A plague

I keep thinking about it over and over again. Maybe it's just a phase, or maybe the moon and the tides have something to do with it, or maybe it's in the diet or sleeping time. Or maybe it's a plague and it's all over town.

The last week or so, I have had at least two friends who called me to seek help. It wasn't anything related to money since they very well know I'm the wrong person to approach for that. They needed something more. They said they were in the blues having bouts of sleeplessness and shortness of breath. They found themselves smoking stick after stick after stick. Their attention span is shortened and they seemed to drag themselves to work almost every morning.

I knew what it was. Depression.

It has invaded almost every conceivable human being --- from national artists to the lowliest-paid employee. Some people mistakenly label themselves as invincible only to realize depression attacks like a thief in the night. It's something as universal as love and music. Per se, I sometimes find depression something that's favorable. It keeps someone grounded and wittingly tempers people who regard themselves as gods. More importantly, it keeps one in touch with very humane feelings of helplessness, being prayerful, and resignation, quite a good reminder of not being in control all the time and the presence of Somebody Supreme.

It's not bad to be under its spell once in a while. What's very disturbing would be loving to be in that state for prolonged periods of time. Or, in a very different way, to relish the feeling of self-masochism. That's when I think professional help is recommended.

I hope my friends find their way through this. It's good they were very courageous enough to admit it to themselves and speak to somebody else about it. Those steps lead to healing. I shall be praying for them and for all to be free from the painful stings it bring.

My phlog again

Ohhh...this made my day. I'd like to have my one-minute share of fame and let you into it.

Since I put up my phlog site, I've been regularly getting very heartwarming messages from people, most of whom I don't know and most of whom are outside Manila. They all say one thing: They miss home. That makes me even want to go to places around Manila (and possibly around the country) and capture images of things familiar and close to the heart. Oh yes, you can say I'm a sadist.

Staying home

Sometimes I think I'm thankful that Philippines is predominantly catholic which makes Holy Week something to really look forward to every year. The excitement is not at all built around anything religious or profound. The days surrounding Holy Thursday and Good Friday are where most summer vacations are planned and where almost everyone leave their homes to travel.

Except me. I didn't want to be part of the mayhem in the local travel during this time. I may be an adventure rat, but I absolutely detested the mere thought that I'd be queueing up in the check-in counters of bus stations or the airport. I likewise didn't relish the idea of beaches filled with people I don't know or hotel owners charging insulting rates. I just wanted to be in a quiet place where I can cuddle up and enjoy myself.

So a day before the long break, I gave in to a long-time wish. I dropped by an appliance store and got a 21-inch flat TV and, to complete the cast, a DVD player. I planned to stay home for much of the Wednesday to Sunday break and drown myself to watching those films I wasn't able to catch on regular screening at Greenbelt. I'm glad I did. I shed a tear at Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ and Spielberg's Schindler's List, I laughed at Dory, I sang with the Abba's, Mystic River got me pumped up. I have a long way to go, at least ten more DVDs to watch in the coming days or till my eyes drop to exhaustion.

I think most people dragged their asses back to work today after that five-day holiday. It's never easy. You're back on your desk yet your mind is still buried on fluffy thoughts and fluffy pillows or they may start to recall things and start to wonder, was everything holy during the Holy Week?

Soldier

I got an urgent call at lunch time today. My teammate Eric had an emergency and had to beg off from being sent to the field till Sunday. The coordinator asked if I could cover the Agusan del Norte and Agusan del Sur stints for Eric doing what I did in North Cotabato last Monday.

Like a true soldier, I said yes. Things seemed to fall into place one after another. My boss is leaving for abroad tomorrow so that means not much work for the next few days. An officemate offered to cover for me. I'm still at work waiting for my plane ticket and my itinerary. I have a birthday party waiting for me and a bed that has missed me for sometime.

So for the next few days, I'll be around Mindanao again doing Namfrel stuff. I have a free day, I think, so I'll try to find an internet cafe and let you know the latest. I'm excited to go out for more photoshoots to fill my phlog.

Catch you all soon.

20 hours

I was awake for 20 straight hours yesterday starting at two in the morning. During that time, I took a cab, a plane, and a bus to get to North Cotabato over a thousand kilometers south of Manila. I met with a bishop and two priests, had lunch with a teacher, spoke before a crowd of almost 70 people most of whom are older than my parents, got interviewed on-air by a local radio station, and, to cap my day, dined with nuns. As soon I woke up at 3AM today, I had to travel two hours to get to the airport and fly back home to report for work.

That's just half of the story.

For the next 41 days leading to the elections in May, I expect to make a few more trips like that, mostly in Mindanao. That's part of my job as a Namfrel volunteer. Together with another guy in myteam, they call us regional directors for Mindanao. We get deployed all over Mindanao a few weeks before every national elections to train Namfrel volunteers in the field. We are practically on call. Namfrel secretariat would call us and advise us of preferred training dates that our provincial chapters have requested. Most of the time, we don't have a choice. We file for an emergency leave and take a one-day working vacation to far places. In cases where I need to sweep several provinces in one trip, I let the Namfrel chairman call my boss and request that I be made available for the job. I'm glad my boss has very strong sense of his social responsibility.

It's a very humbling experience to brush elbows with co-volunteers whose stories in the field since 1986 are as colorful as the lives they live. It's even more humbling to witness their passion to do selfless service for a cause, while risky and unpaid, yet provide unexplainable rewards that only them can understand.

My dealings with these volunteers have kept me grounded all the time. But largely, it makes me deeply sad at the same time. I almost never fail to wonder why ordinary people like them have the biggest hearts for something big as guarding ballots while some people allow to be preoccupied and filled up with mundane GQ and Cosmo things.

Maybe I'm just old. Or maybe I just know how to value things.

A restroom incident

It looked like she almost wanted to pounce on me. She was walking by to where I was on her way out with a friend when our eyes accidentally met. I noticed a different look, that one that you usually throw at someone who stepped on your toes or who took your cab or who got the last available seat in a restaurant.

I knew very well why she stared that way. She stood behind me in the queue to the only toilet in a Starbucks cafe near my office. I noticed her because we were both waiting forever for the door to be unlocked so we can unload our bladder. The door seemed forever closed like heaven's gate. It wouldn't make a sound, it was firmly closed, the big "occupied" word splashed on the frame. She was fidgeting while tinkering with her mobile phone, while I was looking out far on the street across and tried to notice people's faces in the noontime heat.

When finally the door opened, a lady in miniskirt donning a three-inch heel and an inch-full of make-up emerged. She walked by mindlessly, almost rushing out. I then inched my way to the door, stopped for a few seconds before finally pushing the door open. It was a mistake. A certain after-pupu smell filled the room, that one that causes you to gag and whip out crisp curses. There were water I wanted to leave right away and run after the lady, but my pee was practically begging to seep out. So I headed towards the urinal plastered on the wall and started pushing my bladder so hard it spewed out pee 60mph. I wasn't breathing the whole time.

In less than 15 seconds, I was done. I felt human again. I pulled out the door to leave and rushed out to catch a good look of the lady who came in before me. I wanted my killer look to strangle her and make her own up to the filthy crime. She was no longer there. In a rather twisted kind of way, I ended up suffering the raging look that was supposed to be for her.

If that's karma, I don't know that it hits you so quickly.

For a change

Tomorrow morning, I agreed to do something completely different for a change. Instead of being behind the camera, I'll be the one in front. Yes, I will be a photographer's subject.

People close to me know that there has to be one really compelling reason for me to agree to be under bright lights and become a submissive subject. I think there is. Otherwise, I wouldn't even consider waking up at 6 tomorrow morning to be ready for the shoot at 8. The reason? I just can't say it now. I mean, I'd like to surprise everybody. Nah, I wouldn't be in any of the shouting billboards along EDSA.

I'm not photogenic so I'm not sure how things will turn out. I guess the magic spell of Photoshop may be called at any time, I don't know. But I'm putting my complete trust on the professional photographer who will do the job. I'm thinking, maybe we work the same way. We both like our subjects to appear good and feel good afterwards. That's what has given me, as a budding photographer, immense joy.

So in the meantime, sit back, relax, and enjoy the weekend.

Finally

Oh yes, I'm back.

After exactly a month of being out of touch, I'm here again. I was not going to be away for good, that's for sure. I was just pre-occupied with other things like...

1. Phlogging. From just a few photo entries when I started, I have sort of gotten addicted to it, so much that I have leaped to be one of five people (worldwide) with the most number of photos uploaded on the site.

The pictures have a special way of connecting me with my friends and loved ones here and, most especially, those who are based abroad. I have received very encouraging emails informing me how the photos have made them miss home or how they managed to be more educated about the country. Because of my pictures, my sister, for one, has gotten to love the idea so she recently started to upload her pictures also --- straight from faraway Jakarta.

More than receiving inspiring messages, I have also learned to love phlogging since it keeps me on toes always on which unexplored places around Manila deserved world attention. This has brought me out of town on most weekends, or at least out of my house. I'm in my best element when I'm outdoors or when I'm in the countryside.

I hope you will enjoy my photos.

2. Badminton. I'm training under an Indonesian coach every Mondays and Wednesdays for the last four weeks now. I have around six or seven more weeks to go. It's not like I intend to tryout for the national team. I think I'm too old already for that. It's just that I wanted to graduate from just knowing how to smash balls (pardon, no pun intended) or clear them. I want to move around the court like any other competitive player that we watch on ESPN.

In addition to Mondays and Wednesdays, I'm also likely to be on the courts on weekends as well. That means, I'm spending around three to four days a week doing badminton. Does that make me sick?

3. And lastly, introspection. I'm spending more time now reflecting about things around me. It gives me a certain peace, one that's enough to make me smile.

Getting noticed

Eversince I came up with my phlog site, I have received very encouraging feedback from my friends who knew about it in every way possible, as a text message, email, phone call, or over coffee. And they never fail to get me pumped up.

This morning, I got an email from my New York-based friend Mavic who took pains in writing good words about me and my site. Because of her and her excitement about showing the pictures to her workmates at the United Nations, another friend says I can now rightfully claim I have conquered the world.

I don't know, I have never considered myself as a photographer. Well, I would during the few times that I attend parties and family gatherings only because I don't want to stretch facial muscles to smile. Maybe that was the start of my newfound love for photography. That should land me in a book of funny stories: Because I abhorred smiling in front of camera, I was forced to take up the camera and be the one to take everyone's pictures.

The real passion about my love for photography is my desire to give importance to what otherwise would have been overlooked everyday things. I don't subscribe to the idea that photos are called great only when you pull in all the technical gadgets and gizmos together and you wheel in lights and make-up artists and a boxful of lens. For me, what makes a good photo is to capture unguarded moments when defenses are held down and just a pure spirit overflows.

Thank you for your kind words. They inspire me.

Bigtime fantasy

Whenever I pass by tall hotel buildings, my thoughts are filled unconsciously with one, in fact the only one, sexual fantasy I have grown and groaned to like over the years. I then start to do a run-through of what it will likely be just in case it will happen.

I imagine the sun has set by then and, one after another, the city lights come to life. All imaginable neon colors surround people who, by this time, will be out to enjoy dinner in any one of the restaurants lined up along the commercial center nearby. Parents will be with kids, boyfriends will be with girlfriends, friends will be with friends. The whole sea of people outside the hotel teems with excitement and glee looking forward for night of fun. The winds blow softly.

Thirty floors up from where the people are, I come to life. Only the lamp lights are switched on in my room as I draw the curtains open. I imagine that my room is slowly transformed into a stage where I perform fluently before the world down below who becomes my audience. It's dark outside and I don't have a clue if I get them glued to me. But nevertheless, I'll do my moves by the window. I will have no qualms about being naked and figure in a role where I become a dominant sexual partner. The whole world will be treated into a lovely sight of two naked figures up in the sky who get lost in themselves as they celebrate love and intimacy and adventure.

Thoughts like this convince me that I might actually have a flare for flesh display. But then again, prudence dictates otherwise. Unless I want to hear and see people puke before me. Which I have never fantasized about.

Meeting with ex's

I have come across some people who found it very weird that I would accept dinner invitations from my ex who would be coming along with the new boyfriend. Thay say either I am dreadfully desperate or I haven't gotten over everything yet or I have an insatiable appetite for masochism. Nothing, not one remark affects me, fortunately or unfortunately. The idea is as attractive as welcoming a new child into a home.

The first time I went out with a duly accompanied ex was several years ago. It was your typical steak restaurant setting -- neutral, not too romantic, not too intimidating. I didn't find it very difficult to accept the invitation. It didn't matter to me too that the whole idea behind it was to introduce me to the new person who took my place. :-) Maybe I have grown to a certain level of confidence that introductions such as that do not make me cringe in self-pity or stupid inferiority complex. Or maybe I have a huge trust on my ex's maturity in choice and decision. Just as I wouldn't settle for anyone not worth my while, I'd like to believe that the same holds true for my ex.

I came to restaurant a few minutes behind them. We said our usual hellos and got settled. The whole evening turned out to be very meaningful and pleasant, not just on how we dealt with each other but on the topics we talked about as well. The three of us behaved like long-time friends who talked about familiar things and familiar people. It was heartwarming and very enriching. For one thing, there were no awkward moments of one trying to size up another. Maybe I spent a minute or two trying to notice how tall he stands or his haircut or his smile. But for sure, it was just that, so fleeting. I don't feel bad if the new guy is taller or has bigger biceps or is a gifted size 10.

For me, the whole experience celebrates love that has evolved from romance to something that's higher and more noble. And that's what makes such events really meaningful. I don't look at it as comparing previouses with presents nor is it an attempt to pulldown anyone. The intent is to ensure that your loved ones are really in good hands. You go out there and meet the new person and offer a sincere friendship. The new person almost always honors you and your place as an ex. After all, of the two, you are likely to know more.

The only drawback of such meetings is when the new person turns out to be less mature, inferior, possessive, suspicious, and downright malicious. Nothing, no amount of explanation can ever be adequately convincing for them. In my case, I'm happy I have never come across such people. This means two things: my ex made a good choice; and secondly, is in good hands.

And that makes me happy.

Surviving the city

I can never drive in Metro Manila. I have short temper. I don't have patience. I don't forgive stupidity. I hate to see drivers putting one over another. I abhor undisciplined pedestrian. I loathe at increasing car sales without corresponding improvement in road length and conditions. I cringe at the mere thought of daylight holdups. I detest endless search for parking space in public places. And I despise rip-off parking rates.

So for most of the time, I have decided to live near my place of work where walking to and from work is always an option. It's a lot more expensive than having to choose the outskirts of Makati, but I'm happy here. I can afford to sleep late watching TV knowing that I can extend my wake-up call when morning comes since my office is just few minutes away. I don't have to worry about going home during the rainy season even when the whole city is flooded since I can walk home. I have the country's premier malls just a few minutes away. Since Makati is a business district, there's always a cab coming along. I have a whole lot menu of fastfoods, groceries, restaurants, gyms, moviehouses, museums, spas, and bookstores to choose from. More importantly, living in Makati ensures you of prompt service from your utility companies (like phone and cable) since they always have ready technicians to do the job.

But Makati has its downsides too. At least for me. When you make Makati your home, the sight of concrete is something you have to learn to live with everyday all the time. The first thing you see when you wake up and the last one you glimpse before retiring at night would likely be buildings, whether they are office skyscrapers or residential condominiums. The landscape of manicured gardens or vast orchid collections is out of the question. This is one reality I have learned to live with fortunately. I have learned to look at buildings as if they were the Great Wall and the narrow asphalt roads as mountain trails.

That's why on weekends, I try to go out of town and get my dose of the greens. It's actually my form of praying and renewing my spirit. There would be months when I'd be in the city for only one weekend. The rest I spend backpacking to the hinterlands of the Cordilleras or to unexplored places never before swarmed by tourists. I love the experience. I'm more relaxed, I'm always in my best elements, I feel closer to God, I become more thankful of God's blessings, I smile more sweetly, and I eat vegetables and more vegetables.

Try it one time. You'll see what I mean.

Playing Ate Helen

All it took was one email to make me feel wanted. I received it over the weekend. The sender, a public nurse from my hometown, wrote asking for my thoughts about sex and marriage as she prepares for her talk this Friday before a group called Couples for Christ where she's a member. I wrote her back "despising" her for thinking about me of all people. I said, first, I'm not married. I'm neither living in with somebody. And secondly, and more importantly, I'm sure her sex life is infinitely more active than mine. But nevertheless I said, I was going to give it a shot. I'll leave it to her to pick which ones she thinks would be useful and which ones better ignored.

I strongly suggested that she uses the occasion to lead a campaign to break the myths regarding sex (and sexuality for that matter) prevailing mostly among provincial couples. It's sad but the place where we came from is not one where topics like sex are openly discussed among married couples or between parents and children. We grew up learning about sex from friends or from porn materials. Naturally, the idea that sex is supposed to be meaningful and sacred never really gained ground. That has to be stopped. Children should obtain their first lessons about sex and sexuality from parents. This is to make sure that the information filtered to them are correct and sound.

But I cautioned my friend not to come out too imposing lest she will antagonize the audience. The best way was to invite her audience to be open about the idea that there's another way to look at the issue. The way to make them more appreciative I think was to cite the significant implications it will have regarding lowering unwanted pregnancy rates and enhancing parenting skills of their children who will be parents themselves in the future.

Secondly, and lastly, I told my friend that I think it would be wise to reinforce the idea that sex within marriage really means communication. I think she should emphasize the need for couples to communicate meaningfully. Both sides should attempt to hear each other's needs so each one knows how exactly they're met. Sex for most couples has virtually transformed most women as either sex objects or comfort women. The men lay down there in deep slumber after contact. The women, on the other hand, spend the rest of the time, staring at the ceiling wondering what exactly happened. It is high time that sex should start to regain meaning among couples where each one equally finds meaning and satisfaction, and where bonds are renewed.

I hope my friend finds use of my two cents worth.

Prelude to Hearts Day

By this time next week, most restaurants have been booked for dinner for two's. And while flower shop owners would have a grand time marking up their prices, laundry shops would then think about operating for 24 hours at least for two days to be at the beck and call of motel operators who would need help to wash their linens as they certainly smile on their way to the bank.

Funny, but it's only during Valentine's Day when I turn to be bigtime cynic. I have and continue to hate how restaurant owners and shopkeepers have conspired to make single people feel miserable on this day, as if only couples are entitled to life's treats and those in the singledom are banished. That's why either I go out of town on this day to shield myself from too much valentine commercialism or I deliberately make reservations in a restaurant for two, and then arrive alone.

A few years ago on Valentine's, I tagged along another single friend to Puerto Princesa in Palawan. For three days, we had a grand time island hopping and living tourist's lives. We would down wine at night as we regale ourselves with our lifestories and, when morning came, we would slip on our shorts and head straight to the port for more exploration. On Hearts Day itself, I don't know what got to us but we made reservations for two at a local restaurant called Kalui. We decided on this because we wanted to snoop around people who would be out on dates that night. Only a few couples, most of them visiting tourists like us, came. There were not much lifeless heart decors or any heart-wrenching lovesong that night. The only sign that it was Valentine's were the single red roses the doorman-host-owner gave to every lady guest. We didn't find that repulsive at all.

More recently, I headed to the rice terraces on Valentine's day since it fell on a weekend and it was fullmoon. It turned out to be a perfect venue for hide from it all. The natives were oblivious of the occasion. There were no deafening radio plugs from opportunist establishments or mushy greetings professing endless love to certain people. It was just a grand peaceful time.

Those kind of trips have made me master the art of being unaffected during Hearts Day. I only want to breathe fire on those people who use the occasion to put one over other people. That's about the only reason why one would find me spitting stinging remarks. I only begin to keep my mouth shut when I start amusing myself trying to find out who's more wise yet silly, those one's who succumb to commercial valentine celebration or flowershop owners who fill their shelves with flowers and ornaments, pray to the gods they will sell even at stupid prices, and then, with no other choice left, just agree on bargain prices the day after for all those unsold.

Oooppss..Sorry

I've been having a great time uploading my pics to my phlog site making it a bit difficult for me to actually sit down and write. I feel bad, but when I think about it, you'll likely enjoy the pics since you're sure to feel the same passion I have on every shot I took.

But I will continue to write. Definitely. I have lots of things to share. But for today, please enjoy my photos.

Misimpressions

If there's one word that I'd be delighted to describe myself, it would be that I'm an advocate. I feel strongly about many things and pretty much I speak my mind very well on these things. These strong beliefs did not come from an overnight reading of Oprah's recommended self-help books or a single session with the religious or building my library of Dalai Lama books. They are, instead, products of long nights of deep thinking and self-introspection as well as meaningful conversations with elders whom I deeply respect.

Apparently, I was giving out a completely different picture to people, so different that I would certainly rate abysmally low when they're made to think of people they find nice and approachable. I was seen to be bigtime aloof.

The first time I heard of this impression about me was in college. One girl classmate whispered to me how everyone in class feared getting close to me or at least start a conversation with me since they have, wittingly or unwittingly, associated my name with another four-letter word, snob. I was shocked. I tried to understand why, and only came to this: It was likely that they formed that opinion since they don't usually find me lingering around in the building or along corridors after class. I would come to class on time, sit in front, listen and participate, and, after class, I would leave quietly and head home or to the gym. Worse, I purposely didn't join any academic organization so virtually, I wasn't really circulating much around campus the whole time I was in college.

What most of my classmates didn't know then was I didn't have enough extra money from my allowance to go join their fun. My parents would send me my allowance for the month through bank transfers at the end of the preceding month. That would be it for me for the next 30 days. Under no circumstances were they expected to send more than that. There are no second servings so to speak. I would have to learn to live with what was sent to me.

That's why it disheartened me when people thought I came out aloof and overbearing. I just try very hard to stretch my lips to smile and console myself that they probably have weird way of understanding and accepting people who have managed to shape their opinions on many things and issues. The misimpression saddened me, but it didn't kill my spirit.

Several years later today, I still have that firm and valiant spirit. Idealism hasn't died at all. Hope overflows all the more. Prayer is said with more passion. Love is felt with more meaning. Friendship is offered more openly. Lifestory is willfully shared. Risks are taken. Relationships are mended. Life is lived.

My cousin M.

Out of the blue, an older male cousin called me at work yesterday morning to, surprise of surprises, find out what I have been up to lately. I was taken aback. I mean, he has never done that before so naturally, my eyebrows were raised up high to the heavens the whole time. Every word he said was met with a bit of eagerness and a loadful of frown. There were lots of things running in my mind the entire seven minutes we talked.

Initially, I thought he was going to drop the bombshell. I was expecting him to smoothly talk me into excitement on his decision to finally tie the knot. He's the youngest in their family and the only remaining single. What's more, he's way past 30 and just about the next likely one to get hitched among cousins. Of course he had a hard time finding his lines or creating the mood. With my one-liner replies, he really can't get through. He asked about my ex, inquired about my sister, how my flat looks like, how my games are, which places have I been to recently, if I'm dating, and a whole lot of other funny questions.

On the other line, I was a bit bored. I'm not sure if I came out as a heartless creature because I didn't let him do his moves. I knew him too well. Maybe his being a psychologist has something to do with it. They're pretty predictable.

We ended up agreeing to meet one time soon so he can get my two cents worth. And true to being forthright, I gave him a bit of what to expect from me when that time comes. He curiously asked why I wasn't being supportive of his wedding to girlfriend Y. when I was one of the first ones to prod him heavily into marrying his ex-girlfriend C. I said, maybe he didn't read between the lines. I never openly shouted go, go, go to him before. Maybe I was just picking his brains.

This time around, he's going to get a mouthful. I'm sure he's expecting it. Among cousins, I have this standing reputation of talking very rarely. But when I do, it stings. No, I'm not going to talk my cousin out of marriage. I just wanted to make sure if his fascination about weddings starts and ends with the ceremony itself, or if life the morning and mornings after has really been thoroughly thought.

Doing the plunge

I once asked if aging in America was really unpleasant since they stow their elderly in care institutions in far places. I couldn't imagine anything more tragic when you're old than being packed together with other elderly people in the suburbs far from where the normal people live. I couldn't even make myself think how it is for old people to be slapped like this with the painful reality that illness and infirmity and old age are never revered and infact do not have a place in modern living.

For us Asians, we pride ourselves with having a glorious way of revering and taking care of our old. We take them in to live with us and always reserve to hear their say on important family decisions. They are never treated with disgust or repulsion. They are never made to recall or pay for past mistakes or misjudgments. All their wishes are given paramount importance. They are well remembered during birthdays and other special occasions. Even our newly-borns are named after them. These has changed how the East is viewed by the West. Retiring in the East, particularly in the Philippines, is a sweet and touching tribute to a lifetime spent working and raising a family. It is heaven on earth.

There's a reason I asked about aging in America. I was interested to know more since, one after another, my mother's siblings trooped to migrate to the US for good. In less than a year, the families of an uncle and two aunts stuffed some of their belongings in suitcases and travel boxes to start a new life across the globe from us. All of us who stayed were a bit apprehensive. We couldn't completely picture how our cousins would fit in school or how my uncles and aunties would be able to adjust to new working lifestyles there. More especially, we wondered, how will they ever be when they get old?

I admire my relatives for their fearlessness. They didn't have qualms about leaving their businesses and friends and families here and move to an entirely new and foreign setting --- where doing certain things has to be learned, where new language has to be spoken, where some things have to be given up.

But God is good. My cousins are doing really well in school. My aunties say they were never in the honors class consistently when they were here in the Philippines, but they have managed so far to top their classes all the time. All of my aunties and uncles have found jobs already. Things seem to be working pretty well for them.

Am I ready for the plunge?

Photos, photos

Finally, I can now have everyone check out the photos I have of my trips. It's a good way to motivate me to be extra persevering in taking pictures. The better part of it is for you people not just to enjoy the sights and colors of the places I visit, but for you to marvel at the beauty of the countryside, of places still unexplored, of Manila's secret nooks --- which remain to be my favorite travel themes.

I hope you will take time and enjoy the photos. And I hope you will join me in one of my upcoming trips. :-)

Zodiac and me

I don't do horoscopes and zodiac stuff. I have never allowed somebody's readings of the sun-moon alignments or even colored cards to dictate how I should behave or how I should run my day. I find that very archaic. Besides, most of the time, the readings are everyday knowledge of things we should and should not do and most of them we have learned since kindergarten. The farthest I went is knowing I'm a Virgin.

This unbending view of anything related to foretelling can be explained. When I was starting college, I tagged along one time with my cousin while he visited one of his friends. When we got to their house, that friend had an aunt doing palmistry on some neighbors. I watched her as she did her thing animatedly. When she was finished with everyone, she moved to sit beside me and forced me to show her my palms. I was shocked and told her I wasn't there for it. By then, my cousin and his friend were practically shoving my hands to her and I couldn't do anything. After spending some time going through the ridges and lines, she matter-of-factly declared I wouldn't be able to finish college since I was going to get married early. I didn't know if I was going to frown at her or laugh to the heavens. As soon as it was done, I left hurriedly almost running out to the street and peed against the nearest wall. I felt like throwing up too. Of course, that didn't happen. That was not going to happen. I finished college on time and with no red marks. I'm still unmarried.

That's why I always find it silly when people turn to the horoscope corners and pages of newspapers and magazines as they start their day. I can't fathom how in the world would they just let something like that, whose origins we don't even know, impose a commanding influence on their behavior for that day. Doing something like that is like living on bread crumbs. I find that despicable. I'd rather have the whole bread.

Because really, when you think about it, the bits and pieces of "wisdomed" truths you find written and placed beside your zodiac sign at the backpage of your favorite newspaper grew out from larger truths about life. It makes more sense to spend time learning these larger truths than having to be contented with filtered bits and pieces whose connections with other life truths we may never be able to completely comprehend.

Vacation's over

Heading home from vacation isn't exactly a fun idea to me. It's just something that you have to do, a reality. You usually don't ask why much less question how soon. It's like having a closure in a relationship. After the exhilirating fun together usually comes the excruciating breakups. It's not a pleasant idea to have to mourn longer than usual or let the hurt linger for long. At some point, you usually got to do something drastic and painful yet nurturing so you continue with life.

That's what I did late yesterday afternoon when I planed in from Kalibo. How I felt about going home couldn't be pictured and couldn't be any more poetic than the time I chose to do it, at dusk. The sun has set already when the plane touched down at NAIA, Manila's premier airport. I walked so slowly from the plane to the baggage claim area. Each step forward wasn't one that I adored.

During this time, there remains only one thing I so heartfully and longingly wish. It is this: That money isn't ever a concern. I wish it comes like a spring, boundless and limitless. Day in, day out it pours tirelessly. If that happens, then I would finally fulfill my fantasy of living inside an airplane. I would shuttle between airports, more or less doing it like the kid's game Connect the Dots. I would travel all year long and smile a mile long all the time.

But then, if that happens, it's likely that I will lose heart and appreciation for work and toil. A lifelong spent doing nothing but grand traveling isn't likely to help one build and nurture the idea of having to work hard first for something. Money unearned, when spent, doesn't hurt for sure. Not having to worry about money maybe everyone's lifelong wish, but I'm not sure it's something everyone can live with.

So now, here I am.
Where else, but work.
Taking a brief break.

On trip

I was awake till around midnight last night to pack my things for my four-day trip to Kalibo and possibly Iloilo in central Philippines starting today. The finished product is a fully packed 50-liter backpack which I normally use for my weekend adventures. My all-weather canvass shorts are there, a red wine bottle is stacked somewhere along with my toiletries :-), a map and a book.

I am set to leave later this afternoon taking the last flight out of Manila for Kalibo. I will spend my weekend there to witness the famous Ati-Atihan festival. I'm excited about the day-long streetdancing and practically a merrymaking mood for the next two days.

From Kalibo, I plan to swing by Iloilo to at least traverse half of Panay island and to visit some friends. I know now where to go for a seafood feast and which restaurants I shouldn't miss. I will probably just do overnight there and hie off back to Kalibo the following day to catch my flight back to Manila late in the afternoon.

So while everyone is back at work after their christmas holiday travels, I'm here going against the tide, traveling to sites now free of maddening people to truly enjoy the experience. I've always think doing your travels this way is the perfect way to a perfect vacation. You no longer suffer from long queues at airports and hotels and malls, the hotel prices are more reasonable, even the storekeepers in the wetmarkets I visit seem to have become really friendly and they charge you discounted prices.

I'll try to find an internet shop along the way and give you a peek on places I have visited, people I have met, wine bottles I have downed, stories I have heard, and delicacies I have sampled. So in the meantime, say a little prayer for my safety. Stay still till I get back. Don't do anything foolish. Don't overdo your phonecalls. Minimize your trip to the ref. Don't be bitchy. Stay home. Watch your step. Don't play with your food. Be nice with your neighbors. Don't stay out late. Keep your cool. Visit your grandparents. Go to church.

I sound like my mom.

AGAPE

I walked halfway from my place to work this morning. It was still early, the morning breeze was cool, there were not much people yet on the road, and the sun quietly rests only on peak of the taller buildings along Ayala Avenue. It was a perfect time to enjoy some moments of solitude and think about years gone by. I remembered old friends.

There was this informal group I constantly attended around nine years ago. It started as a regular coffee session among friends to share their life stories, air gripes at work and relationships, get updates on what and who's the hottest in town, and to solicit and offer advises to each other mostly on love. The initial group started to invite close friends who afterwards invited their friends and friends of friends until we had a hard time remembering names. The group swelled we had difficulty getting comfortably accommodated in Mike's flat where the sessions were held. The weekly forum had a loose format. A topic is up for discussion and somebody is assigned to facilitate. A usually very lively sharing sessions follow. And then the socials come next. Some would bring food, others would prefer to do hush-hush chats in the corner, a few would request to be introduced formally to the newcomers, several would sometimes run to the pizza parlor at the corner for more privacy, while the rest would serve as gracious hosts. It was a weekly dose of learning new things, knowing more people, gaining additional friends, and the endless possibility of bumping into someone romantically.

I miss those friends. They have made my initial working life in the city endurable. I have to credit them for helping me sort some personal issues in the past and for making it easier for me to see the world so to speak. Some of the nicest people I know I met in that group.

Unfortunately, I don't see much of them anymore. M. has been assigned in Bangkok for several years already which is good because his partner is from there. F. has remained single eversince he broke up with A., who has since migrated to the US and is flying Southwest as its first Filipino cabin crew. M. has moved back to his island province of Marinduque like S. who gave up a budding media career in the city in favor of less stressful work in his hometown. R. is still with the same bank like N. who's still with the same work. Im sad that the few of us regular attendees who are still here in Manila have completely lost touch with each other. Except for a few whom I still see albeit very seldom.

Getting near 30 is like hitting red in a traffic light. We do a quick check on the
how fast we're driving, probe left and right, feel the brakes, then stop. It's somehow similar when most of us get past this stage. We stop all of a sudden and look around ourselves trying to find out if we really have friends or, if we do, to determine what kind of friends we keep and the depths of relationships we have with them.

I'm deeply envious of people my age who have friends they have managed to keep from way back, sometimes even from kindergarten. I wonder how it feels.

Me in the Samurai Code

Compassion: You are there to share your sympathy
with others. People would consider you affectionate
and caring, and someone to look up to.



Which Characteristic From the Samurai Code Matches You Best? (You may find out your best trait)
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Restroom irony

When my women friends start wishing they should have been men whenever the queue in the mall restrooms reach superhighway lengths, I comfort them and say, it's not really what they think. It's not all the time as simple as unzip-splash-zip for us men. There are occasions when such mundane thing as choosing how to exactly unload becomes so perplexing. It's like choosing from an elaborate restaurant menu.

As soon as you enter the restroom, an important decision has to be made outrightly. Will you opt for an enclosed cubicle or be contented with the wall-pasted urinals lined up one after another? I'm telling you, this is not easy. The thing is, this lone decision item is only made after completing a thorough check on the restroom layout, the type of service urinals, the distance between urinals, if there are protective barriers between them, how many people are using the urinals at that time, how are they scattered, who is really peeing and who is not, which one has most water pressure, which one doesn't reek, and so on. What makes this exceptionally difficult is that all these decision items have to me made in split seconds. You don't get in there and hang around for a few minutes before deciding which one to hit. That's likely to invite burning glares from people.

I remember having a few good laughs on a few occasions that I hit the public restrooms whether in malls or airports. I can never understand how men can pee if they stand so close to the urinal that their foreheads kiss the walls. I don't know if they want to display their talents for noiseless peeing or if their champignons are so close to the balls they didn't want to display their frailties. That's how they come up with funny contortions from head to toe just so they don't feel violated. But what heck? Heads down there take the same mushroom shape. And besides, it's not like the whole giftedness is disclosed when seen in its flaccid state.

And so I have come to this: Women are still by far more fortunate. While they may have to wait a while to get in the cubicles before finally relieving themselves, they don't have to worry about ogling eyes over them when they do their thing. In the case of men, I have to say they're still the hapless unlucky lot. They have to make sure it's unloaded rightfully in the vessel without splattering droplets on the floor and their hands and at the same time making sure that no one's eyes are lucky enough to chance upon the sight of their tiny willy-billies.

So women, rejoice! You still win!!

Learning it the hard way

I remember I wasn't even 13 back then when I started to become a cause for distress for my parents. It was something they were not used to or even prepared to handle, especially for parents who were raising kids in farflung towns where old-fashion traditions were the fashion. No, I wouldn't figure in any school fights nor became a dreadful classroom bully. It was worse than that.

At that young age, I learned not to become a blind submissive follower everytime they had me subject to something unconventional. I started to bombard my parents with questions about reasons behind doing certain things they asked me to do. I wanted to understand why everything has to be like how their grandparents and greatgrandparents did it. I wondered why things can't go against the tide, why can't things be done this way or that way, and why every decision has to come from the top.

You see, I had to endure several physical pains because things handed down from way back from whomever were never questioned nor studied. I can't accept that I had to be the one guinea pig who became pathetic casualty in the end. I had to swallow my idealism and let my parents run the show hoping they knew much more. Besides, I had to obey them somehow lest I'd be outcast and banished to the hills. It was too late when I found out that they were no better than my classroom seatmate who would race his snot up and down his nostrils complete with slurping sound.

Strike one happened inside the public dentist's clinic. It was summer that time and my two canine teeth were halfway down already threatening to displace my incisors and some pre-molars. By this time, I had been harassed tirelessly by my mother to go visit Auntie Norma, the public dentist, and have them extracted. I would then start a litany of reasons, mostly from the World Book Encyclopedia I've been reading that time, why it couldn't be taken away. They wouldn't hear any of it and insisted that I go lest they do permanent damage.

I finally relented and made that visit only because I didn't want them to breathe down on me anymore. I regretted profusely that decision up to now. It wasn't just because the dentist should have been in the butchering business instead, but more because they caused permanent damage after all. Months later, I went with my Mom to visit my cousins in the city. I told them what happened. They yelled at me. Turns out my readings have been true. Canine teeth are the most powerful of them all. The rest could have been pulled out, but that them. I threw piercing glances at my Mom. She didn't look my way.

The next summer, my parents sent me to the city for vacation. I was having a grand time palying with new friends and catching up on cartoons when my mother's eldest sister asked me to join her to the clinic she was working. I didn't know why. I thought there were more kids there my age and she wanted me to have a good time. I should have known better.

Together with an aide, they led me to a room where a makeshift bed was the main furnishing. All of a sudden, I understood why my older cousins would joke about tomatoes and scalpels when I'm around. I froze as the nurse helped me take out my pants to prepare me for my date with another inevitable in most young boy's lives. I still don't get it why they are so incensed with some piece of skin and obliterate it from the world despite dutifully fulfilling its role.

I asked them why they had to subject me with that cruel and barbaric act. My parents say it has always been that way for most boys. Did they ever ask why or what for? I'm afraid this is another heartless case of willfully submitting one's intellect and sanity to habit and what's popular.

On one hand, I keep thinking, maybe that's why I'm working hard now so when I have enough money, I'll go see the doctor and ask him to re-attach that skin which should have always been there in the first place. Or maybe that's the reason why I'm so fixated with.....well, forget it.

One truth

When some of my friends pester me with their should-they or shouldn't-they questions about formalizing things with somebody they like, they tell me I speak one truth they always try to hide from: That's it's easy to be in a relationship just for the sake of it, but it's infinitely difficult to be in one if you're looking for somebody worth your while. That has become my standard reply and it's one truth I've always held close to my heart.

When one friend in a group of friends decides to officially become somebody else's partner, most of the time those friends who remain single suddenly confront themselves harshly. They beat themselves to death asking why can't they do the same. They may be just doing half-jokes, but instead of sympathizing, I lord it over them and I become bitchy. Just because one has a relationship doesn't mean that you have to be in one as well. Relationship is one area where keeping up with the Joneses doesn't make sense.

I speak from experience. How I feel about myself doesn't rest on whether I'm in a relationship or not. I have never felt ugly nor threatened even if most of my friends have ended up in loving relationships with somebody. I would remind myself constantly that love and I will find each other in the end. It may take a while some time, but we will certainly bump into each other.

And thankfully, it has been like that for me. They may not have lasted centuries, but the relationships I've had over the years have always been well-remembered. I always think of them fondly and I don't harbor any hurt or resentment after each break up. I continue to be friends with them up to now. Some are still in the speed dialing keys of my mobile phone. Sometimes, we'd be on the phone catching up on things or, at other times, we would decide to meet for lunch or dinner if our schedules match. We would never forget to send greetings on special occasions like birthdays and christmases. And their calls are the only one's we'd likely take if they came through in the middle of the night.

For all of this, I attribute a long period of rest and preparation I had in between relationships. This period, which on the average lasted three to four years, were all well-spent on diverse and enriching activities in the field of sports, homemaking, traveling. I engage in a new sport every year, do really good at it even to the extent of actually competing. I read books, spend time with old friends, and just about do anything I enjoy. This decision is strategic. I choose to do things that will inevitably improve myself to increase my chances of being more worthwhile for the next person I'd end up with. I don't want to hear anything that says I'm unworthy or I'm only good for their dog Misty. There has to be some semblance of growth and betterment from the previous years.

Being vulnerable is being beautiful

I think I'm most attractive when I'm vulnerable. It may be odd, but I'm personally convinced it's absolutely, positively, and flawlessly true. I have repeatedly affirmed this truth courtesy of a few times in the recent weeks when I had the chance to be alone and be introspective.

But contrary to what most people think, I am not self-destructive when vulnerable. I do not seek alcohol although there are occasions when having a beer or vodka just fits the mood. I do not drown myself in anti-depressants neither do I succumb to the spell of sleeping pills. I do not camp inside my room and stack on Kleenex. Neither do I get bewitched with enchanting stories about testing drugs. I never become suicidal.

I have to say, it's somehow easy to spot whenever I'm likely to be vulnerable. It happens oftentimes when important occasions hover in the corner and I find myself separated from people close to me, especially my family. I don't know if it happens that way to other people and I'm not sure if it triggers them to be defenseless too, but I'm weakened everytime. I retreat, become easily moved, and somehow discover that I had been gifted with having little depth. My tearducts are shallow. I then become tearfully sentimental without really trying.

When this happens, go past the tears and look inside. My emotional state during these times is perfect for starting a nurturing friendship. I find myself devoid of critical thoughts but filled instead with an overflowing desire to open my thoughts and my lifestory. All of a sudden, I feel free, I breathe deeply, I smile genuinely, I listen with my heart, and I become eloquent. Without the slightest difficulty, I can start to candidly narrate my life's crossroads, convey my deepest yearnings, and proclaim my dreams and prayers. My ugly frailties and flaws better buried in secrecy are quickly surrendered and disclosed.

This is me at its most vulnerable state, but this is me at its best.

A brother's love

I fear for my sister. She's 28 now and slowly, the ominous signs of panic gripping most single women in their late twenties are becoming evident in her. It's largely about the prospect of not being married anytime soon, much less finding herself triumphant in chancing upon romance. She couldn't believe only she and her bestfriend have remained single in their high school class. The rest have either taken seriously the go-forth-and-multiply commandment or have started a new hobby propagating their seeds in wanton disregard and disrespect for children's rights and welfare.

"That doesn't make you less accomplished," I said with all sincerity as my lame effort to comfort her.

"But it does!," she quipped.

I was stunned. For a while, I was just staring at the computer screen in complete disbelief. I have known her to be one who is headstrong and principled. I respect her decisions and opinions on things. Sometimes they offer more promise than what I thought would otherwise have been streetsmart and pragmatic judgments by me. So I really couldn't believe what she wrote. All of a sudden, it dawned on me that this mixed feelings of sorrow and possibly grief have taken roots in her and, if they remain ignored, may just make it easier for her to lose her hold on things. I ended the conversation rationalizing that maybe her feelings are more reinforced in women, but that they do not necessarily become more valid. She did not reply.

My fear doesn't exactly mirror her fears. My heart completely goes out to her and, in a little corner of my heart, I may fear about the same thing for her. But I know that, in the larger scheme of things, we don't fear about the same things. I am not bothered that she's still single today after her last serious relationship around three or four years ago. I'm not even alarmed that she doesn't seem to have a regular date or somebody who has taken on, as a vocation, a persevering mission to write her wooing letters and send inexpensive gifts to her apartment in Jakarta where she's staying to complete her graduate studies. Her lovelife may be as lifeless as the Dead Sea but that shouldn't be a fixation.

This is where my fears start to set in. I am distressed when people start aligning their life journeys with what's popular and accustomed without spending so much time deeply thinking and meditating about it. I think there's something wrong with the pervading notion that one's true success in life is largely measured or attained when the bride starts the traditional march to the altar to meet the groom in marriage. Does that mean that women who marry more are infinitely more successful than women who marry just once? Where does that put Elizabeth Taylor? Is she then the Wedding Goddess?

I hope all single men and women should one day come to acknowledge that one's success in life is measured, not by wedding marches, but by meaningful relationships created with fellowmen. If one's name is spoken everytime in deep reverence and affection, that's something no marriage can match.

Now, for my little big sister, I strongly believe that she will find the love of her life in the end like in most of the fairytales she has grown accustomed to as a kid. I am sure too that she will not just meet the guy, but they will end up in a happy marriage and give my parents several little cutie ones and me, an uncle, several more adorable darlings.

Strange but true

When my kind friends try to set me up on dates, I have to remind them every time what works best for me. I don't know if they deliberately forget or they just want listening to me howling. In between feigned screams and raised eyebrows, I forewarn them not to give me contact details of their friends, however complete they may be, since they will just end up in their likely final destination, a trash bin. For these past years, I think they have finally mastered it. I no longer receive phone numbers of people written on the back of faded receipts and torn table napkins.

I don't know, but I really find it very difficult to have to be the one to do the first move. It's not a power play issue or a question of emotional desperation. I'm just plain naive and shy. I find myself overwhelmed with the task of having a thousand and one possible conversation topics on hand to draw from to make sure we at least find a connection. I find it even more daunting to put together the right word combinations appropriate for an opening line. I always try to devise something that's not usual yet unusually appealing, but one that's not too hardsell or offensive.

But when I'm the one being called, I take it as a serious responsibility to show gratitude and appreciation for the gallant display of bravery. I know it's not easy to pick up the phone and dial a complete stranger wishing you'd end up somehow connected afterwards. And so, I'm always nice. Not just to show gratefulness, but more to proclaim that taking chances pays. I make the other person feel at ease and do my part of exploring possible connections.

And when things are interesting enough to bring to a plane higher than just phone conversations, I have all the bases covered.

First, first meetings have to be lunch. I think I have pretty much detailed in a previous entry what makes a one-hour lunch supremely incomparable against doing dinners or after-dinner coffees. For me, the 60-minute window is a magic itself. It is an ideal period to keep interests fueled up assuming you hit it off well; and, at the same time, it makes you look kind and civil when you finally say goodbye and leave the place in deep gratitude to the gods for making you last that long assuming things weren't exactly right.

Second, it should be in a neutral, relaxed place, not one where the ambiance and the lighting designs are intimidating or too romantic to make us uneasy. The important thing is it should encourage each one to disclose as much about himself without really trying. This informal setting extends to the dress code. I don't have any problems meeting one in faded jeans and a Fruit of the Loom white shirt. I don't, because I'm worse. I go there in shorts and rubber shoes. That's why I have strong preference for long walks to unexplored parts of the city, visits to public markets, and just about anything non-traditional. Based from experience, these ideas are very insightful. They have a way of shedding one's guards and expose what lies beneath. You now have a way of checking if the talk matches the walk.

Lastly, there should be no does-he-like-me talks. The first meeting should be spent effortlessly in just being yourself. You don't have to move heavens to impress the other person hoping that you'll have him beg you to stay. My idea is you go there, be yourself and have a good time without being bothered with what's going to happen next. You don't have to compromise your personal views and force yourself to agree to everything that's been said just so you show you somehow connect. Have your own mind on things. That's the easiest way to create a good impression, that you're not pushover but one that's honed and shaped by years and experience. The thing is, make sure they make sense.

Lost in my city

I have long held the record for being the only person left in my community of friends who hasn't been to Bed yet. I have enjoyed that image for too long. I'm not really sure if it was for my credit since it gave people some unclear and mixed impressions about me. For others, it was something to be celebrated --- meaning I'm really not that exposed yet which should be good since potential dates wouldn't really worry about me having hooked up with any one of their previous tricks. But for some, and sometimes including myself, it was an unpardonable mistake. It was freely giving away clues to how much I have aged in recent months.

And so on the early hours of January 1, slightly after the city finished lighting the last firecracker, a friend passed by for me. He wouldn't say it, but he probably pitied me so much having spent new year's eve alone in my place. He said he was going to bring me to some place I've never been before, some place interesting to spend the first few hours of the year. I knew right away it was going to be Bed, the most popular dance bar in Manila today. I figured, it couldn't be any church because my friend wasn't really known to be a churchgoer. Worse, it couldn't be any of their usual hangouts since most of them are closed for the holiday. The only place open that night was Bed.

When we got there, what used to be a spot brimming with energy and sweat was dead. It was virtually a ghost town. There were just a handful of people in the street. Most of them were silently talking. The strip lined with cars on both sides were absolutely clear exposing the dark areas where countless erotic liaisons either came to life or breathed its last before perishing. From the other end of the street, I saw a familiar face. It was my ex W. After the usual greetings, I was asked what got to me that I decided to be there. I said, I just wanted to show off my new red shirt. I got lucky because, courtesy of W., I was given a VIP treatment and got in without paying the entrance fee. I wondered how many visits one has to make first before being accorded that privilege.

I've been to dance clubs years, years back and somehow I pretty much have some good idea on what really happens inside. Gyrating sans shirts doesn't shock me anymore. But inside Bed, I caught my jaws dropped a bit when I saw people kissing, not in the dark corners of the room but in the more open spots where everyone's eyes merge. I remember, the last time I was out, I never chanced upon anything like that. So that must have been ages ago. Things have really changed.

Oh no, I'm not complaining. I don't have anything against people who do it. It's just that I'm amazed that I haven't been out for quite a while already. I felt lost the whole time I was inside. I didn't know anyone there except for a few friends who were gracious enough to stay with me lest I'd end up awkwardly in any vulture's claws. Although that must have been exciting. At least that will give me one more blog idea to write about.

I'm glad I went out that night. I was able to meet friends I haven't seen for several months already. It was good getting the latest news straight from horse's mouth. You should see their twinkling eyes when they talk of their blooming lovelife. You get additional juicy details if you know the right questions to ask.

And finally, I'm glad I can now share my own story of peeing while facing another guy with only a clear aquarium glass separating you. If the fishes decide to cooperate, they come flocking together in front of you to obscure the view and free you from any prying eyes. If they, however, choose to split and play with the bubbles near the rim, you're dead. Well, not really. For some people, it means hope. All imagined possibilities follow.

Welcome 2004!

Happy new year everyone! I hope all of us will have a meaningful 12 months ahead of us filled with more friends, more vacations, more pay, and well, more sex. Why not?

New year's eve wasn't really that bad after all. It came by so quickly I didn't notice it. I had the maid take the day off to be with her sisters. The three of them are here in Manila for work separated from their families for the longest time. That was the least I can do for her. And so, like in christmas, I was a home alone boy. I didn't put my tear ducts to work that night. There was just so many thoughts flying from everywhere that I barely had time to sit still and be emotional. The setting alone that night was sad enough.

There was food on the table and there were drinks in the ref. But they weren't touched, not even a pinch. Two hours before new year, I lulled myself to sleep after watching badminton on TV. I wanted to set my desk clock's alarm to go off a few minutes before midnight, but I noticed it was dead. I remembered its battery had been dead for days. I was too tired to replace it that night, so I wished there'd be really loud merrymaking around my building to rouse me from sleep. I got lucky.

A few minutes before midnight, I switched on all the house lights in my flat. I put on some music. This was how we do it since we were kids. Of course, I no longer jumped five times hoping to add a few more inches to my height. I also didn't wear dotted shirts since I don't have one anymore. I also forgot to put some coins in my pocket.

But I closed my eyes a few moments in prayer. I thanked God for a wonderful year and I implored for His kindness as we all face a new one. I asked Him to bless and comfort that night all those who were alone like me.

And then, I opened a can of Diet Pepsi.

Greetings from Boac

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!

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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?