Love in the mountains

At 21, Ka Jose (right) is about 33 years younger than his partner, Ka Andres.


This photo made my day today. It didn't make me want to leave my city job right away and head to the hills to become a cadre, but it was enough for me to manage a warm smile, think fondly of our revolutionary brothers, and turn me into my hopeless romantic self even as I write now.

Let me congratulate first Ka Andres and Ka Jose who exchanged their vows as married couple in a ceremony last February 4 before friends and comrades right deep in the hinterlands of Compostella Valley in southern Philippines. The marriage holds the distinction of being the “first homosexual couple in the New People’s Army who were wed by the Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP).”

A sequined CPP flag took the place of the usual veil. It was held in place by a beaded cord which surrounded, not just the couple, but the comrade-witnesses to symbolize the support of comrade community to make their marriage strong. Instead of the customary unity candle that couples set alight, Ka Andres and Ka Jose each held a bullet to “represent their commitment to the armed struggle.” Like all weddings that we have grown accustomed to, love songs (albeit revolutionary) were sung. And although I’m not sure if there were marriage contracts where signatures were put on, the wedding was nevertheless sealed with a kiss.

There is something very poignant about the marriage. I feel elated and affirmed; at the same time, frustrated and a bit disillusioned. My mixed feelings has nothing to do with being resentful or unsupportive of marriage or the decision to get married. In fact, I have nothing but great admiration for the courage and love shown. I long for the day when each one is gifted immensely with such bravery that declarations of love from devoted couples render us oblivious to the mindless posturings of traditions and the Church.

Firstly, I feel sad that the government as well as the Church are not as progressive and bold in their marriage and family mindsets as the CPP. Lifetimes after lifetimes have passed and yet the government and the Church have yet to go past their archaic definitions of love and marriage and family. I have continuously rebuked the equation that family = father + mother + son + daughter + the dog, and instead challenge (the equation) to expand the definition into mature ideas regardless of how revolutionary they may be. To drive home my point, I will have no problem accepting a single mom and her kid to be a complete family in the same way that I will graciously consider two men (or two women for that matter) raising a child to be full families. On the other hand, the revolutionary CPP has only taken them ten years today to witness their first gay marriage from the time gay rights were first discussed in their movement in early 1995.

I'd like to end this with something positive. I will probably never meet the couple, but that shouldn't stop me from affirming them and their love story. I have taken enormous encouragement from the fact that their story upheld something that have always warmed my heart: that love isn't measured by age or background or company kept, but is nourished instead by respect, trust, and warm affections.

How to fight

When people ask me how do I fight while in a relationship, they always seem to expect me to spew out an unparalleled list of a thousand and one ways, not just to cuss, but to perfectly ignore somebody without really trying, how to impressively hurl glasses across the room, how to rip and shred vacation pictures flawlessly, how to leap into a one-night stand immaculately, or even how to be dead to the world and manage to sleep for a week. It’s funny how some almost always dwell on the extremes and picture people so unglamorously. It’s unthinkable, something that’s truly unflattering. They think that fighting always has to be bring us back to the times of gladiators and, worse, primates.

Looking back, I am proud to say that I never really figured in a fight with any of the three relationships I’ve had. No, it’s not that I’m afraid to fight or even anxious to confront irritations with my partner. It’s not that. In fact, there have been a few times we got annoyed with each other. The thing is, they have never really got blown into a major boxing match. We’ve always managed to talk things over and continue to enjoy life.

The reason is simple. To start with, I’ve been blessed with really good partners. They are all mature, peace-loving, warm-hearted, happy people. I’m really lucky in that sense. But more that this, I make sure certain things are not neglected. First of all, at the start of my relationships, I invite my partner to make a vow with me --- that, when we fight or when things are not going well with us, separation will never be considered the first option. I find this to be very practical and sensible. It motivates us to really work things out and not thrust us into a wait-and-see attitude or, worse, to just watch the other person vanish. The vow gives our feelings security, a sense of commitment, one that reminds that we’re in this not just for the fun.

Another thing I have found to be very wise and prudent move is for partners to willfully agree on how to fight. I try to initiate conversations on this subject during the “good times,” when everything is light and bubbly and Cali Shandy. The conversation aims to leave us with ideas on how to behave and conduct ourselves in times of war. J They don’t have to be so profound and overpowering. Most of the time, they are modest and straightforward agreements. For example, in my case, I always insist that we should be issue-oriented as much as possible. Past mistakes and oversights should never be brought to life again otherwise we’d trap ourselves in an unending argument. There should also never be physical violence. In no case shall the tip of our fingers land on the other’s cheeks or any other part. A calm and empathic listening is almost always just what’s needed. I also insist that, whenever practicable, we refrain from involving our friends and other people.

Meanwhile, for those who are interested in some tidbits of do’s and don’ts on how to fight, here’s what I found from a guidebook by Ken Hanes. I hope we all keep these in mind whenever the inevitable happens.

· Count to ten before you start.
· Stick to the issue.
· Don't dredge up ancient history.
· Avoid put-downs and name-calling.
· Nix the sarcasm and camp.
· Speak your mind, and give him the chance to speak, too.
· Avoid profanity.
· Don't throw anything.
· No violence. Ever.
· Don't change the subject.
· Don't pretend you don't understand what he's saying.
· Don't mimic him.
· Don't bully him.
· Assume nothing.
· Don't ask your friends to take sides.
· Don't hit below the belt.
· Be specific about your complaints.
· Don't threaten to leave him to get your way unless you truly mean it.
· An unfinished fight will only return another day. Fight to the finish unless you're merely fighting for fighting's sake, Then, stop.

A sequel

I wrote my parents that letter not to bring them shame or cause them frustration the rest of their lives. That was farthest from my mind. I endured countless hours of anguish and pain putting together that letter to save myself from living in a perpetual lie. I wanted to be honest with them, I yearned to be close with them, and I longed to free myself.

The letter was long overdue. The truth of the matter was, my memory fails me now trying to remember how far back in time had I tried composing a letter or how many attempts I have undertaken all in all. It must have been a thousand already. But the more I tried writing one, the quicker I would be swayed from going any further because I didn’t want to cause unnecessary harm and discomfort, not so much on my part but for them. I have hesitantly agreed to let things be the way they have always been so as not to trigger any unpleasant confrontations or set off my parents to suddenly become mute.

For the next several years, I blinded myself to believe that this was the most practical thing for me to do --- keep silent on the subject, don’t cause needless harm, do “normal” things, stay out of trouble, be as inconspicuous and unnoticeable as possible. I have been good at keeping things quiet and even perfected the art of feigning my real self. It troubled me doing that, but it was the only way I can keep those around me. It was horrible. I cannot imagine giving almost all of my life keeping alive one lie after another. I have grown tired living as somebody I am not. I refuse to deny myself of the joys of being free. I wanted my parents and other people close to me to stop being entertained by an illusion.

And so, several days before my mom was set to fly back last year to the States where she now lives with my dad, a strong feeling came suddenly burning in me. I thought maybe it was time for me to do the letter. I thought maybe the three years that they have lived there somehow opened their minds a bit to things. I don’t know what made me think that way, but I convinced myself that that was likely, a risk worth taking, something that was more practicable than anything.

I think the risk paid off. Although it’s not really something we talk about lengthily over the phone when they call, we have become comfortable joking with each other on many things. We don’t feel awkward on long pauses and momentary silences anymore. And most of all, the words “I love you” have acquired more meaning.


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I just thought, maybe one or two young readers may find their way here in my blog and, like me, have always planned on writing that letter. Here are some helpful ideas.

Are you ready?

For one moment, I thought I should let you in my most private of private life even for a while. Something tells me it's about time I breathe another life to an old but very meaningful letter I wrote my mom not too long ago rather than let it gather age and irrelevance. I acceded, initially with some hesitation, but replaced quickly by an overpowering sense of personal joy and bliss.

I have written a thousand letters in the past. At one time, I thought I have written so much I wouldn't have problems weaving words to express myself. I was wrong. Coming-out letters are different. They're probably the most difficult to compose. It took me hours to even just start off. I can only manage a blank stare. You want to cram your entire lifestory in several paragraphs hoping you assuage fears, clear misconceptions, erase prejudices, solicit acceptance, invite love, all at the same time.

So now, with much delight, I'd like to share with you that letter I wrote which brought tears to mom's eyes for a while, but which gained me her love, admiration and respect. The least I hope that'll happen are two things: That friends will know me more while soon-to-be friends gain support from my story and do whatever they have to do to make living truthfully an object of immense desire.

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Dear Mamang,

I had a very difficult time starting this letter. For several weeks, I had been putting off doing this because I couldn’t get myself to sit still in front of the computer and start writing. There are many things I wanted to say and I get lost along the way.

There are three things I really wanted to say.

First, thank you for extending your stay here in Manila. You could have opted to leave right after your birthday, but you stayed on. It may not be obvious to many, but your reason was certainly so clear to me. I’d like to think you decided to wait for a few more weeks behind Papang so you can be with me during my birthday. That was very touching. And I was deeply touched. I really appreciate it.

I have certainly grown. From a young boy who enjoyed playing in the streets back in the province, I have matured to become an independent, responsible, kind, generous, and intelligent young man. I have never directly described myself this way because I have always tried to be unassuming, but a closer look in me reveals that I am these, in one way or another, in more ways than one.

For all of these, I couldn’t think of any other significant influence on me than how you have brought me up. I have witnessed several images of everyday things you have done in the past, which for you may have been ordinary, but have always remained very vivid and strong reflections of the kind of person I would like to turn out. For instance, I couldn’t count the number of times when, as a kid, we would rummage through my old clothes and things in search for something that may still be useful for the neighbor's children. I was very young that time, about less than ten years old, but I have fond memories of those times. They taught me charity, generosity, and selfless giving. Which, up to now, I still very strongly hold.

Going further down memory lane, I still have very glowing memory of that evening when I was in Grade 3 and, with your help, I was able to memorize a complete section of the multiplication table while on a motorcycle trip on our way to visit relatives. You were very patient and encouraging, and I felt very good that night. There was also that morning in kindergarten when I figured in a fight and you came running to my rescue. I felt very relieved knowing you were there, but at the same time, embarrassed that I somehow failed you. Which may be somehow what I'm feeling right now.

But I don’t regret turning out to be what I am. This is the second thing I wanted to say. More and more each day, I am convinced that a huge part of the kind of good person that I am may be explained by it. I have grown and matured to understand that there is nothing that should be regretful or disheartening or chilly about being gay. It was not your fault in the first place. It’s not a question of whether you failed to do something or not. Worse, it’s not even a question of you having done something which you could have opted to do otherwise.

I respect your religious sensibilities and those things that you have grown accustomed to believe because you grew up with them. But in my generation, maybe we were more bold in questioning things and beliefs so it was easier for us to be open to other ways of looking at things.

Please believe me when I say that I am very happy with myself. And as a parent, I am sure that is what you would like your son to feel. There have been a few hitches in the past, but I have managed my way through. One of them was telling my only sister. It may surprise you to know now that she has learned about me for more than four to five years already. She, like everyone else, was shocked, but after getting back her composure, came to accept the reality and embraced me with more love and acceptance. She promised not to ever tell you because that was the proper thing to do. Now, we’re more open with each other. What this revelation did was make me feel good about myself. I am deeply proud to say that I am honest and true with myself, something that other people cannot imagine to do in their lifetime. I am glad God was generous with me to give me so much courage and love.

And that’s exactly why I am very thankful for God’s infinite wisdom. The God that other people came to identify and grew up with was somebody who was supposed to love only straights and not those kinds of people who were deemed abnormal. This made me question some people, how can they worship a God like that, one who’s judgmental and plays favorites? What reasons could He have that He created a certain group of people straights and others non-straights? It’s something very mind-boggling.

I’m happy that the God that I worship is so hugely understanding and perfect. Since He is perfect, He creates things perfectly. He doesn’t make anything less than perfect. So when you come to see things from this point of view, all people are perfect and normal regardless of race, religious beliefs, and sexual orientation. The kind of person one is is not ever measured by whom he or she goes to bed with. It is by how one treats another person. That’s why, people who are quick to judge me never intimidate or bother me. I know deep in my heart that they cannot convincingly claim superiority over me or another person in whatever terms. Applying this in my case, you will now understand that I am as perfect and normal as any other person. There’s nothing wrong with me.

Lastly, I would like to assure you that I will continue to be the kind of good friend and good son that I am. This hopefully should be enough to make you feel strongly each day. Please continue to do things that you enjoy doing in the States and not worry so much about us here.

Thanks for your love and support. Thanks for your strength and resilience. And most of all, thank God you’re my mom.


Love,
J.

Cry songs

As of my last count, there were only three songs that make me cry or at least misty-eyed. Two of them are OPM's, the other is an old Carpenter song. These three have never failed to practically stun me and render me motionless for a few moments while I sigh heavily and switch to a sentimental mode or whatever is left of a once romantic self I have known.

Recently however, there was one more song added to that list. It's something not new to me since I have heard of it many times before either on the radio or sung by my sister when she makes herself a glass of iced tea. I would just ignore that song and let it pass. It came back to haunt me a few weeks when I heard it performed by local school-based all-male choral group.

I froze. And I allowed myself to weep.

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I will be here


Tomorrow morning if you wake up
And the sun does not appear,
I will be here.

If in the dark we lose sight of love,
Hold my hand and have no fear,
‘Cause I will be here.

CHORUS
I will be here when you feel like being quiet;
When you need to speak your mind, I will listen.
And I will be here when the laughter turns to crying;
Through the winning, losing, and trying, we’ll be together,
‘Cause I will be here.

Tomorrow morning if you wake up
And the future is unclear,
I will be here.

As sure as seasons are made for change,
Our lifetimes are made for years,
So I will be here.

CHORUS
I will be here, and you can cry on my shoulder;
When the mirror tells us we’re older, I will hold you.
And I will be here to watch you grow in beauty,
And tell you all the things you are to me;
I will be here.

I will be true to the promise I have made,
To you and to the One who gave you to me.

Wetness First

I recently transferred gyms. I now have to walk around 250 meters from my office building to work out instead of merely transferring elevators in an adjoining building as has been the case in the last few years. My old gym seemed like another family to me and I will miss some familiar faces, but sadly, it had to close down at the end of the month because it wasn’t making enough money to carry on for another year. It had been in the red for the last two years or so, management says.

My new gym seemed to be the only logical option for me to transfer. It’s near, new, and, well, classy as some deem it to be. It’s on the eighth floor of one of several towering structures lining up Ayala Avenue. Although you can’t really enjoy the cityscape from that height, at least you can make out the stretch of the entire business district when you look out the glass panels. One quick look at the street traffic below and it can make or break your plans of heading home after a workout session.

Three years ago, I checked out this gym when it started operations. I didn’t like it at all. I didn’t have good vibes on the place. I felt like a stranger. True, it was, at that time, considered to be the most modern gym in this side of the city. The other gyms just stared and sighed as they watched their clients move to this new place. Among others, it had wider space, 30-plus cardio machines, five to six aero classes everyday, fully-airconditioned, and of course, a free-flowing offer of complimentary softdrinks, iced tea, and coffee for members, which has become the most popular attraction for the gym. It has in fact swayed some people I know to actually enlist. I still don’t understand how this has influenced some people to actually sign up, but it had. It’s not as if one is able to wolf down gallons of these drinks to become so significant a factor.

Things have been OK for over a week now. I don’t know most of the people there, but that doesn’t bother me. I go there knowing my workout program for the day, hit my one-to-one-and-a-half-hours exercise routine, hit the showers, change, and leave. I sometimes opt to spend a few minutes in the sauna to loosen tensed muscles, but I end up getting more stressed and uneasy. Everyone seems to be constantly on cruising mode.

But that’s another story.

My Lolo Cesar

My maternal grandfather Cesar is a huge man. Not tall, but huge. Everytime he walks in a room, he has this certain commanding presence you would think he’s the tallest man who ever lived or one who holds the most number of inventions in the world or the only person awarded the Nobel ten times. The truth is, he’s just about 5’6, no famous discoveries to his credit, while the closest he got to Nobel was a Gintong Ama award he received from His Eminence Jaime Cardinal Sin in the late 1980’s as one of the country’s top ten fathers that year.

That award meant a lot for him. It should be. For somebody who endured all imaginable difficulty raising eleven children to be all professionals today, the recognition he got was a mere speck of the honor and praises he should really be showered.

His story began in 1929 in an island called Itbayat, the northernmost inhabited island in the Philippines. As the eldest child in the family, he took on the burden of looking after the family from a young age courtesy of a father who drank too much, gambled too much, and absent too much. At the tender age of 14, he assumed the duties of a family provider. He agreed to have ropes tied around his waist as harness when he joined road construction along the island coast. They blasted rocks and pushed them several hundred feet on the shoreline below. One false footwork and death eagerly lies ahead. For a few more pesos, he also enlisted as one of the many manual laborers who paved a vast grassland in the outskirts of town to make way for the main airport in the island.


Located four kilometers from the main town, this spot was where my grandpa manually labored pushing off blasted rocks off to the sea for a few centavos a day.


Next time you visit Batanes, stop by this spot called Paderes Cliff and remember Lolo Cesar.

God is good, my greatgrandma would unashamedly declare whenever he remembers his son, my grandpa Cesar. She never said it in so many words, but he was her only comfort in those countless years when she endured a marriage that overflowed with all but love and devotion. Nobody actually knows how my grandfather felt in those many turbulent years worsened even by the Second World War. Even up to this time, he keeps most things to himself, not even his late wife, my very photographable grandma Tina, probably had any knowledge of.

That’s why I felt very privileged when Lolo Cesar asked me recently to go over the manuscript of his autobiography. From over 30-plus grandchildren, he picked me to do a once over on his draft. I felt honored, really flattered. Apparently, he has been spending time writing his thoughts and stories in the past several years. I can only surmise he knows he lived a very colorful life that remains unrivaled to this day, one that needed to be told in my generation to keep us from being swayed over hurtful or sometimes ruthless ways.

Now in his late 80’s, he’s enjoying the fruits of his labor in far USA. He probably stands shorter than 5’6 today, still with no celebrated invention, but a life well lived.

Campus voyeurs

Several years ago, I took a day off from work one fine day in December just to catch what has turned out to be only annual major midday event inside UP campus that holds back time and everyone’s breath for a few minutes. The occasion, referred to as the Oblation Run, has become so famous it has merited coverage from every major local television network as well as interest from droves of people, mostly alumni or non-UP students, who troop to the university for reasons we may never know.

The crowd starts to thicken around a quarter before 12 o’clock. Students cut classes, teachers give way to pleas from students, people clog all corridors and stairways, everyone pushes everyone around to get to a prime spot, camera-wielding viewers jostle their way to the front. The air is hot, there’s no place move, you trade breaths with whomever is beside you, everyone’s hungry, everybody gets restless. The campus is virtually a small mad and wild city. Girly --- and, well, manly --- shrieks become deafening as several completely nude men descend from a car and, from there, jog their way in the middle of the crowd enroute to a raised platform where they spend a few moments raising clenched fists while shouting chants of whatever theme or campaign or struggle their group advances. Mostly it’s about a critical current school-based issue like tuition fee increases or a persistent national concern like care for the environment or anti-corruption.


Photo courtesy of a website

In the middle of the chaos the last time I watched, when I was mindlessly staring a woman in her thirties sitting silently on the pavement across from where I was, I kind of thought how amusing it was for everyone in that place to shed off their shyness for one time and satisfy, in my theory, one’s natural voyeuristic tendencies. Every one in that place I’m sure has a different reason for being there. Some noble, some trivial. But in my limited thinking bandwidth, I got stumped trying to find out what other reasons could there be to explain people's brave presence there. I understand if someone cites "educational purposes or entertainment reasons," but for most, it's not far that a judgment game arises: How do I compare? How do I fare? Am I at par? Is everyone cut? Is that how I look when naked?

But those lines come most likely from the boys. The girls, on the other hand, have a far more hilarious take on it. More often than not, it comes in the form of a question. With waving hands and yelling voices, they come asking, "Where is it? Where is it? I see only hair! It's all hair!"

I can be nasty too!

Without holding back, F. just blurted out to me, “Yeah, get in there. Guys are just waiting to get laid inside. Go get your share. Looks like you need it.” It would have been different if it were just the two of us talking because we’ve known each other for quite a while. But, my god, we were in a group of around seven, some of whom I have met only that time. F. didn’t stop there. Holding my elbows, he motioned as if to drag me inside the bar. That was it. I could no longer restrain myself. I was seething inside. I furiously shot back, “If this is how you get your self-esteem, please spare me. I don’t need men to make me feel good.”

He turned silent. He quickly realized I wasn’t joking. It wasn’t difficult to see why. It was as if I transformed into some goddess of doom right there. Some of the people in the group probably noticed what happened, but I tried somehow to carry on my conversations with them. I didn’t want to spoil their night. We were outside a popular bar along Makati Avenue famous for its not-so-flattering history.

There are very few occasions when comments from people suddenly make me defensive. One of them would be this. I don’t welcome the idea of people thoughtlessly picking on me (or whomever for that matter) thinking it’s OK since we know each other or we call each other friends from way back . I especially abhor the idea of people doing that in the pretense that it’s just a joke or a source of fun or to reinforce a point. What right do they have to do that?

I normally just ignore unkind remarks from friends or otherwise which I find disagreeable or, at the very least, senseless. I put on an unaffected front and start counting sheep and stars most of the time. Not because I like to be known as the next bitch in town, but I have figured, it’s the only way to spare me from unnecessary arguments and useless spats.

My unfortunate encounter with F made me realize I am far from perfecting the art of being unaffected. I will probably have a long way to go to master it. You see, I haven’t completely lost that urge to throw back stinging one or two liners to nasty and below-the-belt comments either from pathetic people aspiring for the slightest attention or wicked souls living inside alluring persons

Birthday lola

Her body's response to chemotherapy the last five months has been a source of joy for everyone in my family. For one week each month, my 77-year old grandfather's sister Lourdes has patiently visited the doctor's clinic for treatment. Later today, her 78th birthday, she's scheduled for the last doctor's appointment this month. It will be her 25th chemo session to add to the five more set on the last cycle next month. Afterwards, she'll be off for a well-deserved vacation.

I just spoke to her on the phone a few minutes ago. She was bubbly as usual. Her animated laughs obscured all the signs of her battling colon cancer. We spoke a bit of the home, we remembered relatives, and then she mentioned about wanting to go out with me next time I visit the mall. I sensed boredom. No one really ever’s taking her out on the three weeks she’s given to rest after each treatment cycle. A widow, she’s staying with her sister in an apartment that also houses a daughter’s family. She's made to feel at home there. Tita Baby's three kids are enough to shower the house with fun spirit. While it may not really compensate for something she's grown accustomed to, it's enough to keep herself reminded of Batanes. Her other source of amusement, I presume, is getting the kicks out from watching television or the calls from her children or grandchildren which come very seldom. She misses home so much. But I think she misses her grandson Joseph a lot more.



Joseph's story is one for the primetime soap operas. At nine years old now, I'm not sure if he's been told how he came to the family. Not that it matters, but I just thought he deserved to know. This photo of Joseph holding some wild flowers which I took last year when I went home to Batanes will be exactly what I will give my Auntie Lourdes later as present. She'll be excited, that's a given. But more than that, I'm even surer I'm going to see tears.

Solitary sense

Words fail me sometimes. No matter how much I try spouting them flawlessly out of me, I seem to make no progress at all. I get stuck, I get cramps, I lose things. I then close my eyes and carefully weave thoughts as I talk to myself. Sometimes I get lucky, other times I'm just a poor unfortunate soul.

But there are occasions when I'm at my best, when I mouth carefully selected thoughts and words with the least effort as if I've spoken them from birth. I sit tall, I look through, I talk sense. Most of the time, it's about the heart, its affairs, pains, and longings. I never claimed to be an authority on this, it's just that maybe I spent more time trying to learn from things that happened to me before.

That's why I find time to travel alone to places near and far. I save up for this, I fix my schedules for this, I consider this sacred. Finding time for yourself should figure in the list of things everyone should do. It's a rewarding tribute to one's self. It's never an issue of being a loner or hopeless depressive as some of my concerned friend worry about. For me, it's an act of love, in fact the only time when self-love comes out appealing.



I don't expect people to understand in the same manner that I don't expect love prospects to shine for all this year. But behind all of this is one simple prayer: I hope things work out for all of us this year. As a start, I'd like to give everyone flowers.

Hello 2005!

When everybody else was busy scouring wetmarkets and groceries on new year's eve to complete the traditional 13 rounded fruits, I spent that day quietly treading on the muddied ricefields in my favorite village up in Banaue.



I endured a nine-hour bus ride, several landslides, one-hour jeep ride, and finally an hour of downhill trek before reaching this heaven on earth. With just me, a bottle of red wine, and my Carpenters cd.

A swollen start

It hasn’t even been a week since the start of the year and I’ve already figured in a dreadful accident. Something tells me faintly, this must be a horrifying year for me. But I hope the gods in the heavens won’t allow it. Feng shui, for one, has declared this year to be good for rat people. I don’t exactly subscribe to it although it merits my attention more than horoscopes, but things have been pretty OK since I got back from spending new year in a secluded village up in the Cordilleras.

Last Wednesday, I joined around 15 friends in a volleyball game near my place. They have been playing weekly since last year. While I’m not present all the time, they make sure that I’m updated on the playing schedule. They can always make use of another set of hands. A few minutes into the first set, I leaped to block a net spike only to plummet on the toes of the other player. The uneven surface was just what my feebly already-injured right ankle needed to twist so badly it swelled up awfully in a matter of seconds. The swelling seemed to race in the same speed as Arnel frantically attempted to undo my shoelaces.

That night, my sweet gurl friend Joy slept over to make sure the 24-hour cold compress is completed. Although I didn’t actually need her help to deliver me to the bathroom for some nocturnal personal activity since I was still able to hop my way anyway to the urinal, I was comforted by her presence lying there beside me on the floor without any complaint as I slept raising my legs to rest on my bed. My doctor friend said I had to elevate the injured ankle.

And so the next few days, I was practically holed up in my bedroom. In a way, I was glad I had so much time in my hands so I was able to finish several DVD’s I have long bought from my favorite Makati Square stall. It turned out to be a perfect way also to test the new set of 5.1 speakers I got myself for christmas. I would watch badminton on cable in the afternoons only to wait for the early evening newscast. I would sleep afterwards till around midnight and would be awake to watch some more movies or ESPN till my eyes hurt or I’d remember that I’d probably be the only one awake in the whole city, whichever is earlier.

It's gone

While I still shed a tear watching Pretty Woman or show loving stare on genuinely devoted couples, sometimes I think even the tiniest romantic emotion engraved in the past years somewhere in my heart has completely, utterly, and absolutely thawed out and vanished. I no longer relish romantic gestures, much less, romantic thoughts and expressions. I cringe when I come across narrations of love and romances being forced out of people who have just been or, much worse, are presently in their first ever formal relationships. I have also ceased to be affectionate, warm, and adoring.

The feeling became apparent this morning when I came across a love story about an exchange of gifts between lovers spending their first christmas together. Stories like this normalle make me sigh. There have been times when I would suddenly close my eyes and re-enact events and place myself in the picture. The sighs definitely became deeper. Yes, if you will, a drama princess. To the highest degree. Even inanimate things as a red pen or a lifeless paper napkin would, without a doubt, gain life from my thoughts and assume very significant meanings and worth.

I now fear, when romantic feelings leave, are they gone for good?

Little things mean a lot

People might be surprised to know that I'm actually shy.
The most important thing I’ve ever learned was keeping private things private.
And what this taught me was I can become a good confidant.
My mother taught me charity.
My best ever outfit consisted of trekking shorts, leggings, dri-fit shirt, 60-liter backpack.
My Saturday night consists mostly of home-cooked meals and dvds.
The soundtrack of my life would include mostly choral music.
If I were invisible for a day, I’d slip inside the Pope’s bedroom and find out how he sleeps.
What makes me most angry are people who power-trip.
When I’m gone, the’ll probably say he was a good friend.
The world would be a much better place if everybody smiles and shares.
My hero is my grandfather Cesar.
The thing that makes my life worth living is respect from my family.
I’m saving up for my own place.
My biggest indulgence is a massage.
My current state of mind: melancholic.
My five favorite words are hey, dude, see you soon.
The worst thing somebody said about me was I was mayabang.
The secret to happiness is contentment.
When I retire, I would farm and do civic work.
I aspire to be a good son.
I haven't told my friends about that two-page feature on me in FHM.

An old loveletter

What I lack in a vibrant social life I make up with a marvelous collection of very touching love letters I have received over the years from people who have been part of my life in some very special way. I consider myself lucky or, if you may, blessed to have been associated romantically with these very few people who are intelligent (because they write in impeccable flawless english), sensitive (because they are in touch with their inner selves), romantic (because they know handwritten letters are timeless), brave (because self-disclosure takes a lot of guts), and simply attractive (because men who know how to write really are alluring).

One of them came from A. We were together in college although the letter came much later on. I came upon the one-page letter again last weekend after going over my several tin boxes which I use to store letters, pictures, notes, little gifts, and sometimes unused condoms. Even if I needed to get my moves on cleaning my room that Saturday afternoon, I still stopped for a while and read the entire letter. I felt good afterwards.

And so, to pay tribute to a gained friendship, I wanted to share an excerpt from this love letter. In more ways than one, I hope it will provide you a glimpse of me, of my true heart and self, and of the countless unspoken truths about myself. In parting, I wanted to express my sincere gratefulness to A. for a meaningful friendship.


My Dear J.,

Your question on whether a person should give the reasons why he loves someone has made me think in the past few days. I could have easily answered with a Miss Universe cliché like enumerating reasons would take forever, but certainly, a man of your intelligence and wit deserves something better. (Naaaaaks!)

So I tried counting. In the car, at work, at home, in the shower, before going to bed, while eating, practically while doing anything. I slowly realized, I could really go on forever counting. Pffffft, there goes my Q&A portion. But it’s true, in the past months that we’ve been seeing each other, I have grown to love each and every bit of the person you are.

You make me laugh. I immensely enjoy our conversations, be it about our provincial childhoods or our metropolitan adult lives. You inspire me. By being genuinely pleasant, you somehow bring out the better me. I’ve noticed how much more patient I am now, how I’ve become more cheerful, more forgiving.

I am happiest too when I’m able to bring out your smile. Nothing compares to the gratifying feeling whenever I have done or said something that has made you happy. I am also thankful that you have been a very good friend especially during my sad and weaker moments. I’m not wishing you’d have such times too, but count on me to be always there for you.

Mahal kita. Not just because of the things I just wrote about, but also because of all the other things that you are. It’s amazing how one feels love all over again. J., I feel really blessed, lucky and joyful that I met a very special person like you. I hope that someday, luck would bless me more times over and give me the greatest honor of calling you mine.

By now you’re probably on the plane or in your hotel room. Enjoy your vacation, do not hold back when a new experience presents itself, but please, please, please take very good care of yourself. I will be waiting for you back here in Makati.

Love,
A.

Reminiscing

I was probably around 12 years old that time when I sent out the first love letter which carried my name. I don’t exactly remember what was written, not even the events surrounding that fateful day. All I remember was feeling immense delight seeing a scented stationery neatly folded inside a colored envelope adorned with scattered tiny trimmings of hearts and stars and dolls. For one young boy on the edge and age of discovering things, that little packet seemed to contain everything a tiny heart yearned to share. I do remember holding that tiny thing in my hands and saw an exquisite labor of love.

It was, in truth, an unselfish sacrifice on the part of Ate Mag, our 18-year-old maid that time who spent many hours that Sunday afternoon leafing through songbook after songbook to find the right song lyrics which we can copy, send out as my own, and pray soon after that I can get away with it. I rode my bike to the girl’s house around 200 meters from our place and braved their dogs to hand in the letter. I must have been furiously tensed that time or desperately frantic that I didn’t even manage to stay for a conversation. I came and left like a terse and hurried sneeze.

Many years later today, I have probably written a few love verses here and there for somebody. Some were delivered still in paper and envelope, but this time, (thankfully) unscented. A few came as beeper messages. Others were sent via electronic mail. To my credit, each one was painstakingly composed, not by the maid anymore, but by myself. I am not gifted with the ability to weave words into some form of artwork, but I’m proud of my tireless labor to put a face, through words, on my feelings and my heart’s sentiments.

Answers please

I’ve been building up my list of when-will questions that have been begging a great deal for answers. The list comes after several solitary visits to a local coffeeshop or fastfood and drown myself with the sight of passing people.

1. When will women learn how to wear thongs and spare themselves from ridicule whenever they insist on wearing panties beneath their tight pants and give rise to awkward panty lines shouting to the world?

2. When will men discover the virtue of wearing boxer shorts over close-fitting briefs that hug your skin so closely they can hardly breathe, thus creating a groin area that’s so damp, moist, covered with sweat, and completely filthy.

3. When will men realize that belts have to match shoes in color and stop walking around the town displaying an unpardonable stupidity?

4. When will men and women grasp the simple yet critical truth that protruding nose hairs don’t have a place in this world?

5. When will women decide on going against the tide and risk being labeled as playgirls from choosing to accept dating proposals from several men (or other women for that matter) all at the same time knowing that that’s the only way they can intelligently judge who’s best for them?

6. And finally, when will women finally relent and give up their hopes of ever ending up with a guy who’s intelligent, witty, sensitive, and responsible because other men have taken most of them already?

Here we go again

At about this time last year, I was alone in my place. It was a weekend, the maid was off, I didn’t have an out-of-town trip, there was so much time in my hands I didn’t know what else to do to match up the cool December breeze and the seasonal melancholic mood that strikes usually at the end of the year. I decided to clean my CD rack and check out albums I haven’t listened to in ages.

One of them stood out: Lea Salonga's The Christmas Album. I slipped it in the player, propped myself on two giant floor pillows, closed my eyes and soaked myself with tears as I listened to two songs over and over and over and over again.


SANA NGAYONG PASKO
(Jimmy Borja)


Pasko na naman ngunit wala ka pa
Hanggang kailan kaya ako'y maghihintay sa iyo

Bakit ba naman kailangang lumisan pa
Ang tanging hangad ko lang ay makapiling ka

Sana ngayong Pasko ay maalala mo pa rin ako
Hinahanap-hanap pag-ibig mo
At kahit wala ka na nangangarap at umaasa pa rin ako
Muling makita ka at makasama ka sa araw ng Pasko.

Sana ngayong Pasko...


IT'S JUST ANOTHER NEW YEAR'S EVE
(Barry Manilow/Marty Panzer)


Don't look so sad
It's not so bad, you know
It's just another night
That's all it is
It's not the first
It's not the worst, you know
We've come through all the rest
We'll get through this

We've made mistakes
But we've made good friends too
Remember all the nights
We spent with them
And all our plans
Who says they can't come true
Tonight's another chance
To start again

It's just another New Year's Eve
Another night like all the rest
It's just another New Year's Eve
Let's make it the best
It's just another New Year's Eve
It's just another Auld Lang Syne
But when we're through
This New Year you'll see
Will be just fine

We're not alone
We've got the world, you know
And it won't let us down
Just wait and see
And we'll grow old
But think how wise we'll grow
There's more, you know
It's only New Year's Eve

It's just another New Year's Eve
Another night like all the rest
It's just another New Year's Eve
Let's make it the best
It's just another New Year's Eve
It's just another Auld Lang Syne
But when we're through
The New Year you'll see
Will be just fine

It's just another New Year's Eve
Another night like all the rest
It's just another New Year's Eve
Let's make it the best
It's just another New Year's Eve
It's just another Auld Lang Syne
But when we're through
This New Year you'll see
Will be just fine.

On getting serious

We are all too familiar with the little things that dating couples do when things start to get serious.

Let me count the ways:
1. Each one is in the speed-dialing button of the other’s home and mobile phones to make sure time’s not wasted punching numbers. On very rare instances that that doesn’t happen, one is expected to have planted the numbers from memory so they can be spewed out from recall with great ease.
2. Your mobile phone now becomes your most important material possession. It’s the only thing that ensures you’re connected with your prince. So you start buying several battery chargers – for the car, at work, to add to the one you have at home. Your mobile phones, thankfully, will never see dark nights again. They will never be seen without charge again.
3. Even the most inhuman and evil physical torture employed during the war will not erase from your memory all of his details which you managed to gather from research. You can easily and eloquently articulate his biodata even in your sleep.
4. You have perfected the art of worrying and being paranoid whenever the other person doesn’t call or even send a text message. When this extends to mid-morning and, God forbid, late in the day, your officemates consider being near you as wilfully exposing themselves to unnecessary danger. You become ferocious ready to clamp down anyone who unfortunately gets in your way.
5. The slightest mood changes are easily reflected in your face. Everyone who knows you will turn your face into some kind of barometer to warn every person who might want to come near you. Wrinkled look means the safest place to be is in planet Pluto.

But things have changed a bit in the recent months. Today, it’s easier to spot couples or those who plan to be coupled with another. All you have to do is check if they have, as a second line, a Sun Cellular pre-paid account. If they do, chances are things are getting serious, if not genuinely serious.

A confession

There’s no question about it. Jollibee’s Champ burger is infinitely more appetizing than the rest. The juicy patties oozing with flavor pressed between crispy lettuce and melted chese beneath two fluffy buns appeal to me all the time. I have to train my eyes not to look at the tempting product shots every time I line up in their counters. Otherwise, that would mean staying a little longer than usual doing cardio in the gym in order to wipe out fats.

But even with my open fondness for the Champ, I still queue at McDonald’s more often. Not for their burgers although I have grown to like McChicken already, but for, well, some mortal reasons.

For those in the know, you may have noticed how the fabric used by McDonald’s for their crew uniforms carry this special power to hug the body so closely. Especially the pants. I don’t know how the textile is called or where it is sourced, but it’s something perfect to emphasize some regions in the lower torso and, of course, the groin area. For one, it makes the pelvis noticeably broader, the waist fiercely slimmer, the thighs impressively firmer, the butt powerfully rounder, and of course, the champ down there brutally stiffer therefore easier to spot and make sense of things.

I’m sure your next McDonald’s visit will never be the same again. Tell me about it.

My cellphone is me

My new mobile phone has been a constant object of funny remarks from friends ever since I got it about a month ago. Almost all of the one-liners thrown my way dwell on the phone’s perceived rightful place in the cellular phone family tree. In terms of sophistication, my phone’s supposed to be in an unflattering position since it doesn’t have a camera, the backlight is colored blue, no bluebooth, sound is far from being polyphonic, no built-in JAVA games, while compact it doesn’t use joystick for navigation or at least have faintest capability to receive photo images.

I have learned to laugh at all these. Not to mask hurt or feign offense, but really burst out loudly because it’s simply funny. Once, I was out in my favorite place checking out the latest pirated DVD releases and found myself checking out instead the mobile phones of the salesladies posted all over the area. Good, I wasn’t with my friend Adel otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to prevent myself from laughing. You see, the salesladies were almost outdoing each other with their high-end clamshell phones flaunting the cameras and the polyphonic ringtones and wallscreen images. They may never be able to grasp their camera’s functions and capabilities, but for them, it adds that tinge of style or elegance that has eluded them no end.

Deep down inside me, however, I feel a soothing sense of relief. My phone may not be really hot on a mugger’s eyes, but it has brought some very hot personal lessons to me.

Firstly, I have learned the virtue of contentment, to make do with what’s available. I’m glad the idea of keeping up with the Joneses has completely lost its appeal to me. I know now, one’s personhood is never dictated by cellphone models or apparel brands or other flimsy standards. The Little Prince comes to mind, what is essential is not visible to the naked eye.

Secondly, I’d like to think I know my priorities pretty much. I didn’t finish economics in college for nothing. I’m not gifted with an endless stream of money supply, my resources are extremely scarce, but I have sufficient amount to get me any of the recent phone models if I want. The thing is, the lowly Nokia 8250 phone I’m using now is serving me well. All I need in a mobile phone --- text messaging, voice, alarm clock, and calculator --- are conveniently featured in this second-hand phone.

Lastly, this phone has reinforced my image as a cheapskate, the man to beat in negotiations. Imagine, from 4,700 pesos, I managed to get the seller to agree on a price that's 1,000 pesos cheaper. Without dancing, blowing fires, eating worms, or anything like that. No one can beat that!!

Don't be stingy with praise!

As sure as virgins still exist, I will never understand as I have never understood the idea of some men that, to keep their partners in tow, sincere praises and compliments have to be scarce. I don't know where the idea came from, but I do know it's a widespread disease now among us.

Most men fear that incessant doling out of praises that show appreciation to their partners somehow unmasks them unnecessarily to expose their vulnerabilities. For example, some will never be heard saying how lucky they are, how their life has become more meaningful, how they look forward for each day with their partners. These verbal affirmations, as a popular reasoning goes, make them appear weak and thus, more vulnerable. They fear that they unnecessarily display desperation or patronage towards their partners and make themselves defenseless. And so, some men deliberately become stingy with praises and affirmations thinking it's the only way to protect themselves from being abused. This reasoning has frequently been challenged and found to hold more air than substance.

A lot of my friends who are partners to husbands, wives, boyfriends, and girlfriends have frequently complained to me about feeling unappreciated by their partners. It's a sad reality. And all too often, it has its roots in the stupid idea propagated over the years on how a man should behave. We are all too familiar with these illusions: men should never show any emotion, they should never be seen with a tear, they should hold, never to breakdown.

So what do we get? Men who are so obsessed with appearing as men leaving their partners feeling sad, unappreciated, and trapped in unfulfilling relationships.

Questions

For a moment, I wanted to get out of the office today and head straight to Marikina since it was nearer although Real, Quezon was where people should go to help. I couldn't imagine myself in my office attire sitting comfortably in an airconditioned office working while countless people are currently without shelter, food, wives, husbands, parents, and children.

I began to question a lot of things. For what worth is one's work if it's not of help to other people?

Who's better off?

When I meet my friends in the mall, grocery, a bar, or any other public place, I usually walk up to them and spend a few minutes to say hi and ask what they have been up to. It's one of those things I can't bear not to do. Considering that my circulation revolves just around the house-office-gym, I've been virtually shut out from the world of fun and places to see and be seen. That's why I make it a point to snatch every opportunity that keeps me in touch with friends. In cases, however, where saying hi personally isn't too ideal, a nod is often done or a text message or a limp wave from a tired hand which is the last resort.

My friend M. did a quiet, almost mindless nod yesterday when I bumped into him and B. in an appliance store. It shouldn't be too much of a problem really since I was acknowledged in the first place and we are both in an age where our capacity to understand has been stretched and refined by countless hours of very open conversation with each other. I was nevertheless alarmed with what and how it happened, and more especially, with the unspoken message it brought.

The couple has been together close to a year probably. My friend M. is older than B. Both lawyers, they have been one of the few couples I know who have struggled to make their relationship weather itches and bitches. In a world where fidelity seems as strange as an ice cream parlor in the middle of the desert, the couple has managed to be monogamous (at least that's what I think!). It's something remarkable, yes. But for me who's in the know, it has been very difficult to convince me of its virtue or merit. M. has practically severed his relationship with friends in favor of B. Or if not, M. has reduced his contact with us to occasional text messages or phone calls that came very rarely.

I'm not jealous. I know that a friend's world changes immediately after a relationship is formed and formalized with somebody. One takes a front seat; another should be contented being at the back. That's alright with me. In the first place, it's never a question of one winning and another one losing. I think I've been around long enough to know these things and how they work.

What I don't understand is how this seemingly sweet romantic gesture of putting your chosen one a notch higher than friends in your priority list is done so blindingly it leads to a suffocating death among friends. My friend M. has repeatedly asked me to understand as he explains that I, along with other friends, can never be seen with him alone lest B. becomes suspicious and leads him to ask questions which my poor friend M. thinks he might not be able to adequately and convincingly answer. To this, I have made strong assertions to make my friend look at things differently and at least attempt to challenge B.'s mindset. I always get a blind stare as an answer. My friend is a bright lawyer I know, but he's disparagingly dumb on these things.

Which leads me to proudly declare, I may be single and I'm better off this way than be in a relationship with somebody whose concept of reality is as fatal as his notion of relationship as ownership. The passion ceases after a while, then what?

Heart friends

I don't take it against my friends when I'm the last one in their minds on the few times they feel kind and try to hook up their single friends on dates, yet I figure out prominently in them whenever they get whacked by a host of problems, mostly about love. I'm not sourgraping or delivering a litany of long-held annoyance. It's far from that. I like to think most of my friends are fine right now in their world of work and love since I haven't been "consulted" in a while. Either that or my friends have all turned a new leaf and have become matured and rationale people wisened by the years.

There was Vince, a friend I met in 1995. Over the years, I have been privileged to hear his most painful cries and confused look as he recounts countless mishaps in the heart arena. We don't usually get together everyday like other friends do. In fact, we have never gone to the movies together or Friday dinners with other friends. We'd bump into each other in the bar sometimes or send a surprise short notes on email, and that's about it. But he affirms that I was one of two or three people who know more about the real him than most of the guys he hangs out with every night. I feel good especially when he says he makes sure he gets to hear my take on most of his concerns because he respects me a lot and what comes out of my mouth. Through Vince, I realized friendship must not be weighed against constant presence or regular phonecalls. It's with the heart that it blooms.

Next to Vince would be Dan, whom I met in the early 90's when I was starting to work. We're of same age and birth sign, but that's not the reason we click. It's goes far beyond that, something that only the heart or the sixth sense can rightfully explain. I have forgotten the last time we spoke on the phone. It's more than a month at the very least. But Dan and I virtually remember the tiniest detail from every conversation. Whenever we get to talk, which mostly happens on the phone since he works nightime, we take our most comfortable position on the couch or bed to prepare for an hour after hour after hour of animated yet very revealing conversation ranging from his latest conquests to his self-proven oral techniques. We usually end our conversation affirming each other's friendship which makes the next conversation all the more exciting, something to really look forward to.

And the last would Alvin, whom Dan and I both know. I met Alvin about the same I met Dan. The three of us belonged to this group which regularly met one day each week to discuss common concerns and serve as support group to each other. Many years later today, I am sure that neither Alvin nor Dan know what each has shared with me. Most are very personal details, one which can make or break each other. I relish at this thought being a vessel of their most private information. It tells me there must be something in me that's good to make them risk disclosing things which even their parents or partners can only hope to know. I take pride in that.

The only downside is, two are currently based outside Manila while Dan is heading to London in a few weeks for work. I don't know if that means anything good. Is it a sign? Maybe people who want to be based abroad should be friends with me? Or maybe I help people build their wings so they can fly?

Breasts and cuts

Tomorrow, my groovy Tita Judy, my mom's youngest sister and a favorite, will undergo a breast operation. They found a lump somewhere and they wanted to take it out. She's likely the third or the fourth family member who got the cut in the same area. It's a bit disconcerting, but I'm relieved since care facilities in the States where the family's based will certainly be more superior than what she would have gotten had the operation was done here. I pray for peace in her heart and comfort in the family as she's led into the operating room.

My first encounter with breast operation was in the early 1990's with my mom. I was still in college then when a lump was discovered and an operation scheduled soon after. It was summer, classes were out, so I was expected to be the one looking after her since my dad was left in the province along with my sister. I don't remember being so bothered about the whole thing to make me think about anything negative like death. But I remember managing to sit during the entire operation in a room reserved for family members who might want to witness the operation. I sat there watching every doctor's move alternately with any possible reaction from my mom. But she was just lying there heavily sedated and unmindful of what was happening. Biopsy results showed it was benign.

A few years later, a re-growth was noticed and a trip to the doctor was scheduled again. This time, my parents opted for something drastic, a mastectomy. It was probably one of the most painful decisions they have made as a couple, but it was the only response they knew that would avoid an agonizing trip to the doctor every now and then. I didn't watch the operation because I had classes then, but I came after just in time when she woke up. The only thing I can do then was caress the mass of bandage wrapped around her upper torso.

It has since been more than ten years I think after that operation and I pray to God for complete healing. Unlike her eldest sister, Tita Elmie, who didn't survive and died of breast cancer in 1995 and became the family's first brush with death.

One truth

I am not ashamed of my roots. My humble beginnings do not embarrass me. I do not have a hard time recalling my childhood memories spent in a very remote province known mostly for its isolation as it is for howling winds and thunderstorms. On the contrary, my story uplifts me and makes me attractive. At least that's what I think.

Something else bothers me. I can't bring myself to look at my body for long in front of the mirror. It's like I feel disgraced when I spend a little more time than usual looking at my contours. I have seemed to be conditioned to think that nothing there is worth looking. And so by habit, I have perfected the two-minute routine of drying my torso with towel after bath, wrapping it around my waist afterwards before applying deodorant and other stuff. All the while, my gaze never falls below my clavicles. Otherwise, that would start an endless rant of foolish blaming and pathetic wishful thinking.

That should stop. I have to learn the virtue of admiring my body and looking at it to carry far deeper meaning. Otherwise, I will never get to the point of fully accepting and loving myself. For how can you love something which you can't even bring yourself to admire.

And so last night, I willingly allowed myself to drown in this truth: Only when you learn to love and cherish your physical body will you start loving and cherishing yourself. I'm sure that this truth is nothing new and it has lived with us for life. But it takes a little special effort to realize and accept it.

It has since been very inspiring. I know I have to burn a few more fats here and there as well as tone a few flabs here, there, and everywhere, but it no longer becomes so numbing. I know I couln't even come close to Adonis on the outside, but, my God, I'm beautiful!

Losing things

Some people have come to know me to be thorough and mindful of even the tiniest details. That's why I work best where attention to details is a crucial attribute. I'm proud of this, but sadly, all that is disappearing slowly each day. That feeling struck me in the face really hard yesterday. After losing at least three costly personal items in the last few months, I thought I'd be numb and dazed for the next ten years and, worse, completely rid myself of even the faintest libido for the next twenty.

I headed back to work from lunch completely bewildered. I keep saying, not again, not again in between heavy sighs and frowning. The entire five-minute walk from my bank to the office was a spinning headache.

I first lost an Oakley titanium sunglasses. It has been around serving me only for a few months. One Sunday afternoon, I decided to do something different and headed to Luneta to catch the 4pm Concert at the Park show. I was seated in one of the concrete benches near the stage surrounded by a sea of blue-collar community as well as maids and drivers on their day off. I had a good time watching the featured university-based choir. I was even more delighted finding everyone around me appreciate avant-garde choral music. I left without noticing that the sunglasses drifted from my pocket to the bench. To this day, I sometimes still blame myself for not doing a once-over before I left. That's unthinkable for somebody like me listed as a mountaineer with an outdoors group. More than 300 meters later, I figured it out and went back for it. A parent who sat at my back said she could only scold the vendor who took it.

Next came my mobile phone. On my way back to the office from gym one lunch time, I remember still using it till I got to my office lobby. I finished my take out food first when I got back to my desk. I then decided to do a five-minute power nap first before hitting the computers again. An hour later, I was going to use the phone and, lo and behold, I couldn't find it. I looked everywhere. I headed down to my building's security office to have the tape from the surveillance camera reviewed. A guy (probably a messenger) was the only person who entered our office and was seen tinkering with something on his way out. I felt bad but at least I had the closure I needed.

And yesterday, I knew that there was going to be at least two thousand pesos left in my wallet after I deposited my November rent to my checking account at the bank. I froze at the teller's counter when I saw only one 500-bill left.

Now, I'm learning a painful lesson. Maybe I shouldn't be too overconfident of my ability to cover bases all the time. I'm no obsessive-compulsive, but my training as a mountaineer taught me this. On one hand, maybe my being thorough isn't really the problem after all. Maybe it has something to do with my tendency to be trusting of people and believing that man is by nature good, one basic life truth I have held deeply since before.

Has man failed?

A different tune

When a phone line was finally installed at my new place the other week, the first number I called was V.'s apartment. I knew he was going to be surprised which I really wanted to do, but he wasn't home. The following night, I called again and almost every day after that. The person who answers seemingly never ran out of reasons he probably hoped would sound new and believable to me each time I call. The only thing that never changed was his voice and how he says hello.

I became suspicious one time when this housemate asked me to wait while he calls V. I couldn't make sense of the mumbling worried voices in the background, but it sort of gave me a hint. A voice came on the phone saying V. left the apartment and they don't know where he went. I sighed. In all the phonecalls, I would end it saying my thanks to hide a heavy heart, replace the handset quickly and afterwards breathe a desperate sense of loss.

The last time V. and I talked, everything seemed ok. As usual, he would rant about schoolwork that leaves him out of the house all the time and without a bit of time for himself. I updated him with any thing that I would guess he'd be interested to know about me. Almost always, they were things happening around my new place, my games, my gym sked, my trips. And in all ways, they're never about lovelife or a faint tinge of social life which I was unfortunately not gifted with at the moment.

He'd ask me if I'm dating anyone right now, and I'd set off the same answer everytime. He knows the answer. My dating life is the next boring thing in the world next to copying a whole Webster's dictionary by hand. I would be curious to know and ask him about his dates, but he would always say he didn't have time for it. When our conversation wound up about us, we knew something about each other even though we may not be telling. Deep inside us, I think we both knew we still have a flame burning, so to speak. I like to think we still think fondly of each other, we don't have anything but good words for each other, and we don't have a prayer other than love and care for each other.

That's why his text message yesterday asking me to leave him in peace because he has a new partner completely numbed me. It's not the idea of him getting a new partner that unnerved me, but more about the sudden demand for me to vanish just because there's a new one. I can't seem to really put the whole idea into chewable bits for me to digest after our repeated affirmations over the months with each other to always be connected.

I still haven't understood everything. No matter how I try to keep my peace and smile to the world, everything around me seems grainy and out of tune. I'm left with mostly unanswered questions, heavy breathing, wishful thinking, unimaginable hurt, and, quite ironically, hopeful heart. Do endings really mean devastation?

Let me explain

Many definitions can hold, but in the case which I wrote earlier to mindfuck means, plainly speaking, playing it straight. It happens when you willfully lead somebody to believe something mostly about yourself that is untrue in order to gain momentary pleasure. It is a cruel form of self-gratification, if I must say.

The pleasure is derived from many things. Some of them can be fathomed even by those who carry the least ability to make sense of things. People do it to obtain a gleam of superiority. Others just fancy seeing people bulge their eyes in amazement. I'm sure there may be profound reasons behind these which we unfortunately just don't know. Different folks, different strokes.

But in my case, I do it mostly to give people reality check. I don't find it heartening to see them assume right away that every love story they hear profused with so much heartfelt romance and selfless affection only occurs between a man and a woman. I find it extremely offensive to see them mindlessly promoting the idea that fulfilling relationships are a monopoly only of those whose attraction follows what is deemed usual.

And so on these occasions, I thought it's best to shake people's obtuse mindsets and keep them in touch with the truth even if it means me playing a cruel game. I only wish that their deep-seated traditional thinking are challenged and given a much needed awakening. If that one happens, let my soul be redeemed.

I don't want you to think that this is something I'm still having fun doing. I have long ceased to find appeal from it. Something's improved with age. It's better to throw pebbles of truth straight to people's faces sometimes.

A mind-fuck

The first time I played mind-fuck with somebody was more than five years ago. I don't even exactly remember how far back it has been. But that was one early evening in summer. I was standing by the stairs in front of Tower Records in Glorietta while I was perfecting meditative breathing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

And there she was, about three meters across from me. Our fate probably intersected that particular time as we were obviously destined to wait for somebody. For her, it was likely -- or hopefully -- a loving husband who was going to fetch her along with the two kids holding her pantsuit one on each side. And for me, a loving creature who was hopefully going to sweep me off along with, not just two, but countless apprehensions holding me back everywhere.

I'm sure we noticed each other by the time five minutes have passed. She smiled to me quite sincerely, and I smiled back. Smiling really does wonders. The moment I stretched my lips sideways there began a roller-coaster conversation skimming through our work, college, and of course love stories. I would normally become aloof about strangers probing and feasting on my private life, but surprisingly this time, I was very friendly. I shared some of my romantic moments, those ones that my friends have grown to be so envious about, and let her relish the thought of how lucky my partner could be with me and my romantic side overflowing.

"So, what's your girlfriend's name?" she asked innocently.

"Marco," I replied while quietly looking at her face expecting distortions to erupt anytime.

"Uhhh..I hope I heard you correctly..is the name.."

"Yes, it's Marco," I emphasized, quickly cutting her off. "And speaking of him, there he is now." I said sorry to have to cut it short and ran to the car as fast as my romantic knight-image vanished from her.

For the next ten minutes, my excited voice and my cousin Clarissa's laughter filled the car.

Changes, changes

Time was on my hands today and I decided to give my blog a new look. Initially, I just wanted to update some links and list new interesting ones I have come across recently. I am no techie, so I was glad to see Blogger.com come up with idiot-friendly guides for bloggers.

I spent several minutes trying to decide which design suits me well. I thought my groovy look today would influence my choice and make me click on that one with colors splashing all over the page. I was having my eyes set on an earthy look, something consistent with my nature. In the end, UP's maroon color won. I was happy. In the first place, I have bias for silver combined with maroon or burgundy. It's elegant, timeless, and very stable, rigid.

There's just one thing I'm sorry about. I'm not sure, but when you migrate to a new design, all the comments posted on your previous layout vanish. I can't see any one in my new blog. I feel really bad. Is there a way out to recover those ones?

Is there a saint to call for all computer mishaps and plain ignorance?

Blows and being blown

In the streets, at gym, inside the mall and occasionally even at my office elevator, I sometimes look at men's faces and wonder if they have ever been blown. Not just by anybody, but by another man. I can't imagine them letting something as heavenly as a man's blowjob pass them by.

The more I stare at Pinoy men, the only species I'm most capable to talk about, the clearer things turn out to be. I think more and more of them have likely let another man's tongue bathe their juniors. Lest I'd be branded as somebody with unforgiving judgment, I tried to look for reinforcements.

I'm sorry, I will have to do the elaboration next time. I hate it when I write and my tummy would make all these sounds. I gotta go find reinforcements. Literally and figuratively.

Breathing

And finally, I'm back writing again. It's been the longest hibernation so far. I'm glad the writing nerves are getting back in shape albeit slowly. I hope it will remain alive and breathing for the rest of the year.

What happened the last few months will be enough to fill up thousand pages of disclosure that will last until probably late next month. I had a few trips here and there, but I realized I'll probably be writing more about yearning or getting by or pulling through. There were a number of times in the recent weeks I've been with cry baby friends and their love stories. I've also had my share, in fact more than I can bear, of lost love stories whose only contribution to mankind is leaving my friends so dazed they had to make extra purchases of eye firmers.

Meanwhile, I found out some of my old, old friends have found their way to this blog. I don't know how they did it, but I just got a call one day from a few of them and I got bombarded with questions asking me about this and that. I have always planned to make my blog serve mostly very personal experiences; but, with this, I have yet to gain enough courage to start full disclosure. :-)

But maybe, just maybe, something very bold will happen soon. After all, it's another year older for me in the next few months.

A new cut

I called the my Kyan-to-be grooming guru friend yesterday and sought an advice on where to best go for a hair makeover. For once, that feeling of intense excitement over engaging in a hair battle even with no clear idea on the odds for victory in my favor became so appealing. My friend had me hooked up with a senior stylist at, as I found later, a pretty pricey salon in a nearby mall. I confirmed for an after-work appointment.

Of course, I came on time. I told the receptionist I had a 6pm with Jun. She checked the registry and called me by my name which was very reassuring, and led me to Jun's assistant who then shampooed me and helped me get settled before calling him in to set off a miracle. All it took for Jun was about 15 minutes max to cut and shave and style my hair to what it looks like now. Which other people immediately noticed and which, personally, I so love.

The experience made me ponder on two things. First, for beautiful and meaningful changes to happen, all it takes sometimes is a small step to make everything happen. I tried to figure out why it's difficult for most men to make a switching decision and try out a hairstylist as opposed to their longtime barbers. It's easy to find out why. At least as far as I'm concerned. Most are downright ignorant or just plainly ill-informed. They don't read or even attempt to find out what might be better looking for them and instead just be contented with the haircut they've grown accustomed to since their first barbershop visit in gradeschool. A number are incorrigbly afraid to take risks thinking that it's not after all a manly thing to be so preoccupied with hair and grooming. Now, what do we get? Men who become downright false testimonies to creation.

Funny, but I likewise started to think and compute about how much will I start to set aside each month for this expense. Considering that I, on the average, visit my barber twice month, I just might have to cut down to some things (like pirated DVD purchases hehehe) in order to afford this. Lest you think it's costing me two arms and a neck, I'd have to say the fee was reasonable. After all, it's not cheap to look good.

Love and time

I think I wasn't even ten that time, but I already knew love was never measured by length of time. More than 20 years later today, I still feel very strongly about this.

My first valuable love lesson was culled from my mother's love story. For the longest time that her friends and siblings remember, she was involved romantically with a guy named R. starting from her last days in college all the way down until they were both working. I couldn't exactly remember how and where they met, but I am sure that their many years of being together started when she entered her twenties.

R. apparently was every girl's dreamboy. Tall, athletic, well-chiseled, schooled. While my mom was, modesty aside, a looker in her time. Petite, confident, conservative yet fashionable. R. was my mom's first love. Both loved each other deeply.

Things changed on their eighth year when she left the province to pursue graduate studies in the city. Within a few months, she got the dreaded news, like in most soap operas, about her R. getting somebody else pregnant. Many of what actually happened to my mom after the news broke out has never really been disclosed. All that her sisters managed to tell us was that my mom cried for months. And more months. And that they have never seen somebody cry like she did. When she was done with school, she went back home still broken-hearted, but nevertheless recovered. If R. actually talked to my mom that time to explain his side, I don't know that part of the story.

My mom, meanwhile, burned her time doing well in her teaching job. By then, she was in the central town elementary school teaching baking and sewing to grade six pupils. Slowly, she was having a grand time and she now found her old self again. To some extent, her renewed cheerfulness was brought by a some guy, a new guy. This time around, it was Dad. Both knew each other since they were kids having been neighbors in the town where they both grew up. They knew each other very well; in fact, their parents call themselves friends.

Eight months later, one Saturday in late November, my mom finally found love again. This time, one that brought her immense joy and meaning. They got married quite late -- mom at 28, dad at 27. When we were growing up, I don't know for what reason, but my mom would sometimes fill us up with her story and emphasize about not being deceived by time. Just because a couple has been together longer than other couples does not mean thay they have more meaningful relationship or that they should end up marrying each other.

Cousins, cousins

My sister and I grew up in the province knowing our cousins really well. Much of that have to be credited to our parent's tireless efforts to gather us together, not just during christmases and fiestas, but also during our birthdays and graduations. And so the nine of us cousins who lived in the countryside grew up having this kind of special bond among us compared to what we have with our cousins who grew up in the city.

When we left the province one after another for college after finishing secondary school there, our parents still tried to keep the old times rolling. They would still have the usual christmas lunches and kris kringle even without some of the cousins. But it was never the same again.

The years that followed saw us heading to college and working in different fields and places. There'd be years when we wouldn't see some of us, but we would have our news about everyone from just about anyone, but mostly from our parents. They try to keep us updated about what each other was up to. That was how we came to know that John was working as a chef in a restaurant abroad, Jocelyn and younger brother Joel took up nursing and both decided to be based in primary schools working with children, May-may now does quality assurance kind of job with Coke after finishing chemistry in the State U, my sister is completing her graduate studies in the University of Indonesia in Jakarta as an ASEAN scholar, 27 year old Cindy just recently returned home as the country's representative to a World Bank conference in Washington and heading to London in September for her masters degree in Economics.

All of us are happy about each other's achievements. Many years have passed by, but we're still -- no doubt about it -- sooo much country kids when we get together. We have a lot of fun recalling the old days and private jokes.

There's just one thing though. All of us are still single up to this day. For a while, it alarmed us though we love to joke around it when we're together. But probably things will change within the month.

The past six months

I was doing treadmill over lunch yesterday when, out of the blue, I just froze and realized it's June already. It's the start of the first-half's end. Five months are now gone and another one is slowly vanishing -- all quietly, without me noticing a bit of it. In two more months or so, the BER months will be here and, without us knowing, another christmas is survived and another year is welcomed.

A bit of flashback on the past few months:

1. Phlogging. I have grown to enjoy taking pictures and posting them on my phlog. So far, I have close to 2,100 pictures already. This new hobby has introduced me to new friends both here and outside the country and brought me to new places as well.

January - Kalibo, Aklan; Iloilo; Capiz; Laguna (Nagcarlan, Magdalena, Pagsanjan, Liliw, Calauan, San Pablo)
February - Cagayan Province (Tuguegarao, Piat, Iguig) and Isabela Province (San Pablo, Tumauini, Cabagan)
March - Banaue, Ifugao; Caliraya, Laguna (Lumban, Pakil, Pangil, Paete, Mabitac); Tagaytay, Cavite; Nasugbu, Batangas
April - Agusan del Norte/Sur; Surigao del Sur; North Cotabato; Davao; Maguindanao
May - No weekend out of towns because of Namfrel

For this month, I'm heading to an island called Calalanay off Camarines Norte next weekend for a quick getaway with some friends in my mountaineering group. I'll stay in the city for two days after that before flying to Batanes for a ten-day vacation. I'm excited. I'm sure my phlog's going to be filled with tons of pictures again.

2. Badminton. I joined several badminton tournaments and played well. I have likewise enjoyed new friends not just from my club (Shuttlers), but from other people you regularly bumped into in the courts. Court receptionists and queueing attendants now greet you when they see you outside and, on whole, I'm glad I came to know a lot of new people because of the sport.

3. Lovelife. Whhaaaatt??? What lovelife?

A son's predicament

There are times when I question if my being the eldest and lone son is a blessing or some form of a burden that I have to constantly carry for the rest of my life. Of course, there is no doubting on my appreciation for the blessings I have lived and received so far, and the seeming inherent advantages of being one of only two children in a family.

It's just that, embarrassingly as it may be, I found myself being ripped apart several times by work, on one hand, which I should attend to since it's the one helping me pay for my bills and, on the other hand, my filial duties as a son whose calling I truly respect and keep. It has never been easy trying to do both, an ever precarious balancing act that you should master, an intense fighting of wills and practicable reasons that you should negotiate.

The past few days since my parents arrived have made this apparent once more. I am rendered helpless and could only muster a quiet yes once they say they needed somebody to join them as they run to different places to attend to different things. It's good if they say it straightforwardly like this because, more or less, it's easier to decide. But my mother has this thing of making it really subtle and smooth that you get floored and just end up closing your eyes as you surrender. She would ask for directions on how to get there or would inquire on my schedule for the day and make very faint pitches on how things would be easier if I'm there.

Wheeeeww, there has to be a way to work this out. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being bitter about being a dutiful son or anything related to my fulfilling that role. I relish every chance of showing back appreciation to my parents. If there is anything to be bitter about, it's more about not having enough time.

Meanwhile, my folks are enjoying their vacation. I make sure that the maid prepares Pinoy food everytime and that the breakfast basket should be filled with not just pandesal but mangoes and more mangoes. I have sago't gulaman in the fridge and Sarsi once in a while.

Two women

I was the picture of a model escort-son the whole day yesterday. I'm not sure if that's a cause for celebration or that's something that will put me into trouble for the coming days.

It was way past nine last night when I, together with my mom and her sister, went home. By then, they have traveled from San Diego to L.A. to Manila and, more specifically, to Makati, Tutuban, and back to Makati, all in one day or so. I picked them up from the airport earlier that day for a month-long vacation here in the Philippines. In a few days, they're headed to the province where they will spend most of their vacation. The city life isn't something that appeals to them.

Our last stop yesterday was the most memorable and fun. They wanted to address some pressing concerns, they said. When I asked them to be more specific, they showed me nails that that were cut likely long before I was myself cut. They took off their socks and revealed toes and heels that made gladiators' feet more attractive. And lastly, my auntie ran her fingers through her hair and said, she'd probably like to remember how it feels having a comb do it. Of course, I'm exaggerating, but it drives home the point of their immediate desire: be beautiful.

So off we went to a nail spa in a mall a few minutes away from where I live. There, they surrendered to the beauty gods. After quickly taking off their step-ins, they raised their feet on the footstool and slumped their tired bodies on the lounge chair and enjoyed the heated mineral oils which filled the room. Two attendants each worked on my mom and auntie doing both manicure and pedicure at the same. The sight was just captivating. I couldn't help it. I sat in one of the lounge chairs myself and asked for somebody to work on my nails. I dozed off in no time.

After her nails were done, my auntie wanted a hair makeover. While my mom was having a back massage after the nail job, I brought my auntie to Piandre which was conveniently just across the nail salon. There, too, she surrendered everything to the stylist and, occasionally, would glance to me seemingly asking for feedback or suggestions or anything that I may care to add. I felt, this must be how Kyan (of bravotv.com's Queer Eye for the Straight Guy) is feeling when he brings people to salons for makeovers. That power, that complete subservience people grant you to rule over their looks is just so overwhelming.

So, after three or so hours and a few thousand pesos poorer, we left the place and headed for a walk to Makati's premier malls. It was an evening late in the week so I guess people starting to prime up for their weekend stuff. Everyone seemed to be out that night. I was afraid I'd bump into some friends and they'd ask me to explain why I was in the middle of two women in their late fifties, each one tightly clinging in my arms.

But then again, I thought that least bothered me. The sweet sight of us three last night was far more important. It's not often that I get to enjoy that experience with them. It's not often to see mothers feel happy and proud they did well in their job of raising kids.

Queer invasion

If you've been far from your TV sets these past few weeks, you may not have noticed that ETC channel is finally on the list of most cable companies in Manila. I'm slowly being glued on the couch and to the TV channel certain days of the week.

One reason is a funny yet very informative program called Queer Eye for the Straight Guy where a team of five gayguys team up to give a very lucky straigh guy makeovers on grooming, culture, fashion, wine and food, and (apartment) interior design. Practially from drab to fab, as what they say.

Here's my answers to a questionnaire I found in their website:

1. Describe your ideal vacation — location and activities.
Cottage on a deserted beach + music + red wine + love (if the gods are good).

2. What type of workout keeps you in shape?
Running/Weights.

3. What's your favorite "guilty pleasure?"
Chocolates/Chinese food.

4. What is your all-time favorite book?
I'd have to say all of Dalai Lama's books.

5. What celebrity do you think has an amazing sense of style?
Nicole Kidman.

6. Which celebrity would you most like to makeover, and why?
Kris Aquino. She thinks she's so pretty.

7. What is the worst style faux pas a person can commit?
Trying too hard.

8. What's your biggest pet peeve?
Rudeness.

9. What's your favorite place to be seen on a Saturday night?
A bookstore. Or maybe a grocery.

10. Who is your role model or personal inspiration?
My grandfathers.

Dreams change

Sometimes, I don't know what to dream anymore.

For the longest time, I nurtured a dream that brings me to places far and all quite unimaginable. There, I will embrace my work like my prayers and my relationship like life itself. I will have no problems enduring the worklife in a cosmopolitan city with all its speed and casual dealings. I foresee myself living in a building surrounded by lifeless concrete and nameless faces, but will endure it only because it's near my place of work. I will keep a notebook of addresses and numbers of old friends and relatives and will take note of birthdays and anniversaries.

Lest I will be cautioned as being too stiff, I will definitely not forget to enjoy life's many sweet treats. I will drive an SUV and own rollerblades. On weekends, I will head to the beach or decide to be a gracious dinner host for a few close friends. My personal quiet time I will spend doing charity work or in aimless drives to the countryside.

Recently, however, things have somehow changed a bit. I don't know if I'm really aging or it's really like this when you get past a certain age. But I have found the idea of farming in a far rural place quite comforting. The house may not be grand in design and amenities, but it will have at least a radio. A guitar hangs in one of the walls. There will be no concrete suffocating me except for the paved road. Outside the house is a well-kept garden with a cottage in one end where I entertain friends over brewed coffee. Wind chimes are delicately mounted all over the garden to create more ambience.

Unexpected gift

For a moment, I thought maybe I can really earn some money from my photos. And then I can really start planning out visiting Tuscany.

You see, one dinner time the other week, an advertising guy all the way from Dubai called me on my mobile asking if I can head to Luneta the next day and shoot Rizal's monument for a poster they were doing for Pinoy audience there. The Pinoy art director happens to know somebody I know, and that's how my mobile number wound up to Dubai. They have seen my pictures in my phlog and, the guy said, I can do the job. I was quite nervous since I've never had somebody ask me to do photography formally and then get paid for it.

It was a nice feeling getting an affirmation like that. When I started to give more attention to my photography, all I really wanted was for my folks and my only sis who are living abroad not to feel too homesick. Images of familiar Pinoy settings and things, I thought, should at least comfort them a bit. It was farthest from my mind that they will get recognized and, more interestingly, it will lead me to an ATM bank.

I'm delighted to share with you that the Rizal Monument pics I took were accepted. I was in Glorietta two straight days last week buying things for me from what the pics earned me. Among others, I got a new gym bag, CD player beltbag, a number of DVD's, and, what could be the best buy of them all, soft-bound copy of Rick Warren's bestseller The Purpose-Driven Life.

Oh, I forgot to say. That one pic earned me 10 thousand bucks.

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.