doesn’t appeal to me. I see more challenge in bait fishing or trekking tricky mountains or in perfecting a pasta sauce.
Having said all that, I’d like to confess that I really intended not to learn to play basketball as a form of protest. I never understood why it should become a tool to discriminate people -- that you’re definitely straight if you master the rhythm of dribbling and shooting and likely to be gay if you’re completely oblivious of it.
Since when basketball rightfully depicted one’s personhood?
11.16.2003
Walls
I grew up in the seventies in a small town where streets are narrow and the houses are walled from each other by reeds. These makeshift walls were erected more to mark land properties and guard against loose backyard animals rather than protection from housebreakers. The reeds were commonly used not only because they were widely available, but more for being uncomplicated. They can be easily replaced if they have gotten brittle because of too much sun and become more useful as a stove fuel. They are also used to anchor vegetables and sometimes as an additional clothesline.
In an ironic kind of way, they also give you a glimpse of the everyday lives that your neighbors lived. Like in my case.
For instance, I never knew that one can really grow old and never marry. I've always thought that Uncle Caling and Auntie Yayong (oh yes, in my hometown every elder is called uncle or auntie even if you're not related) were husband and wife. They lived in the east side so they'd normally be the first ones you see as you look out the window in the morning. You seldom see them going to church. They had this only store in the whole town which sells fishing supplies. I remember looking up the shelves that were always full of strings and rods in mesmerizing colors and shapes as my friends and I sit on sacks of rice by the entrance. Their place has sort of become a landmark in town. You know you're in the middle of town when you're in their store.
At the north side of our house lived the Dacles family. They were so close to our house that we often hear the couple argue. We seldom see them face to face but we were nevertheless updated on their personal issues and arguments. When they were not arguing, they were still rowdy because they would be drunk along with some friends. You know they were drunk because you would hear them sing "Paper Roses" till your eardrums blast. One time, I clambered up our roof and tried to look inside their house. I realized I could actually steal their antique waterpot without actually leaving the house. During Christmas, my parents will receive greetings from them on the air, over the reeds.
I never figured out who actually owned the house on the west side. The neighbors changed frequently. But I remember having grown up with the Enfesta's. Ness was my classmate. On the way out to our gate, you would pass by their kitchen so you always know what's being served. You just lose count on the number of times in summer when fish becomes the dish. One time, Auntie Mely was pouring boiled water in the jar when the pot gave way and it drenched her torso. That's where I learned to be serious with anything fresh off the stove.
In a more ironic kind of way, I wish we create walls that give other people glimpse of our lives rather than complete enclosures that isolate us from them and the world. It would be fun to know the stories they will recount about us.
In an ironic kind of way, they also give you a glimpse of the everyday lives that your neighbors lived. Like in my case.
For instance, I never knew that one can really grow old and never marry. I've always thought that Uncle Caling and Auntie Yayong (oh yes, in my hometown every elder is called uncle or auntie even if you're not related) were husband and wife. They lived in the east side so they'd normally be the first ones you see as you look out the window in the morning. You seldom see them going to church. They had this only store in the whole town which sells fishing supplies. I remember looking up the shelves that were always full of strings and rods in mesmerizing colors and shapes as my friends and I sit on sacks of rice by the entrance. Their place has sort of become a landmark in town. You know you're in the middle of town when you're in their store.
At the north side of our house lived the Dacles family. They were so close to our house that we often hear the couple argue. We seldom see them face to face but we were nevertheless updated on their personal issues and arguments. When they were not arguing, they were still rowdy because they would be drunk along with some friends. You know they were drunk because you would hear them sing "Paper Roses" till your eardrums blast. One time, I clambered up our roof and tried to look inside their house. I realized I could actually steal their antique waterpot without actually leaving the house. During Christmas, my parents will receive greetings from them on the air, over the reeds.
I never figured out who actually owned the house on the west side. The neighbors changed frequently. But I remember having grown up with the Enfesta's. Ness was my classmate. On the way out to our gate, you would pass by their kitchen so you always know what's being served. You just lose count on the number of times in summer when fish becomes the dish. One time, Auntie Mely was pouring boiled water in the jar when the pot gave way and it drenched her torso. That's where I learned to be serious with anything fresh off the stove.
In a more ironic kind of way, I wish we create walls that give other people glimpse of our lives rather than complete enclosures that isolate us from them and the world. It would be fun to know the stories they will recount about us.
11.13.2003
Rainy thoughts
For the rest of the day, I have a strong feeling the sun won't ever show up in Manila. A storm is currently blasting provinces south of Manila and the dark rain clouds have formed their way up everywhere along with rushes of cold wind and cool weather. It's the perfect time to just stay on bed and catch up on sleep.
I should have done that. I should have called in sick and played doctor-doctor at home. And then when I'm tired and bored, I could switch on the TV and drown myself in the stupid yet undeniably popular morning soap operas which probably the whole of Manila has grown accustomed to (except me!), while trying to figure out how in the world can one even enjoy a show that features awkwardly dubbed dialogues in the local language on actors whose face and appearance is everything but local. I just can't get it!
And when I get tired and bored again, I can choose to be pensive like the weather and open some vintage tin boxes I keep on top of my closet. I'll brew coffee and then, with Tyrell/Connick Jr./Buble in the background, I will relive the good old days by reading old loveletters and cards. As sure as some of my neighbors would be humping and pumping in the stillness of the morning, I will whimper shortly and shed some tears. Which hopefully will lead me back to deep slumber.
When I wake up and it'll be surely afternoon by then, I may opt to order in pizza as I attempt to strike a balance of satisfying a long-standing craving with my trainer's strict diet plan. Of course, I'd be a miss, a terrible one which will leave me feeling so dumb that the next thing I want to do is put on my workout clothes and head out to the gym.
I just hope there'd be rain by that time so I will be where I'm really supposed to be -- indoors, on my bed. Even without the human blanket. It doesn't matter.
I should have done that. I should have called in sick and played doctor-doctor at home. And then when I'm tired and bored, I could switch on the TV and drown myself in the stupid yet undeniably popular morning soap operas which probably the whole of Manila has grown accustomed to (except me!), while trying to figure out how in the world can one even enjoy a show that features awkwardly dubbed dialogues in the local language on actors whose face and appearance is everything but local. I just can't get it!
And when I get tired and bored again, I can choose to be pensive like the weather and open some vintage tin boxes I keep on top of my closet. I'll brew coffee and then, with Tyrell/Connick Jr./Buble in the background, I will relive the good old days by reading old loveletters and cards. As sure as some of my neighbors would be humping and pumping in the stillness of the morning, I will whimper shortly and shed some tears. Which hopefully will lead me back to deep slumber.
When I wake up and it'll be surely afternoon by then, I may opt to order in pizza as I attempt to strike a balance of satisfying a long-standing craving with my trainer's strict diet plan. Of course, I'd be a miss, a terrible one which will leave me feeling so dumb that the next thing I want to do is put on my workout clothes and head out to the gym.
I just hope there'd be rain by that time so I will be where I'm really supposed to be -- indoors, on my bed. Even without the human blanket. It doesn't matter.
11.12.2003
The inevitable
No matter how much I try to put it off, I know one day I'll come down to this: choosing a memorial plan.
It's not something easy. My friend's reactions are as varied as the number of personalities they keep. In fact, most of them look at it as something eerie, one that normally doesn't find its way in our conversations over coffee and zero-calorie drinks. There are even a few who completely don't understand why on earth would somebody even think of locking horns with Death himself for even just a moment. Others look at it with prying eyes. They suspect I'm up to something or some strange disease has decided to drop by and make myself its home.
They find it hard to understand that, for people like me who live alone and far from family, it's the least that I can do to make things easier for whomever I'm going to leave behind. It's the least that I make sure will go right lest I be nefariously remembered as an agony and bother up to the last minute. Which is not very glamorous.
And so today, I went over some memorial plans offered by one local company. I don't know what came to me, but it was enough to pull me through several pages of documents. First, you choose the type of plan you plan to avail. Depending on your preference, you either opt for cremation or the traditional memorial service package. But for either plans, you soon find yourself besieged with several choices coming one after another --- what's the preferred wood type for the casket, or will it be metal or bronze instead, will the urn be first class marble, a high-gloss or high-luster finish for the casket, sealer-type or not, full or half-viewing, rich silk interiors or just quilted silk, full-length handles or just supports at the corners? So whoever said dying is easy should be shot!
In the end, you're consumed by a certain kind of peace and calmness knowing how everything is taken cared of so your family will no longer be troubled. They can then spend the rest of the time talking about how nice you were as a kid, how you almost got that girl pregnant, why you loved Madonna and Cher, the number of times you failed math in college, where you love to show off your biceps, the colorful friends you keep, and the many love you won and lost.
And everybody will have a grand time during the wake.
It's not something easy. My friend's reactions are as varied as the number of personalities they keep. In fact, most of them look at it as something eerie, one that normally doesn't find its way in our conversations over coffee and zero-calorie drinks. There are even a few who completely don't understand why on earth would somebody even think of locking horns with Death himself for even just a moment. Others look at it with prying eyes. They suspect I'm up to something or some strange disease has decided to drop by and make myself its home.
They find it hard to understand that, for people like me who live alone and far from family, it's the least that I can do to make things easier for whomever I'm going to leave behind. It's the least that I make sure will go right lest I be nefariously remembered as an agony and bother up to the last minute. Which is not very glamorous.
And so today, I went over some memorial plans offered by one local company. I don't know what came to me, but it was enough to pull me through several pages of documents. First, you choose the type of plan you plan to avail. Depending on your preference, you either opt for cremation or the traditional memorial service package. But for either plans, you soon find yourself besieged with several choices coming one after another --- what's the preferred wood type for the casket, or will it be metal or bronze instead, will the urn be first class marble, a high-gloss or high-luster finish for the casket, sealer-type or not, full or half-viewing, rich silk interiors or just quilted silk, full-length handles or just supports at the corners? So whoever said dying is easy should be shot!
In the end, you're consumed by a certain kind of peace and calmness knowing how everything is taken cared of so your family will no longer be troubled. They can then spend the rest of the time talking about how nice you were as a kid, how you almost got that girl pregnant, why you loved Madonna and Cher, the number of times you failed math in college, where you love to show off your biceps, the colorful friends you keep, and the many love you won and lost.
And everybody will have a grand time during the wake.
11.11.2003
X-date's question
When an ex date and a friend out of nowhere asks you if dating him before, albeit brief, taught you anything, what are you supposed to say? How do you exactly respond? Do you choose to be amiable? Or simply disregard it in humor?
F.'s text message came as a surprise. Reading one of my previous entries got him to think if I learned something from the "super short time" that we went out before. I found it strange that he would ask something like that. But I found it more strange that I was struggling with a response. I wanted to be serious and offer a serious reply, but I couldn't come up with the correct answer. I wanted to spend some more time recalling what happened about seven years ago before replying, but I thought he wanted to hear from me right away. I had to be quick and sharp.
What flashed before me then was one thing unmatched to this day. I don't know with him since his travels may have spelled more interesting encounters, but what happened along that avenue was one that remained my proud bragging right up to recently.
We were both guests in that party. One friend tagged me along. Funny, but I personally don't know whose party was it. I was just told it was supposed one where friends can bring along their friends and friend's friends. That explained the heat of that night.
F. and I left together after a few hours later. It was way past midnight that time and I think I said I have to be sleeping then. But it was more like I was getting suffocated being surrounded by a thousand and one different hairstyles, cologne scents, bicep sizes, and nasal tones. On the drive home, the wine started kicking in. He suddenly swerved and parked right along a busy main avenue in Makati where furious tongues lashed and got thrashed.
And so, while laughing, I replied to F. that he taught me passion, which of course he took with a grain of salt. But I guess that answer left me with more questions than answers.
Is passion something that can be learned?
F.'s text message came as a surprise. Reading one of my previous entries got him to think if I learned something from the "super short time" that we went out before. I found it strange that he would ask something like that. But I found it more strange that I was struggling with a response. I wanted to be serious and offer a serious reply, but I couldn't come up with the correct answer. I wanted to spend some more time recalling what happened about seven years ago before replying, but I thought he wanted to hear from me right away. I had to be quick and sharp.
What flashed before me then was one thing unmatched to this day. I don't know with him since his travels may have spelled more interesting encounters, but what happened along that avenue was one that remained my proud bragging right up to recently.
We were both guests in that party. One friend tagged me along. Funny, but I personally don't know whose party was it. I was just told it was supposed one where friends can bring along their friends and friend's friends. That explained the heat of that night.
F. and I left together after a few hours later. It was way past midnight that time and I think I said I have to be sleeping then. But it was more like I was getting suffocated being surrounded by a thousand and one different hairstyles, cologne scents, bicep sizes, and nasal tones. On the drive home, the wine started kicking in. He suddenly swerved and parked right along a busy main avenue in Makati where furious tongues lashed and got thrashed.
And so, while laughing, I replied to F. that he taught me passion, which of course he took with a grain of salt. But I guess that answer left me with more questions than answers.
Is passion something that can be learned?
11.09.2003
Getting through it
While we're at it, we might as well find out all we can about the topic. Thanks to Oprah, coping becomes slightly easier because of tips coming from real people in real stories.
My friends, here are some of Dr. Phil's insights that may be helpful for us, especially those of us getting past the pain of break up or those who are helping friends cope with it. Let's always take care of each other.
===============
1. DO watch your vocabulary.
We all have an internal conversation with ourselves. Since it shapes our outlook, be careful about the language you choose. Words like "nightmare," "terrible" and "horrible" are catastrophic terms. If you use them, you're bound to spend time dwelling on the negative. Spend more time focusing on what you can do.
2. DO define your real intentions.
Are you trying to move past the break-up, or are you hoping to get back with your ex? Define the emotional goal. You won't move on until you've truly accepted that the relationship is over.
3. DO allow yourself to own your feelings.
You can't get over being hurt until you know you've been heard. Give yourself permission to express your anger, your sadness—whatever emotions you may be experiencing. It's better to be angry with someone else than to blame yourself.
4. DO learn to trust again.
Whenever you get involved in a relationship, you know there's risk. Don't let a bad experience keep you from living your life to the fullest.
1. DON'T lose sight of what's important.
Sometimes the relationship you need to rescue is the one with yourself. Moving past a breakup is all about you, not your ex. Don't worry about becoming friends right away—if ever. You have to be your own friend first.
2. DON'T get stuck.
Grief is a process to go through, not a destination in which to wallow. In a process, you keep putting one foot in front of the other. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months... each little step is part of the process of healing your heart.
3. DON'T embarrass yourself.
Driving past your ex's house, making dozens of phone calls, e-mailing non-stop…that's not the way to let go of the past. Don't get in a situation where you'll look back someday and feel humiliated.
===============
My friends, here are some of Dr. Phil's insights that may be helpful for us, especially those of us getting past the pain of break up or those who are helping friends cope with it. Let's always take care of each other.
===============
Do's
1. DO watch your vocabulary.
We all have an internal conversation with ourselves. Since it shapes our outlook, be careful about the language you choose. Words like "nightmare," "terrible" and "horrible" are catastrophic terms. If you use them, you're bound to spend time dwelling on the negative. Spend more time focusing on what you can do.
2. DO define your real intentions.
Are you trying to move past the break-up, or are you hoping to get back with your ex? Define the emotional goal. You won't move on until you've truly accepted that the relationship is over.
3. DO allow yourself to own your feelings.
You can't get over being hurt until you know you've been heard. Give yourself permission to express your anger, your sadness—whatever emotions you may be experiencing. It's better to be angry with someone else than to blame yourself.
4. DO learn to trust again.
Whenever you get involved in a relationship, you know there's risk. Don't let a bad experience keep you from living your life to the fullest.
Don'ts
1. DON'T lose sight of what's important.
Sometimes the relationship you need to rescue is the one with yourself. Moving past a breakup is all about you, not your ex. Don't worry about becoming friends right away—if ever. You have to be your own friend first.
2. DON'T get stuck.
Grief is a process to go through, not a destination in which to wallow. In a process, you keep putting one foot in front of the other. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months... each little step is part of the process of healing your heart.
3. DON'T embarrass yourself.
Driving past your ex's house, making dozens of phone calls, e-mailing non-stop…that's not the way to let go of the past. Don't get in a situation where you'll look back someday and feel humiliated.
===============
Unexpected places
In between sobs, he mustered the faintest voice he can gather and thanked me for making him happy since we got together several months back. I was overwhelmed the words pierced deeply. I can only heave a deep sigh and, in muffled voice, exclaimed "Oh God!" as I asked myself to be excused. I put the phone down and rushed to somewhere private where no one can see me drift to crying land.
And there, for a few minutes, I was lost in tears and running nose. I can only look out the window and amuse myself with the unexciting scenery of tall glass buildings mixed the shorter ones in painted concrete. It was good I was at work that time so at least I was forced to be composed and calm. Otherwise, I would have sobbed so heavily the whole building where I live would be jolted and shaken thinking some newly-married wife was suddenly left widowed. To some extent, this was the case for us.
How we met is a magical story of joy and thankfulness better relived in memories where it rightfully receives justice. It is one story that has never failed to tickle even our most boorish friends. It is one story, they say, that should be repeated over and over to keep love alive. Love truly comes in the most unexpected places and times. We were at the same place at the same time but we did different things. He danced, I played. He was in tap dancing shoes, I was swinging my racket. We were having fun doing our separate activities but, somewhere along the way, love came and showed itself to us.
And that's how life became more inspiring, living more meaningful, loving more enduring, and lusting more profound for us --- even if it passed so quickly. Truly, the sense of love lies not in how long it stayed, but on how deep we felt its magic, meaning and madness.
And there, for a few minutes, I was lost in tears and running nose. I can only look out the window and amuse myself with the unexciting scenery of tall glass buildings mixed the shorter ones in painted concrete. It was good I was at work that time so at least I was forced to be composed and calm. Otherwise, I would have sobbed so heavily the whole building where I live would be jolted and shaken thinking some newly-married wife was suddenly left widowed. To some extent, this was the case for us.
How we met is a magical story of joy and thankfulness better relived in memories where it rightfully receives justice. It is one story that has never failed to tickle even our most boorish friends. It is one story, they say, that should be repeated over and over to keep love alive. Love truly comes in the most unexpected places and times. We were at the same place at the same time but we did different things. He danced, I played. He was in tap dancing shoes, I was swinging my racket. We were having fun doing our separate activities but, somewhere along the way, love came and showed itself to us.
And that's how life became more inspiring, living more meaningful, loving more enduring, and lusting more profound for us --- even if it passed so quickly. Truly, the sense of love lies not in how long it stayed, but on how deep we felt its magic, meaning and madness.
11.06.2003
An Egyptian?
A psychologist friend kindly researched about my pastlife. I don't know where exactly, but this was the result.
===========================
My pastlife:
Male.
Born in Egypt in 700.
Profession was builder of houses, temples, cathedrals.
Has a ruthless character.
Weighs decisions in critical situations.
Has self-control and strong will
Generally liked by people.
Lesson from the past is to study and use wisdom that lies in psychological sciences.
===========================
===========================
My pastlife:
Male.
Born in Egypt in 700.
Profession was builder of houses, temples, cathedrals.
Has a ruthless character.
Weighs decisions in critical situations.
Has self-control and strong will
Generally liked by people.
Lesson from the past is to study and use wisdom that lies in psychological sciences.
===========================
11.05.2003
Ninth of September, Last
A lot of times when I relive my birthstory, I become melancholic. I couldn't believe how God can be so wise and kind. Oftentimes I say it's a story that silences me in deep humility knowing that I couldn't have enjoyed life as it is now without those people whose names I still remember and some of whom will remain faceless to me forever.
After a few days, my mother was released from the hospital to recover at home. It was likely my father learned how to dress the wound since it would be too difficult for them to walk more than a kilometer to the hospital from the house where they lived everytime the wound needs dressing. It's good my father didn't have a problem tending the cut that ran across most of my mother's lower abdomen, more or less six to seven inches in length.
My mother recalls me giving them a hard time as an infant. I would cry so loud and frequently that it made them worry. No amount of amusement would make me stop. Even in the middle of the quietest night, my tiny voice and the parent's worried conversations would fill the neighborhood. There would be times when my grandparents who lived nearby would come over to comfort my mother and help in hushing me to sleep. My wailing gave them many sleepless nights.
But what disturbed my mother so much were the helpless cries of two babies nearby. These were those of the twins whom Mrs. Fitero gave birth who were a few houses away from where my parents lived. My mother says they were probably hungry but their widowed father couldn't provide anything. We were poor but they were more hardened up. One time, my mother asked my father to go and check on the kids. My father came back teary-eyed and with a cracking voice, he said he found the father mashing some pulpy camote and mixed it with evaporated milk to be fed on the babies. My mother almost fainted as she cried.
From then on, the twins Eduardo and Editha and I would share my mother's breastmilk. She would ask the twins to be brought to the house several times during the day and would feed them alternately. I am crying as I write this, I couldn't imagine what more kindness can match this.
I grew up as a kid knowing this story. My mother would always ask me to befriend the twins since the three of us shared the same breast and breastmilk. I am not sure if the twin's father told them our shared past and I don't even know if they ever wondered why I would always smile at them. One day soon, I will find a way to see them and find out what they know about September 9, 1972.
After a few days, my mother was released from the hospital to recover at home. It was likely my father learned how to dress the wound since it would be too difficult for them to walk more than a kilometer to the hospital from the house where they lived everytime the wound needs dressing. It's good my father didn't have a problem tending the cut that ran across most of my mother's lower abdomen, more or less six to seven inches in length.
My mother recalls me giving them a hard time as an infant. I would cry so loud and frequently that it made them worry. No amount of amusement would make me stop. Even in the middle of the quietest night, my tiny voice and the parent's worried conversations would fill the neighborhood. There would be times when my grandparents who lived nearby would come over to comfort my mother and help in hushing me to sleep. My wailing gave them many sleepless nights.
But what disturbed my mother so much were the helpless cries of two babies nearby. These were those of the twins whom Mrs. Fitero gave birth who were a few houses away from where my parents lived. My mother says they were probably hungry but their widowed father couldn't provide anything. We were poor but they were more hardened up. One time, my mother asked my father to go and check on the kids. My father came back teary-eyed and with a cracking voice, he said he found the father mashing some pulpy camote and mixed it with evaporated milk to be fed on the babies. My mother almost fainted as she cried.
From then on, the twins Eduardo and Editha and I would share my mother's breastmilk. She would ask the twins to be brought to the house several times during the day and would feed them alternately. I am crying as I write this, I couldn't imagine what more kindness can match this.
I grew up as a kid knowing this story. My mother would always ask me to befriend the twins since the three of us shared the same breast and breastmilk. I am not sure if the twin's father told them our shared past and I don't even know if they ever wondered why I would always smile at them. One day soon, I will find a way to see them and find out what they know about September 9, 1972.
11.03.2003
Ninth of September, II
Long before the operation ever started, my parent's entire families were in the parish priest's residence across the street. They trooped there so the parish priest, who was a family friend, can lead them in prayer and to be near my mother in case something happens.
My mother knew very well getting under the knife that morning was actually like kissing life goodbye. But she had no choice. At 29 years old that time and standing at a diminutive four feet 11 inches, there was no way I can be delivered normally. She's been on labor since the day before and, sooner or later, she knew she had to face the inevitable. The only way for the two of us to be safe was for her to endure a caesarian operation without the relief from any form of anesthetics.
It was likely that my mother's audacity inspired the medical team. Dr. Viola, who took comfort from a few shots of gin before the operation, was assisted by a team of nurses and midwives: one senior nurse served as assistant, two midwives were holding each of my mother's arms which were tied to the delivery table so she doesn't move so much. In order to at least console my mother, they opted to make use of the last vials of local anethesia remaining in one of the medicine cabinets. This is the type used by dentists to numb specific areas in the mouth when they do extraction.
So the doctor would inject the local anesthesia and make an incision afterwards, inject and incise, inject and incise, inject and incise, until enough cut was made for safe delivery. From the time the first incision was made, my mother's screaming voice was heard in the hospital hallways and across the street to the priest's house where my relatives were praying that time. Her cry and screams became so disturbingly loud and deafening as the doctor moved to cut the uterus to take me out. It became frightful at times. My father couldn't even finish a prayer.
When finally my baby cries were heard, everything stopped. Prayers ended, breaths were held, jaws dropped, and eyes were shut. All wanted to rejoice but everyone knew they could not. My mother had to endure some more as the doctors started to sew the cut back in.
But God is good. He made sure that the mother and baby were safe. Other than my mother, the only other persons who got physically hurt during the operation were the two midwives who held her. My mother's nails got buried in their forearms as she held them tightly to bear the pain. They bled.
When my mother was wheeled back to the recovery room, she asked to pass by Mrs. Fitero's bed. With the faintest voice she can muster, she wished her well because it was going to be Mrs. Fitero's turn soon after. My mother then slept and rested. When she woke up, she didn't know if she was going to be cheer because she had me or whether she was going to weep louder because Mrs. Fitero wasn't as lucky. She lost so much blood and succumbed, but left a set of twins.
(to be continued)
My mother knew very well getting under the knife that morning was actually like kissing life goodbye. But she had no choice. At 29 years old that time and standing at a diminutive four feet 11 inches, there was no way I can be delivered normally. She's been on labor since the day before and, sooner or later, she knew she had to face the inevitable. The only way for the two of us to be safe was for her to endure a caesarian operation without the relief from any form of anesthetics.
It was likely that my mother's audacity inspired the medical team. Dr. Viola, who took comfort from a few shots of gin before the operation, was assisted by a team of nurses and midwives: one senior nurse served as assistant, two midwives were holding each of my mother's arms which were tied to the delivery table so she doesn't move so much. In order to at least console my mother, they opted to make use of the last vials of local anethesia remaining in one of the medicine cabinets. This is the type used by dentists to numb specific areas in the mouth when they do extraction.
So the doctor would inject the local anesthesia and make an incision afterwards, inject and incise, inject and incise, inject and incise, until enough cut was made for safe delivery. From the time the first incision was made, my mother's screaming voice was heard in the hospital hallways and across the street to the priest's house where my relatives were praying that time. Her cry and screams became so disturbingly loud and deafening as the doctor moved to cut the uterus to take me out. It became frightful at times. My father couldn't even finish a prayer.
When finally my baby cries were heard, everything stopped. Prayers ended, breaths were held, jaws dropped, and eyes were shut. All wanted to rejoice but everyone knew they could not. My mother had to endure some more as the doctors started to sew the cut back in.
But God is good. He made sure that the mother and baby were safe. Other than my mother, the only other persons who got physically hurt during the operation were the two midwives who held her. My mother's nails got buried in their forearms as she held them tightly to bear the pain. They bled.
When my mother was wheeled back to the recovery room, she asked to pass by Mrs. Fitero's bed. With the faintest voice she can muster, she wished her well because it was going to be Mrs. Fitero's turn soon after. My mother then slept and rested. When she woke up, she didn't know if she was going to be cheer because she had me or whether she was going to weep louder because Mrs. Fitero wasn't as lucky. She lost so much blood and succumbed, but left a set of twins.
(to be continued)
11.02.2003
Ninth of September
When people say I've been brought up really well, I close my eyes and give all the praises and credit to God and my parents. But when some probe deeper and wonder why I have never gone astray, I close my eyes and think about a scar.
It's true, it's true. Much of how I have managed to grow up without ever figuring in a fight, doing drugs, abusing alcohol, mistreating other people, or harming any life I attribute to my mother's scar when she gave birth to me. It's probably the only image I have carried from my childhood, one that, wittingly or unwittingly, has turned to be my meaningful shepherd.
I was born about 12 days before Martial Law was declared in the Philippines in 1972. That time, I was told, then President Marcos was unusually strict and didn't allow any military or commercial aircraft to fly out of the capital Manila. Because of this, my birth place was likely one of the countless rural places in the Philippines which perished in undeserved lack of attention in the form of basic services like hospital care. While my mother was brought to the main town where the biggest hospital is located in my province, it wasn't a really soothing idea since it was devoid of most medical supplies anyway. The only pleasant thing about it was I would be born in an actual hospital delivery room and not in some old and wornout mattress at home. There really was no other option left for my parents and my grandparents. The hospital was their best shot. They wouldn't settle for a midwife to deliver a first child.
That day in the labor room, there was another pregnant woman set to give birth. She was in the other bed and has been there since the day before. My mother knew Mrs. Fitero because they lived just a few houses away from where my parents lived that time. Apparently, Mrs. Fitero was actually scheduled for delivery much earlier on but had problems with her blood pressure because she was really nervous and tensed. Everytime she's wheeled into the delivery room, something happens and they would decide to bring her back in the waiting room. My mother, sensing possible harm for the babies, spent time comforting Mrs. Fitero to ease her anxieties, and formed a pact with her. In order to prove that the pain is bearable and no cause for worry, my mother agreed to give birth ahead of her, something she would have gladly given second thoughts had she known better what she would endure.
It took a while for the nurses to actually find the doctor on duty that time. When he showed up, he smelled of liquor but the nurses didn't mind. They knew he needed some means to generate extraordinary gallantry in performing a simple caesarian operation, but in extraordinary circumstances.
(to be continued)
It's true, it's true. Much of how I have managed to grow up without ever figuring in a fight, doing drugs, abusing alcohol, mistreating other people, or harming any life I attribute to my mother's scar when she gave birth to me. It's probably the only image I have carried from my childhood, one that, wittingly or unwittingly, has turned to be my meaningful shepherd.
I was born about 12 days before Martial Law was declared in the Philippines in 1972. That time, I was told, then President Marcos was unusually strict and didn't allow any military or commercial aircraft to fly out of the capital Manila. Because of this, my birth place was likely one of the countless rural places in the Philippines which perished in undeserved lack of attention in the form of basic services like hospital care. While my mother was brought to the main town where the biggest hospital is located in my province, it wasn't a really soothing idea since it was devoid of most medical supplies anyway. The only pleasant thing about it was I would be born in an actual hospital delivery room and not in some old and wornout mattress at home. There really was no other option left for my parents and my grandparents. The hospital was their best shot. They wouldn't settle for a midwife to deliver a first child.
That day in the labor room, there was another pregnant woman set to give birth. She was in the other bed and has been there since the day before. My mother knew Mrs. Fitero because they lived just a few houses away from where my parents lived that time. Apparently, Mrs. Fitero was actually scheduled for delivery much earlier on but had problems with her blood pressure because she was really nervous and tensed. Everytime she's wheeled into the delivery room, something happens and they would decide to bring her back in the waiting room. My mother, sensing possible harm for the babies, spent time comforting Mrs. Fitero to ease her anxieties, and formed a pact with her. In order to prove that the pain is bearable and no cause for worry, my mother agreed to give birth ahead of her, something she would have gladly given second thoughts had she known better what she would endure.
It took a while for the nurses to actually find the doctor on duty that time. When he showed up, he smelled of liquor but the nurses didn't mind. They knew he needed some means to generate extraordinary gallantry in performing a simple caesarian operation, but in extraordinary circumstances.
(to be continued)
Conversations
Three brief conversations I had with three different people in the last 24 hours.
One.
After putting the phone down, I immediately sent a text message to G. apologizing for saying a mouthful to him. He casually mentioned about getting his nose done next week, not for anything else but to look better. I took it plainly. I wasn't annoyed and honestly didn't feel disgusted when I heard it. I had a friend who underwent the same popular procedure last year and it actually made people take a second look at her. I am normally distant when discussing topics like this. While I may have my own strong belief and position, I don't impose them on other people because I think it's not right to do that. On the contrary, I listen to them.
This gift of listening has favored me well. I'm glad some friends think of me first when they want to discuss something serious, one that asks for making a stand be it painful or otherwise. I'm even gladder that friends usually ask for my position on things after everyone has said their piece. It's heartwarming to get this affirmation from your friends.
But I'm digressing. In G.'s case, I wanted to pick on his brain and find out exactly his reasons for undergoing the operation. I feigned annoyance and tried to sound convincing while saying it's tantamount to rebuking God's creation. He created everyone perfectly so there should be nothing wrong with him. Doing the nose thing is like saying God did a mistake and didn't do it rightly. It's just taking out a facial mole, he said. It will enhance your looks and, who knows, it will land you places, he added. I just shot back, I hope the needle won't be so huge.
Two.
I saw him from afar and decided to walk up to his table and said hi. After all, I haven't seen him in like two years. H., a Chinese classmate in my MBA class, was having a late afternoon snacks in a popular fastfood near the school. The usual questions came running one after another. So how are you? Where are you connected? So you're still single? Why are you here? What have you been up to lately?
Afterwards, I almost fell in my chair with his query if I was Catholic. It's like, where did that come from? I decided to be patient and explained briefly my religious journey. We spent the rest of the time talking about his recent pressing thoughts about God's fairness and reasons. He has started to become more open about looking into this recently. And that should be celebrated considering he's an atheist. He confessed to be one.
Three.
B. and I met in 1996 when APEC was held here in Manila. He was about my age and, aside from his government work, was also the Chinese Vice Premier's interpreter that time.
We chanced upon each other on Yahoo Messenger finally. We talked about life lost and lived, and love that lived and got lost in no time.
One.
After putting the phone down, I immediately sent a text message to G. apologizing for saying a mouthful to him. He casually mentioned about getting his nose done next week, not for anything else but to look better. I took it plainly. I wasn't annoyed and honestly didn't feel disgusted when I heard it. I had a friend who underwent the same popular procedure last year and it actually made people take a second look at her. I am normally distant when discussing topics like this. While I may have my own strong belief and position, I don't impose them on other people because I think it's not right to do that. On the contrary, I listen to them.
This gift of listening has favored me well. I'm glad some friends think of me first when they want to discuss something serious, one that asks for making a stand be it painful or otherwise. I'm even gladder that friends usually ask for my position on things after everyone has said their piece. It's heartwarming to get this affirmation from your friends.
But I'm digressing. In G.'s case, I wanted to pick on his brain and find out exactly his reasons for undergoing the operation. I feigned annoyance and tried to sound convincing while saying it's tantamount to rebuking God's creation. He created everyone perfectly so there should be nothing wrong with him. Doing the nose thing is like saying God did a mistake and didn't do it rightly. It's just taking out a facial mole, he said. It will enhance your looks and, who knows, it will land you places, he added. I just shot back, I hope the needle won't be so huge.
Two.
I saw him from afar and decided to walk up to his table and said hi. After all, I haven't seen him in like two years. H., a Chinese classmate in my MBA class, was having a late afternoon snacks in a popular fastfood near the school. The usual questions came running one after another. So how are you? Where are you connected? So you're still single? Why are you here? What have you been up to lately?
Afterwards, I almost fell in my chair with his query if I was Catholic. It's like, where did that come from? I decided to be patient and explained briefly my religious journey. We spent the rest of the time talking about his recent pressing thoughts about God's fairness and reasons. He has started to become more open about looking into this recently. And that should be celebrated considering he's an atheist. He confessed to be one.
Three.
B. and I met in 1996 when APEC was held here in Manila. He was about my age and, aside from his government work, was also the Chinese Vice Premier's interpreter that time.
We chanced upon each other on Yahoo Messenger finally. We talked about life lost and lived, and love that lived and got lost in no time.
10.30.2003
Dogs, cats, and romance
They were few, but there have been times in the past when I became resentful of romantic things, romantic songs, romantic settings, romantic images, anything romantic. Even the most touching sight of romantic dinners by the window overlooking an endless sky isn't enough to make me stretch my lips and smile a bit. For me, they are a cause for alarm as they make me draw my hanky ready to wipe the remains of an ominous and voluminous puke. My eyebrows, in fact, meet tightly in the middle and rejoice instead.
There just isn't anything romantic about that, I would insist. Sooner or later, one leaves the other in tremendous sorrow and they would forever live making each other's name synonymous to a curse. Honey will then be Stupid. Darling will change to Asshole. Buttercup will now be Loser. Cupcake, a Liar. The revolting feeling doesn't end there. It goes even more abysmal, more earthy, more animalistic. So you laugh to the heavens as you decide to name your ugly dog from your ex and your neighbor's uglier cat from your ex's new partner. You do this while praying that it will make things a lot easier for you and you recover soon.
I couldn't place exactly where those intense resentment originated. It couldn't be autumn, since Manila only has dry and wet weathers. It certainly couldn't be anything related to deprivation because I would have friends with me and I have a good time when I'm with them. It can never be dietary because I'm fed well. Hormonal? I don't know.
But then at the back of my mind I knew maybe where it rightfully comes from. I was just too embarrassed to acknowledge it because it wasn't one that's uplifting. I am glad those times are over now. Something's really improved with age. I can now tirelessly watch loving couples pass me by and I all wish them well while I smile. I am now happy with news of friends finding partners finally as well as partners finding their formers partners and decide to be together again. I can join hundreds of couples at the Promenade looking out to the sea while waiting for the sunset and I wouldn't feel awkward. I smile when I see flowers and cakes and chocolates and rings. I pray when I attend weddings.
And I can soundly sleep now.
There just isn't anything romantic about that, I would insist. Sooner or later, one leaves the other in tremendous sorrow and they would forever live making each other's name synonymous to a curse. Honey will then be Stupid. Darling will change to Asshole. Buttercup will now be Loser. Cupcake, a Liar. The revolting feeling doesn't end there. It goes even more abysmal, more earthy, more animalistic. So you laugh to the heavens as you decide to name your ugly dog from your ex and your neighbor's uglier cat from your ex's new partner. You do this while praying that it will make things a lot easier for you and you recover soon.
I couldn't place exactly where those intense resentment originated. It couldn't be autumn, since Manila only has dry and wet weathers. It certainly couldn't be anything related to deprivation because I would have friends with me and I have a good time when I'm with them. It can never be dietary because I'm fed well. Hormonal? I don't know.
But then at the back of my mind I knew maybe where it rightfully comes from. I was just too embarrassed to acknowledge it because it wasn't one that's uplifting. I am glad those times are over now. Something's really improved with age. I can now tirelessly watch loving couples pass me by and I all wish them well while I smile. I am now happy with news of friends finding partners finally as well as partners finding their formers partners and decide to be together again. I can join hundreds of couples at the Promenade looking out to the sea while waiting for the sunset and I wouldn't feel awkward. I smile when I see flowers and cakes and chocolates and rings. I pray when I attend weddings.
And I can soundly sleep now.
10.29.2003
So long, J.
As gloomy as the Makati skyline was this afternoon, I received a depressing news from a friend informing me about J.'s sudden demise today from still unknown cause. He was last seen by another friend last month and J. apparently looked awfully haggard. He just planed in from Netherlands that time.
J. and I are not exactly friends. But we move in, more or less, the same circle. I don't know much about him, except that he liked to laugh and make others laugh during those times when we would play volleyball together with other friends. You can spot him easily in the group since he'd be the only one wearing kneeguard or, if not, he's known to let everyone know he's serving ball with his unusually high-pitched tone that would shame Diana Ross. Except for those few times of fun games, we wouldn't really hangout much together.
But anyhow, J.'s death came piercing through. The news pulled me back to my senses. Death really comes like a thief in the night. Sometimes, when it's kind it lets you know it's coming as if to soften whatever devastation it brings. But frequently, death is as cold and numbing as it really is. It doesn't give any hint. Like in J.'s case. So friends and family you leave behind have to endure unspeakable pain and sorrow.
What makes J.'s demise doubly sad is thinking about what fruitful life he otherwise would have had had he lived longer than his 26 years. He's so young to depart this life. But what keeps me from feeling so low is knowing he lived the way which for most other people seem unimaginable -- open, free-spirited, pleasant, affable.
So long, J. My next spike is for you!
J. and I are not exactly friends. But we move in, more or less, the same circle. I don't know much about him, except that he liked to laugh and make others laugh during those times when we would play volleyball together with other friends. You can spot him easily in the group since he'd be the only one wearing kneeguard or, if not, he's known to let everyone know he's serving ball with his unusually high-pitched tone that would shame Diana Ross. Except for those few times of fun games, we wouldn't really hangout much together.
But anyhow, J.'s death came piercing through. The news pulled me back to my senses. Death really comes like a thief in the night. Sometimes, when it's kind it lets you know it's coming as if to soften whatever devastation it brings. But frequently, death is as cold and numbing as it really is. It doesn't give any hint. Like in J.'s case. So friends and family you leave behind have to endure unspeakable pain and sorrow.
What makes J.'s demise doubly sad is thinking about what fruitful life he otherwise would have had had he lived longer than his 26 years. He's so young to depart this life. But what keeps me from feeling so low is knowing he lived the way which for most other people seem unimaginable -- open, free-spirited, pleasant, affable.
So long, J. My next spike is for you!
10.27.2003
Strange but true
I was doing my usual emails this morning when, out of nowhere, I came to realize something unique about my hometown. It's not something related to any mouth-watering native dish or a strange secret known only to the community. It's one thing that we have grown accustomed to since birth but unfortunately, oftentimes completely overlook.
When you visit my dear old town, you will be swamped with greetings all punctuated with Dios (English translation: God). It's really unique, sweet, and refreshing. If you're not watchful, you actually think you're in some heaven. I've been around to many places in the Philippines but there is none like it. We probably got it from the Dominican missionaries who first arrived in the province and converted most to Catholicism. Or it may have been there long before any of the Spanish conquests, a testament of my people's long and old culture.
We don't have time-specific kind of greetings, much like the ones you have separately for mornings, afternoons, and evenings. But we say it with all the sincerity we can muster. We look at you in the eye, and with a courteous nod and smile we say, "Kapian ka pa nu Dios," literally meaning "May God be good to you." After the greetings, we bid you adieu and make sure you're safe. And who can go wrong with how we do it, "Dios machivan dimo," literally meaning "God be with you." And you respond, "Dios mavidin dimo," literally meaning "God stays with you."
You don't look for a doorbell when you visit our homes. Chances are, our gates and main doors, including windows, are wide open so we don't need one. And they're open not just when we're there, but oftentimes for the entire day even when no one is around. You may call out the name if you know it, but even then, you should never fail precede it with "Dios." It's probably the way to say you came in peace or you're bringing good grace. The funny thing is, you have to learn to deliver it not in your most baritone voice no matter how sexy it may be. You have to learn to do it with a more nasal tone. Be ready to appear and feel awkward.
This is my favorite. Receiving gifts or showing appreciation in my town is something taken deeply and seriously. Since we grew up not used to getting presents, receiving one is always something personal, one euphoria that's going to last for longer than usual. And so prayerfully we say, "Dios mamajes," literally meaning "God will repay." There is something poignant on how we say it. We accept we don't really have anything to repay the gesture. And so we pray to God and trust that what you rightfully deserve may be granted.
When you visit my dear old town, you will be swamped with greetings all punctuated with Dios (English translation: God). It's really unique, sweet, and refreshing. If you're not watchful, you actually think you're in some heaven. I've been around to many places in the Philippines but there is none like it. We probably got it from the Dominican missionaries who first arrived in the province and converted most to Catholicism. Or it may have been there long before any of the Spanish conquests, a testament of my people's long and old culture.
We don't have time-specific kind of greetings, much like the ones you have separately for mornings, afternoons, and evenings. But we say it with all the sincerity we can muster. We look at you in the eye, and with a courteous nod and smile we say, "Kapian ka pa nu Dios," literally meaning "May God be good to you." After the greetings, we bid you adieu and make sure you're safe. And who can go wrong with how we do it, "Dios machivan dimo," literally meaning "God be with you." And you respond, "Dios mavidin dimo," literally meaning "God stays with you."
You don't look for a doorbell when you visit our homes. Chances are, our gates and main doors, including windows, are wide open so we don't need one. And they're open not just when we're there, but oftentimes for the entire day even when no one is around. You may call out the name if you know it, but even then, you should never fail precede it with "Dios." It's probably the way to say you came in peace or you're bringing good grace. The funny thing is, you have to learn to deliver it not in your most baritone voice no matter how sexy it may be. You have to learn to do it with a more nasal tone. Be ready to appear and feel awkward.
This is my favorite. Receiving gifts or showing appreciation in my town is something taken deeply and seriously. Since we grew up not used to getting presents, receiving one is always something personal, one euphoria that's going to last for longer than usual. And so prayerfully we say, "Dios mamajes," literally meaning "God will repay." There is something poignant on how we say it. We accept we don't really have anything to repay the gesture. And so we pray to God and trust that what you rightfully deserve may be granted.
Past life
My friend A. insists I was a flight attendant in my past life. I don't know exactly what brought that statement but I guess it had something to do with congeniality. It was said jokingly of course, but nevertheless, I relish at the thought of me walking up and down a wide-bodied aircraft's aisle in ravishing shirt and tie beneath the apron trying to push the food cart from the galley to the first class section --- all at 30,000 feet above sea level from New York to London.
Another friend argues that, as certain as his silky red nail polish vanishes in three days, so is my past life as social welfare secretary. I had all the making, he swears: good trekking shoes which will serve me well when I hike up to depressed areas all around the country, 20-20 vision important when I try to spot the tents and school buildings transformed as refugee centers from a helicopter, toned biceps useful when distributing hundreds of relief goods in different areas in one day, short-cropped hair which makes a beautician's life fixing my hair a lot easier when I appear on the television pleading for donation, and of course, high-bridged nose perfect for news gathering which will keep me on top of any trouble.
Still, another friend declares that there was no other way he can imagine me to be in my past life than talkshow host. There's no need to look for elaborate proof, he says. One only needs to listen very intently on how I phrase questions and how I frequently manage to have some of our friends execute juicy and entertaining depositions about their failed romances and dates. As if to make me want it more, my friend feigns deep envy with all the signature clothes I would be asked to wear and the primetime slot I would be given. I would be the town's celebrity no doubt.
All these readings have, in one way or another, their own merits. And it all boils down to this: That I'm in my best elements when I'm around people, eating with them, talking about their day and kids, finding about their interests, making them comfortable and smile.
The funny thing is this. They don't believe it when I confess I couldn't be anything of what they pictured because I'm really shy, terribly shy.
Another friend argues that, as certain as his silky red nail polish vanishes in three days, so is my past life as social welfare secretary. I had all the making, he swears: good trekking shoes which will serve me well when I hike up to depressed areas all around the country, 20-20 vision important when I try to spot the tents and school buildings transformed as refugee centers from a helicopter, toned biceps useful when distributing hundreds of relief goods in different areas in one day, short-cropped hair which makes a beautician's life fixing my hair a lot easier when I appear on the television pleading for donation, and of course, high-bridged nose perfect for news gathering which will keep me on top of any trouble.
Still, another friend declares that there was no other way he can imagine me to be in my past life than talkshow host. There's no need to look for elaborate proof, he says. One only needs to listen very intently on how I phrase questions and how I frequently manage to have some of our friends execute juicy and entertaining depositions about their failed romances and dates. As if to make me want it more, my friend feigns deep envy with all the signature clothes I would be asked to wear and the primetime slot I would be given. I would be the town's celebrity no doubt.
All these readings have, in one way or another, their own merits. And it all boils down to this: That I'm in my best elements when I'm around people, eating with them, talking about their day and kids, finding about their interests, making them comfortable and smile.
The funny thing is this. They don't believe it when I confess I couldn't be anything of what they pictured because I'm really shy, terribly shy.
10.26.2003
Weekends at home
Some of my best weekends are spent at home. The place where I stay is not your typical grand penthouse unit on top of the building, but it's modest and cozy. There, in the confines of familiar space, I can lounge around my bed till noon, sometimes in boxer shorts, at other times au naturel. I can let loose my magazines and have the porn ones sit with ease beside Time and Newsweek. I can stare at the ceiling for hours till I'm lulled back to sleep again and again, and not worry about hitting the shower. Besides, there is something about not taking a bath till later in the day that's so infinitely relaxing it actually becomes addicting. I don't know, the feel of sheets on your skin in the early hours of the day may have something to do with it also.
Or it could be the pleasant air of informality and simplicity that pervades the whole place. It's soothing to imagine that you can be ugly for the rest of the day and no one, not one of your friends or dates, will be privileged to see you. And so you feel safe going around the house crudely in shirts whose only claim to existence is that either you're too sentimental or you're too close-fisted and no one will shout to remind you that floral or plaid ensemble is sooo done. You can also listen forever to all the hopelessly romantic songs bordering on lunacy and idiocy, and you don't have to be nice to consider the preferences of other people. You can prop up your feet atop the tallest furniture in the house and you don't have to contend with comments reprimanding you for needing foot makeover. I love staying home.
When I'm embarrassed finally and decide to at least make myself look and feel human again, I take long hot baths and heartily sing in the shower. I change into new set of comfortable house clothes and check the refrigerator for anything that suits my mood and my clothes or my hairstyle. Sometimes it's just Diet Pepsi, other times seedless grapes, or just plain jumbo hotdog and sunny side-up eggs. I take any one of the Dalai Lama books I have and find a spot in the couch where my lower back is planted firmly, and then I begin to drown myself in Buddhism.
All these while Shirley Bassey accompanies me at the background sometimes. When she's off, it's Harry Connick Jr. or Steve Tyrell or Michael Buble or....or....well, what the heck, Dulce!
Hope your weekend was great!!
Or it could be the pleasant air of informality and simplicity that pervades the whole place. It's soothing to imagine that you can be ugly for the rest of the day and no one, not one of your friends or dates, will be privileged to see you. And so you feel safe going around the house crudely in shirts whose only claim to existence is that either you're too sentimental or you're too close-fisted and no one will shout to remind you that floral or plaid ensemble is sooo done. You can also listen forever to all the hopelessly romantic songs bordering on lunacy and idiocy, and you don't have to be nice to consider the preferences of other people. You can prop up your feet atop the tallest furniture in the house and you don't have to contend with comments reprimanding you for needing foot makeover. I love staying home.
When I'm embarrassed finally and decide to at least make myself look and feel human again, I take long hot baths and heartily sing in the shower. I change into new set of comfortable house clothes and check the refrigerator for anything that suits my mood and my clothes or my hairstyle. Sometimes it's just Diet Pepsi, other times seedless grapes, or just plain jumbo hotdog and sunny side-up eggs. I take any one of the Dalai Lama books I have and find a spot in the couch where my lower back is planted firmly, and then I begin to drown myself in Buddhism.
All these while Shirley Bassey accompanies me at the background sometimes. When she's off, it's Harry Connick Jr. or Steve Tyrell or Michael Buble or....or....well, what the heck, Dulce!
Hope your weekend was great!!
10.23.2003
Enough, enough
The more I listen to the radio, the more I read the papers, the more I watch television these days, the more I want to pack my luggage and leave Manila. It has gotten to the point where I am willing to overlook the virtue of patriotism I have always kept and just cut it cool. I don't care if I end up in some place whose language would take my lifetime to learn. I don't even give a damn if I'd start out washing cars, bagging grocery items, cleaning toilet bowls, or even dancing in the nude.
I am sick and tired of all politicians, specifically congressmen and senators, who go around the town and masquerade as the chosen and enlightened lot but whose idea of public service is as twisted as their logic. I closed my eyes in shame and rage three years ago as the country suffered international embarrassment in the form of Erap's grossly inefficient and corrupt government. I clenched my fist so hard as one Japanese television reporter interviewed me on camera and asked me why I was out there in the streets at the scorching heat of the sun. I ended my piece several sentences later and said, Enough of this nightmare. I don't like to be ruled this way.
Some remorseless remnants of the disgraced Erap are on the loose again. They have been egging another actor, incidentally Erap's best pal, to run for president in the national elections barely seven months from now. It seems that politics in the Philippines has gone so inconceivably archaic they think popularity actually translates to expertise in governance. This move to root for another actor to wrest control of Malacanang is so bereft of sanity and reason that it makes you puke.
I used to be so idealistic that I wanted to work in government or at least do something related to public or social service. I did that when I was 23 years old when I went back to my hometown to "give back Caesar what is due Caesar's." I am afraid I have to swallow a bitter reality pill in the coming months and rationalize that I can still serve my country even if I'm across the globe.
I think that's sad. That's another good worker lost, good heart wounded, and good soul ruined, possibly for life.
I am sick and tired of all politicians, specifically congressmen and senators, who go around the town and masquerade as the chosen and enlightened lot but whose idea of public service is as twisted as their logic. I closed my eyes in shame and rage three years ago as the country suffered international embarrassment in the form of Erap's grossly inefficient and corrupt government. I clenched my fist so hard as one Japanese television reporter interviewed me on camera and asked me why I was out there in the streets at the scorching heat of the sun. I ended my piece several sentences later and said, Enough of this nightmare. I don't like to be ruled this way.
Some remorseless remnants of the disgraced Erap are on the loose again. They have been egging another actor, incidentally Erap's best pal, to run for president in the national elections barely seven months from now. It seems that politics in the Philippines has gone so inconceivably archaic they think popularity actually translates to expertise in governance. This move to root for another actor to wrest control of Malacanang is so bereft of sanity and reason that it makes you puke.
I used to be so idealistic that I wanted to work in government or at least do something related to public or social service. I did that when I was 23 years old when I went back to my hometown to "give back Caesar what is due Caesar's." I am afraid I have to swallow a bitter reality pill in the coming months and rationalize that I can still serve my country even if I'm across the globe.
I think that's sad. That's another good worker lost, good heart wounded, and good soul ruined, possibly for life.
Lessons
I thought I should be thankful for whoever came up with this list. To show my deep appreciation, I decided to have each item pay tribute for each of the 30 years I have lived --- sometimes happy, sometimes in stinging sadness.
So here's to the last 30 years. Lessons about love and life and lust.
================
1. Do not fall in love every time you fall in bed. Learn to detach emotionally.
2. Sex does not equal commitment.
3. Do not revolve your entire life around him/her. Addiction is bad for your health!
4. Do not cling, act needy or demand. Doormats are for your feet, not your heart.
5. It's OK to say NO!
6. Stop talking so much. Neverreveal everything.
7. Do not grill them or their friends for information.
8. Master the art of listening.
9. Treat him/her as you would your best friend. Friendship creates long-term love and comes before sex.
10. Forget about fixing your partner. It will never happen.
11. Your choice of partner is a reflection of who you are and who you are not!
12. Enjoy the moment first. Live in the present. Don't worry about the ex's or start naming your future children.
13. Never read your partner's journal or go through their paperwork and mobile phones. If you have no trust, you have no relationship.
14. Allow space and freedom between you.
15. Do not always be available. Calling frequently is a turn off and signals insecurity, neediness and control.
16. Open your eyes to lies and cheating, OR... close them, justify the bad behavior, and live with the consequences.
17. Little or no eye contact? Start walking. They won't even notice you're gone.
18. Anyone preoccupied with their physical appearance and dress, usually have very little or nothing to offer from within. Look beyond the physical!
19. Never compromise your values.
20. If you overgive, you will lose your lover and his respect.
21. DO NOT LOSE YOUR IDENTITY.
22. May-December relationships are great. However, seasons change and the May lover will, sooner or later, hear the call of Spring.
23. If someone really wants to be with you, they will be.
24. Sleeping with a married man? Don't count on him divorcing anytime soon.
25. State your personal rules in the very beginning or expect them to be broken.
26. If they ask to be just friends, be just that and look elsewhere for a love partner.
27. If someone wants to really be with you, they will. If they keep giving reasons for not calling or say they are extremely busy, get the hint. Leave them alone.
28. Marriage before thirty is an inevitable celebration for divorce.
29. Don't ever give up your friends for him/her.
30. If your partner one day leaves you, be sure you have friends, money, a career and a life of your own which you never gave up. Do this so you won't painfully blame yourself in the end!
So here's to the last 30 years. Lessons about love and life and lust.
================
1. Do not fall in love every time you fall in bed. Learn to detach emotionally.
2. Sex does not equal commitment.
3. Do not revolve your entire life around him/her. Addiction is bad for your health!
4. Do not cling, act needy or demand. Doormats are for your feet, not your heart.
5. It's OK to say NO!
6. Stop talking so much. Neverreveal everything.
7. Do not grill them or their friends for information.
8. Master the art of listening.
9. Treat him/her as you would your best friend. Friendship creates long-term love and comes before sex.
10. Forget about fixing your partner. It will never happen.
11. Your choice of partner is a reflection of who you are and who you are not!
12. Enjoy the moment first. Live in the present. Don't worry about the ex's or start naming your future children.
13. Never read your partner's journal or go through their paperwork and mobile phones. If you have no trust, you have no relationship.
14. Allow space and freedom between you.
15. Do not always be available. Calling frequently is a turn off and signals insecurity, neediness and control.
16. Open your eyes to lies and cheating, OR... close them, justify the bad behavior, and live with the consequences.
17. Little or no eye contact? Start walking. They won't even notice you're gone.
18. Anyone preoccupied with their physical appearance and dress, usually have very little or nothing to offer from within. Look beyond the physical!
19. Never compromise your values.
20. If you overgive, you will lose your lover and his respect.
21. DO NOT LOSE YOUR IDENTITY.
22. May-December relationships are great. However, seasons change and the May lover will, sooner or later, hear the call of Spring.
23. If someone really wants to be with you, they will be.
24. Sleeping with a married man? Don't count on him divorcing anytime soon.
25. State your personal rules in the very beginning or expect them to be broken.
26. If they ask to be just friends, be just that and look elsewhere for a love partner.
27. If someone wants to really be with you, they will. If they keep giving reasons for not calling or say they are extremely busy, get the hint. Leave them alone.
28. Marriage before thirty is an inevitable celebration for divorce.
29. Don't ever give up your friends for him/her.
30. If your partner one day leaves you, be sure you have friends, money, a career and a life of your own which you never gave up. Do this so you won't painfully blame yourself in the end!
10.22.2003
Sunday mass
I learned to play hide and seek really well from the most unusual place. And from the most unusual playmates one can ever find.
The place where I grew up in is your typical provincial setting. It is small, life is spartan, everybody knows everybody, everyone is related to everyone in one way or another, and everywhere to nowhere is walking distance. The town center is surrounded by the schools and the plaza on one end, the church and government building on another, while all around it is where we live.
Life is predictable, especially on Sundays. When I was young, probably around seven up to time I was nine, it is a criminal act to miss the mass. You can sleep late on other days, but not on Sundays. You can get sick while enduring the hour-long mass, but you have to be there. It's understandable if you're unable to take a bath, it's fine if you left the house with teeth unbrushed and spoiled breath. No one is exempted. People have a way of knowing if you're not in. Funny, but everyone seemed to sit at the same place all the time so it was effortless to spot who are absent. The only one's free from this rule are those who are ill and confined in the hospital across the street where the church is. So the town may virtually be looted from inside out --- and all would still be in church without anyone having the slightest clue.
I hated Sundays that time. It was arduous enough to sit-stand-kneel-bow heads-raise hands for an hour. But our troubles do not end there. After mass, my friends and I have to maneuver our ways past three senior religion teachers who were probably friends of our grandmothers when they were our age. I was still young then, but I had good memory. I knew exactly the time Lolas Toria Ydel, Juana Aguasa, and Pining Viola would leave their seats and position themselves in the middle of the three big cathedral doors as our parents would exit. That's when we kids played the best hide-and-seek games of our lives back then.
I remember getting caught just once. But that was because I decided to go back to my seat and prayed some more after communion. I forgot I wasn't suppose to do that. Or if I opted to, I had to do it near the exit so as soon as I see the three coming, I would rush out and run home faster than Forrest has ever run. So that time I got caught, Lola Juana led me to where the other kids were. When all of us "captives" were seated, we occupied probably four pews. We looked differently, some were in shoes, some in slippers, others barefoot. But we all had the same angry look. Like a masterful conductor, the three women will then divide the kids according to age and make us recite from memory prayers that we hear oftenly spoken. The younger ones, of course, get the easier ones But regardless of whether it was an easy prayer or the longer prayer, all of us kids would recite them so loud that the motionless images facing us at the altar would likely throw us out if they were alive. After the prayers, we would be asked to enumerate the ten commandments and the sacraments and all the other enjoinments and reminders. We know we have to perform well otherwise they would let us stay there till there would be no one else left in the church but the three old ladies and us kids.
I laugh heartily when I think about those days now. I keep repeating to myself, I really had colorful childhood. Lest they say I'm not contrite, I will say a little prayer in a while for Lola Juana (who died years ago) and Lola Toria (who died last night) and Lola Pining (who's still alive but has gotten older). I have to thank them somehow. Were it not for them, I think I wouldn't have become a damn good sprinter at one time in my life.
The place where I grew up in is your typical provincial setting. It is small, life is spartan, everybody knows everybody, everyone is related to everyone in one way or another, and everywhere to nowhere is walking distance. The town center is surrounded by the schools and the plaza on one end, the church and government building on another, while all around it is where we live.
Life is predictable, especially on Sundays. When I was young, probably around seven up to time I was nine, it is a criminal act to miss the mass. You can sleep late on other days, but not on Sundays. You can get sick while enduring the hour-long mass, but you have to be there. It's understandable if you're unable to take a bath, it's fine if you left the house with teeth unbrushed and spoiled breath. No one is exempted. People have a way of knowing if you're not in. Funny, but everyone seemed to sit at the same place all the time so it was effortless to spot who are absent. The only one's free from this rule are those who are ill and confined in the hospital across the street where the church is. So the town may virtually be looted from inside out --- and all would still be in church without anyone having the slightest clue.
I hated Sundays that time. It was arduous enough to sit-stand-kneel-bow heads-raise hands for an hour. But our troubles do not end there. After mass, my friends and I have to maneuver our ways past three senior religion teachers who were probably friends of our grandmothers when they were our age. I was still young then, but I had good memory. I knew exactly the time Lolas Toria Ydel, Juana Aguasa, and Pining Viola would leave their seats and position themselves in the middle of the three big cathedral doors as our parents would exit. That's when we kids played the best hide-and-seek games of our lives back then.
I remember getting caught just once. But that was because I decided to go back to my seat and prayed some more after communion. I forgot I wasn't suppose to do that. Or if I opted to, I had to do it near the exit so as soon as I see the three coming, I would rush out and run home faster than Forrest has ever run. So that time I got caught, Lola Juana led me to where the other kids were. When all of us "captives" were seated, we occupied probably four pews. We looked differently, some were in shoes, some in slippers, others barefoot. But we all had the same angry look. Like a masterful conductor, the three women will then divide the kids according to age and make us recite from memory prayers that we hear oftenly spoken. The younger ones, of course, get the easier ones But regardless of whether it was an easy prayer or the longer prayer, all of us kids would recite them so loud that the motionless images facing us at the altar would likely throw us out if they were alive. After the prayers, we would be asked to enumerate the ten commandments and the sacraments and all the other enjoinments and reminders. We know we have to perform well otherwise they would let us stay there till there would be no one else left in the church but the three old ladies and us kids.
I laugh heartily when I think about those days now. I keep repeating to myself, I really had colorful childhood. Lest they say I'm not contrite, I will say a little prayer in a while for Lola Juana (who died years ago) and Lola Toria (who died last night) and Lola Pining (who's still alive but has gotten older). I have to thank them somehow. Were it not for them, I think I wouldn't have become a damn good sprinter at one time in my life.
10.20.2003
Thirty
Most people I know veer away from questions about their age. They either change topic or pretend they didn't hear anything. I myself stopped counting when I turned 26, unfortunately, I would always be reminded of the real count courtesy of my kind friends who would volunteer to compute for the difference of my birth year from the present year. As if it's the lucky number to blacken in the lotto ticket.
But starting out one's third decade in this world need not necessarily be tragic. I refuse to be affected by a deluge of print ads left and right that I now need, more than ever, to start investing in moisturizers and other skin-care concoctions. For me, water and enough sleep and exercise are still the secrets to beat.
Meanwhile, let me reminisce and try to list down the things I'm extremely delighted I did before I hit 30. Most of these are those that I think I won't be able to do in a few year's time. Either because I'll have weak knees or I'll breathe in new air from some place far.
1. Not tempted to have a tattoo. Still drug-free.
2. Have never been to the school guidance counselor.
3. Took the train from Manila to Legazpi in Bicol.
4. Joined an adventure race.
5. Ran a marathon. Well, a mini-marathon.
6. Breakfast bonding with my father.
7. Graduate school.
8. Traveled both ends of the Philippines. Batanes to Sulu.
9. Donated blood.
10. Taught sunday school for kids.
11. Ran 5K below 30 minutes.
12. Scaled mountains. Perfected my patience.
13. Acknowledged and accepted it.
14. Questioned my faith. Started attending Baptist services.
15. Haven't caused damage to property.
16. Agreed to stand as sponsor in a baby's christening.
17. Have seen the filthiest to the swankiest motel. Nothing shocks me anymore.
18. Diverse set of friends.
19. Did volunteer work.
20. Enjoyed my grandparents' company.
But starting out one's third decade in this world need not necessarily be tragic. I refuse to be affected by a deluge of print ads left and right that I now need, more than ever, to start investing in moisturizers and other skin-care concoctions. For me, water and enough sleep and exercise are still the secrets to beat.
Meanwhile, let me reminisce and try to list down the things I'm extremely delighted I did before I hit 30. Most of these are those that I think I won't be able to do in a few year's time. Either because I'll have weak knees or I'll breathe in new air from some place far.
1. Not tempted to have a tattoo. Still drug-free.
2. Have never been to the school guidance counselor.
3. Took the train from Manila to Legazpi in Bicol.
4. Joined an adventure race.
5. Ran a marathon. Well, a mini-marathon.
6. Breakfast bonding with my father.
7. Graduate school.
8. Traveled both ends of the Philippines. Batanes to Sulu.
9. Donated blood.
10. Taught sunday school for kids.
11. Ran 5K below 30 minutes.
12. Scaled mountains. Perfected my patience.
13. Acknowledged and accepted it.
14. Questioned my faith. Started attending Baptist services.
15. Haven't caused damage to property.
16. Agreed to stand as sponsor in a baby's christening.
17. Have seen the filthiest to the swankiest motel. Nothing shocks me anymore.
18. Diverse set of friends.
19. Did volunteer work.
20. Enjoyed my grandparents' company.
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