Father’s Day

1. My dad died at 9:50am, the day after Father’s Day. I went with my brother and sister-in-law to sign papers at the hospital so the body can be released while the rest of my family prepared our home for the wake.

2. It’s a little unnerving to be fitting suits my dad will wear for his funeral. But I’m nearest his build so it was the easiest way to pick the right size.

3. We chose a large, beautiful hardwood (oak) casket with a light brown finish. The owner of the funeral service said this was the same casket used for a prominent lawyer-politician’s burial.

4. A lot of people whose lives my dad has touched have been posting tributes in social media. They make for strange reading— my head acknowledges he has died, but my heart is still finding it hard to accept that fact as true.

5. I’m reminded of a lesson he once told us at the dinner table (when he was embroiled in the middle of a very public, very contentious issue that threatened his political career and everything he has built his whole life) —

“Just always try to do what you think is right, what your conscience tells you is correct. The world has a way of taking care of everything else.”

I’ve tried to live by this lesson every day of my life. The most simple of instructions, but also the hardest thing to do in the world.

6. I miss you Dad. I know I could have been a better son, but I promise to live a life that will make you proud. I love you.

A Tribute

My Dad and I never really understood each other. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there was a lot of love there, but I think we were too different, and this of course was reflected in the type of relationship that we had.

He was a man’s man, who understood and relished his role as head of the family, and to a broader extent, the community. I was this gay guy who was just trying to carve out his own place in the world.

He was a pragmatist, but which pragmatism was always rooted in good intentions and a genuine desire to help others. He took the world for what it is, and played within the rules of that world to try to make it a better place. I was an idealist, which sounds good on paper, but which idealism can make me, sometimes, judgmental and unforgiving of people who do not live up to my standards. He accepted the world even if it was imperfect, and did his best to make it as good as it can be in the way that he can considering the circumstances. I saw the same imperfection, but the most I can muster is resigned jadedness and disappointment.

It should be obvious that this divergence in personalities would lead to clashes sometimes, and it did. (A story— we were in the middle of an argument one time, when he said, “Bakit ba ang tigas ng ulo mo?” I replied, “Well, bakit kayo nagugulat? Kanino ba ako magmamana?”). But, to his immense credit, he nurtured my ability to speak my mind by giving me the space to do so. He was a strict disciplinarian, but he never used his moral authority as a parent to shut down my ideas simply because he disagreed with me.

And I guess what I am saying is this— what I loved most about my Dad was his ability to trust me. To know in his heart that, notwithstanding the differences in our views, I was a good person, and that, whether I am right or wrong, he trusted that I was coming from a place of good intentions.

During his wake, my sister and I had an opportunity to have a long conversation which at some point touched on the nature of love, and I remember telling her that our relationship with our Dad, in all its messy imperfections, shows pretty clearly why love is so difficult to define.

It’s not affection or desire, love is not that superficial. It’s not just positive emotions and never-ending happy memories. It is also shared history; it is resentment; it is loyalty; it is trust; it is rising above our own egos and being there for each other; it is sacrifice. It is many other complicated things that would take a lifetime to write.

It is carving a path to your heart and saying to that person, “here, I trust you, so I am opening myself up to the possibility of immense pain because that is the only way I can love you.”

It is knowing that, notwithstanding the fact that we don’t really understand each other, and even though there are times we might not even like each other, we will never leave (at least not voluntarily). It is choosing to stay. It is always reminding the other person that, notwithstanding our differences, there will always be love.

Thank you Dad for the lessons. I love you and miss you every day.

Changes

Sometime this year, I woke up one morning and realized I couldn't recognize myself.

And it wasn't just how I looked physically. Something has... shifted internally. How I view the world, or form relationships, or process emotions--it's as if a completely different person is in charge now, and I'm only realizing recently how incredible that change has been.

It started with a resolution earlier this year that I will start saying yes to new experiences, even if I usually find them terrifying. So I said yes to traveling more, and connected with old friends in a way that I didn't think was possible. I said yes to friends setting me up on blind dates, and though nothing came out of them in a romantic sense, the experiences allowed me to connect more deeply with myself--and I was reminded of the value I can give in a relationship, and to not compromise my happiness simply because I fear being alone. I attended my first music festival with an acquaintance who slowly became a very good friend, and I learned that sometimes doing crazy things is necessary to keep myself sane. And then someone I barely interacted with in law school (who didn't even know we went to the same school but who learned about me through my blog) asked me to have dinner with him and his friends, and they become some of the best and most fun people I've met in my life. 

Then there were things I did on my own. I went to the gym. I tried group cycling exercises. I forced myself to talk to strangers (which is terrifying to me, although I'm actually pretty talented at masking my fear). I climbed a fucking mountain. I started writing again.

Slowly, the introverted, judgmental, cynical person I used to be became outgoing and open. Who would have thought that was possible? It still feels a little strange, and honestly a little frightening, but definitely not in a bad way. 

So I guess my resolution for next year is basically going to be a continuation of my resolution this year-- to keep pushing myself, to keep saying yes to new experiences, to surround myself with people who love me (despite my many, many flaws), to trust more, and to find out what, or who, I can become, if I never give up. I'm excited to see what happens.

Privilege

I realized I was gay when I was very young, but only opened up to a couple of friends in high school. I never fully embraced my identity until college, when I discovered Malate and realized there was a thriving community made up of people who were just like me.

Bullying was just a part of growing up, during those times when I slipped up and acted less masculine than was “appropriate” at the time. At some point though, I grew up, realized I actually like who I was, and decided that I had to learn not to care about what people thought of me, if I wanted to live a life of integrity, one where I was true to myself.

In practical terms, what this means is that, each day, each moment, I have to draw a line on the ground, and remind people every time that they cannot cross that line. And every time someone crosses that line, every time someone engages in hate speech or says that some bakla needed to be punched in the face simply because he refuses to disappear or to change himself so he was less different, I have to speak up, to make people realize that that behavior is unacceptable, and that I will not allow it.

And the only way I could do this, I realized, is if I was smarter and stronger than everyone else. If I worked harder and earned my place at the table. And that sucks, because straight men get that seat at the table by virtue of their birth, while I needed to fight for it.

But that’s how you change people’s minds. Bullies only have power if you allow them to wield it. And if enough people say “no, this behavior is unacceptable”, well, you can change the world.

The people who play nice, who say “this is not my problem, I’m only going to look at the positive”, are those who aren’t affected by issues which define minorities, which are real struggles we have to live with on an everyday basis. Good for you. But realize that that means you live a life of privilege we only hope we can have one day—the privilege to live a life without fear or judgment or threat of violence.

Our fight may not be your fight, but it is a real one nonetheless. Don’t diminish it by saying we should only “look at the positive”. Unfortunately, we don’t have that luxury.

Closure

You were having tea this time, which I thought was strange, but everything else was almost exactly how I remembered it--the same coffee shop, the same seats, the same intimidating presence. Your broad shoulders have developed a firm muscular quality I don't remember them having, and shallow wrinkles have started to form at the corners of your eyes, but it's uncanny how little you've changed in the decade and a half since I last saw you.

We started with the usual pleasantries, which pretty much was as awkward as we both should have expected them to be. But we've always disdained small talk, so in that surreal, familiar setting, we dove straight to the point. 

"We had fun didn't we?" you asked. "We had a good time."

"Definitely."

"But what did we have?"

Such a strange question to be asking 15 years after the fact, but I answered as best as I could. "We never really had the opportunity to define it. We never really needed to, but we did have a lot of fondness for each other, so I guess that was enough for both of us at the time."

"Do you remember how we broke up?"

"I honestly don't."

"You threw me out of your car."

"Seriously?" 

"I remember that we drove around a lot, and we fought a lot. And at some point you said you can't deal with me anymore, so you asked me to leave. Then I said fine and left."

"Wow, I sound like an asshole."

You didn't respond except with a small smile, and a long sip of your tea. You raised your hand to scratch the scruff on your jaw, and I remembered how your beard used to leave small scratches on my neck.

"You look good," I said. "I honestly hoped you've gotten fat, and I think it's unfair you actually look more handsome now than you did when we first met."

You laughed, and I remembered that I've always enjoyed making you laugh. "You look great too. Seriously, you don't look like you've aged at all."

The conversation then took unexpected turns, and we spoke of past hurts in an aloof but unaffected manner, as if these were things that happened to other people, and not acts we intentionally inflicted on each other. We talked about the lives we've lived since we broke up, and found common ground in the general frustration we've both felt at the way the relationships we've had had turned out. We settled into that familiar rhythm we've developed years ago, when we were young and nights were long and the possibilities were endless, but this time without the anger or the bitterness or the resentment that seemed to permeate every conversation we used to have. 

"This is a little strange isn't it?' I said at some point.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't believe we're talking to each other like actual adults. Who would've thought that was possible?'

You smiled. "You know, I don't think we've ever had closure, and I'm not sure we actually ever needed it, but this was nice. It's really good to see you again."

I let out a small laugh, and gave you a small pat on the side of your face. I guess time does heal old wounds, if you let it. 

Burners

On the day I decided to come out as a gay man to my mom, I asked my friend Mike to accompany me on the long drive to my parents’ house to what I imagined would be a turbulent confrontation. I was feeling exceptionally vulnerable at the time, between dealing with the (sometimes inhuman) demands my job imposed on me, moving out of the apartment my ex-boyfriend and I shared, finding a place to live, and coming to terms with the disintegration of my 5-year relationship. I wasn’t getting enough sleep (partly because I had no time, and partly because I couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to) so my nerves were pretty much shot. At that point, I just needed a friendly face.

To his great credit, Mike simply agreed. "When are we leaving?" he asked. 

***

Think of a gas burner.

Now, imagine that each section of that gas burner represents an aspect of your life that you consider important or essential. In most cases, it will include these four: work, health, family, and friends.

There’s a popular idea going around that, for a person to achieve a measure of success in any of these aspects, he will need to “turn off” some sections in order to focus on the others. Basically, the idea is that you cannot have everything, and that, at some point, you will need to sacrifice some of these aspects for the sake of the others.

In my case, when I was younger, I made a subconscious decision to turn off the family section of my burner. Partly, it was because I needed to find out who I was as a person separate from my identity as the offspring of my parents, but mostly it was because I’ve always been a misfit in my own family and I felt that if I showed them who I was, they would have rejected me.

Worse, they might have tried to change me.

So I became secretive and distant. It was at this point that I started focusing on work and developing close friendships with some of the best human beings I’ve ever met. Though I suffered through the motions of performing familial obligations, the idea that I might have to interact with any of them and open myself up on a purely human and personal level actually terrified me.

***

We arrived at my parents’ house when the sun was close to setting. My mom was expecting me. I asked Mike to stay in the living room while my mom and I spoke in the kitchen.

Here’s the funny thing: the emotional turbulence I was expecting didn’t happen because I told my mom I was gay. While I was in the middle of my (admittedly long-winded) confession, my mom started crying, not out of disappointment, but out of relief. As soon as I was finished, my mom admitted that she had always known, but that she did not want to confront me until I was ready to tell her myself. The relief she felt was borne out of the fact that I was now comfortable enough with her to tell her the truth.

To be honest, I’m not sure if my mom would have been this open if I came out to her when I was younger. I think her mindset was also a lot influenced by the changes our society has undergone towards its acceptance of gay people. But, still, it was a pleasant reminder that, just because I turned off the family section of my burner, it didn’t mean my mom turned off hers, at least with respect to her relationship with me.

And, while I was sitting there listening to my mom talk and cry at the same, I realized how difficult it must have been for her to keep up this illusion of not knowing. I guess she understood, intuitively, that coming out is a personal choice that she couldn’t force on me.

Which is true. I think if she forced the issue before I was prepared to deal with it, I would probably have rejected her overtures, in the same way I was so afraid she would have rejected me. And, in the same way I was grateful for her acceptance, I loved that she also understood why I needed to be so secretive and distant in the first place.

After the initial drama, and as soon as she got back her composure, my mom asked me if I was dating anyone. For the first time in my life, I answered her question honestly.

***

It was a little past nine when my mom and I finished our conversation. Mike was still waiting in the living room, suffering through an interrogation conducted by my nephew who was wondering why there was a stranger in the house.

On the drive back home, my friend asked me how I was. I told him I felt tired, but also that I was okay. Actually, more than okay. Good even. And, as the words were coming out of my mouth, to my surprise, I realized I truly meant them.

Photo taken here.

Love in the Time of Millenials

During a casual dinner in Rockwell with a few friends, my friend Monina asked, somewhat arbitrarily, “What differentiates millenials from everyone else exactly?”

I had some thoughts on the subject, and shared them with the group. In trying to sum up the defining characteristic of a generation of people (which, notwithstanding the countless articles on this matter, is still a daunting if ultimately pointless exercise), I explained to Mon a theory I’ve been developing.

“Young people tend to frame life experiences through its impact on their personal happiness. Which is why, say, when you’re talking to them about a job, the issues they usually raise is a general discontentment, or a lack of passion, or a feeling that the work they’re doing is not what they are supposed to be doing. And when you frame this against the concerns of older professionals working with millennials, the criticism that usually crops up is the typical millenial’s propensity to quit and move around. What about reliability, they would ask. What about faithfulness?”

***

When I was younger, my friend Percy once told me that he didn’t believe in long-term relationships. He explained that, once the initial thrill (“kilig”) of the romance is gone, he gets restless and moves on. He mentioned that there’s no point continuing the relationship because the people involved tend to stay the same, or worse, stagnate.

But what about love, I asked.

“It dissipates.”

“Then maybe you weren’t really in love in the first place.”

“Maybe, but who are we to say what love is or isn’t,” Percy argued. As far as he was concerned, he loved the people he was with, fully and completely, until he didn’t love them anymore.

***

When I was still living with my parents, my mom and I would sometimes find ourselves around midnight in our kitchen, while we’re both trying to scrounge up some leftovers because we were feeling hungry. And most of the time we’ll sit down and talk. Sometimes she’ll open up about her relationship with my dad.

And she’ll talk about promises kept and promises broken, and happiness and loneliness and sadness. But always, she will mention obligation, and responsibility.

“Your father is not a perfect man. God knows he is not the best husband. But he is responsible, and kind, and he is a good father.” And though she never said it, she obviously held a lot of love for my dad, even if the love has been re-forged and concealed by disappointment and some bitterness.

She mentioned that she tried to leave once, but that she thought about how it would affect her kids and decided not to. What was left unsaid, but was clear as day, was that she thought about how it would affect my dad too.

***

When my ex broke up with me, he said it was because he was not sure if he still loved me. What we had in the beginning is no longer there, he explained, and he felt we owed it to ourselves to look for something more.

But what about devotion, my mind asked. What about keeping promises? What about loyalty?

And if I was brave enough to voice my thoughts, he might have answered, “What about happiness? What about romance? What about passion?”

Ultimately, what about love?

And in remembering I think of two souls imagining love as two flames, one burning brighter than the midday sun, and another flickering, trembling, a light in the darkness.

Photo taken here.

Endings, Beginnings

About eight or nine years ago, an anonymous blogger became notorious in the local (mostly) gay online community for two reasons: first, because of the quality of the posts he put up, and second, because he dealt with the subject of prostitution; specifically, his own life as an escort. The blog was particularly interesting because the writer was obviously an educated and sensitive young man, and his output revealed both an intelligence and a fierce sincerity that was rare and refreshing.

He wrote that he had a unique selling point to his clients: though sex was definitely part of the menu of services he offered, he also sold what he referred to as an “experience”. According to him, you weren’t just paying him for sex, you were also paying him for his distinctive set of skills.

An example: in one post, he told the story of a client (let’s call him Adam) who wanted him to act like Adam’s ex-boyfriend for one day. As part of their deal, Adam will, for all intents and purposes, treat him like the ex-boyfriend: he will use their pet names, they will go to the ex-lovers’ favorite dating spots, they will make love. Adam, apparently, felt like he needed closure from that relationship, and he wanted to have an experience, even a make-believe one, just so he can say goodbye to his ex-lover one last time.

A kicker: that day also falls on the anniversary of the day the ex-lover told Adam he loved him.

I’m reminded of this now, because I’ve been having some interesting conversations with friends about closure, and how closure becomes so necessary for us when an important relationship (romantic or not) disintegrates. And part of our realization is that the experience of closure is actually a rare thing: most of the time, the parties exist in a gray, emotional limbo that is bittersweet and frustrating.

And I guess it is important to remember that there are no endings in relationships that are (or were) truly important, because as good or as bad as that relationship got, you will always carry a piece of that person with you. And, in the context of moving on from a loss, you realize that beginnings are only beginnings when you, in your heart, decide that they are.

I got this quote from a friend earlier, which dives straight to the point:

“Look, in this life you won’t always find peace and closure. Some losses bury themselves into the heart too deeply to ever be entirely resolved or forgotten. Sometimes, the most you can really do is persevere until the pain is too small or familiar to harm you. - (Beau Taplin, Unresolved)”

The Power of Myths

The first time I encountered the word myth was in the context of my English class, discussed as a traditional sacred story, a form of literature, which usually expounds on the acts of gods and goddesses, and which attempts to explain social practices or other natural phenomenon. The literary form expands the natural world into something else which is remarkable and extraordinary; a supernatural thing that goes beyond the mundane.

A few years ago, my friend Chris, a public relations specialist, introduced me to the concept of “myth-making”, or the power of an individual to create his own reality. He underscores the power of perception (rather, what is perceived) as something that will ultimately define a person. He says that every person has two aspects: the “real” one, and what is perceived. The two realities blur sometimes, so much so that one cannot delineate what is real with what is illusory, but he emphasizes that the need to delineate is unimportant: both define the type of person one is going to be.

This idea reminds me of an aspect of astrology which not a lot of people are familiar with. There is the zodiac, or the sun sign, which supposedly defines who a person is. Most of us are familiar with this concept. Then there is the moon sign, which supposedly defines how a person is perceived. The two are not usually the same, so a person can be an Aries, but is perceived as a Sagittarius. According to my reading (which I got online), I am a Cancer (adaptable, moody, loyal) but is perceived as an Aries (courageous, impulsive, confident). Those two signs are usually as different as they get.

I don’t know how true those readings are, but I just wanted to underscore the difference between one’s “real” personality, and what is perceived. It is rare that the two are the same.

This idea has many real-world applications. In high school specifically, you are usually defined by how your peers perceive you. If your peers see you as a “loser”, then you begin to think of your reality as that of a “loser”, notwithstanding your many wonderful qualities. When you think about it, it sounds silly, but I personally believe it’s the truth. We are defined in two ways: by our own choices, and by the context (read: perception) society imposes on us.

This is probably why we try so hard to gain some control over how we are perceived. As much as we wish that only we could create the terms for our own life, we know that that is impossible. We are as much a prisoner of our current social context as everyone else. We try to make sure that how we are perceived is the same as how we feel about ourselves, and we try to limit the incongruence, but we can only do so much. We really do not have that much of a choice on the matter, except to that part which we can change about ourselves.

Which is where my friend Chris’ advice comes in, which I think is one of the best advice I have ever gotten in my life. This isn’t his words, but I hope to distill through a metaphor what we have discussed and debated and lived as a life philosophy for years. I hope you find as much wisdom in it as I did.

We are pebbles, but we must aim to feel and look like mountains. Create your reality by controlling (as much as you can) how you are perceived. At the worst, we will be mistaken for boulders or hills, but those are still significantly larger than the tiny stones people will easily discard or throw away. At some point, you will find that you have become a boulder, or a hill, or a mountain, for real.

On the Dark Side of Charity

Driving along the familiar roads of Makati, I find that it is almost impossible for one to never see a homeless person begging, literally, on the street; their gray, unwashed hands knocking on windows of cars, their faces pleading for some of your change, and for food that they may eat. It can be heartbreaking sometimes, especially when the beggar is a child.

But in the Philippines, these people are a familiar sight. Poverty is the rule, not the exception. And when I say poverty, I mean knee-deep in the muck kind of poverty, and I can almost mean that literally. Forget about quality of life or even dignity; in a lot of cases, these people just want to survive. And you can see it in some of these homeless people’s faces, their eyes conveying nothing but desperation.

There are con artists to be sure, who simply go out on the streets to beg, acting like they were handicapped or insane, just so they wouldn’t have to do an honest day’s work. But in a country where the poor outnumber the wealthy and the not-so-wealthy in mind-boggling numbers, it is difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish between the two.

Willie Revillame, an extremely popular celebrity in the Philippines especially among the poor, was once under fire for allowing a child named Jan-jan to simulate the dance of a male stripper on his game show. There are several clips all over the internet, and the first thing you would notice is that the child was crying while it was all happening, and that the audience, in a cruel display of heartlessness, was laughing. Revillame, obviously possessing very little empathy, even went so far as to say that he admired the child for doing what he did just so he could help his family. He then gave Jan-jan Php10,000 as a prize for his performance.

When you watch the whole thing, it literally makes you want to throw up. Have our countrymen been ground so low that they would allow their children to do something so obviously horrible just so they can get by? Are TV shows so blinded by the bottom-line that they are willing to subject a child to pointless psychological abuse just so its audiences are entertained? When will we realize that these people who act like champions for the poor are nothing but greedy hypocritical sharks who really do nothing but profit from our less fortunate brethren? When will we realize that instead of helping, these shows cultivate a culture of mendicancy, where instead of being taught to stand on our own two feet, we are made to depend, our arms outstretched, on the alms given by false kings?

In an obvious display of self-righteousness, one that shows his ignorance and malice and worthlessness, Revillame claims that he shouldn’t be criticized for what he did, and that he was only trying to help the poor and that he only wanted to make people happy.

What hypocrisy. As Conrado de Quiros so aptly put it, it is so “odious that he should treat his guests exactly the opposite of the way Degeneres does. It’s utterly distasteful. The beneficiaries in particular are bled dry for every tearful detail of their miserable lives and made to look as though they are the luckiest people in the world to have been the object of the show’s beneficence. The gratefulness is way too sticky, the beneficiaries virtually kissing the hand of Revillame, which isn’t always metaphorical. The cameras do not flinch at this lavish display of emotion but catalogue every moment of it, with no small encouragement from the host. Revillame himself does not bother to distinguish between the show’s beneficence and his own. In fact he makes it a point to encourage the belief—which has been the secret of his success—that he is doing all this out of the goodness of his heart, and out of the depths of his pockets.”

Revillame lives off the myth that he is one of the poor, that he wants nothing but to help them. The irony is that he is a multi-billionaire who generated his wealth at the expense of countless Filipinos’ dignity.

How to Become Disillusioned with Finding Love

Watch Hollywood romantic movies.  Believe that everyone has a one true love.  Etch into your soul the conviction that you will find that one guy who will inevitably accept you for everything that you are.  Who will love you unconditionally and without question.

Create a list of the qualities the love of your life must have. Set high standards.  Reach for the stars.  He must be tall, handsome, brooding and mysterious.  Intelligent and quirky.  Wealthy.  He must go to the gym regularly. He must have dimples dotting his face when he smiles. His hair must fall a certain way all the time.  

Envision showing him off to your friends and telling them how you fell in love with him because of his lovable personality, or because of how good a person he is.  How you fell in love with the way he laughed.   Or touched your hand.  Or played with your baby sister. Or any other quirky little habit that remind people of how cute he is. Subtly insert a few anecdotes that show how great in the sack he can be.  

Know that you don’t need to tell them how impossibly handsome, intelligent, and wealthy he is; they would see that for themselves. Imagine seeing your friends’ eyes widen with envy.

Stamp down any notion that there might be something wrong with you.  That’s impossible. Remind yourself that you are perfect, or as close to it as anyone can be.  You deserve this, and you deserve someone like him. Cosmopolitan said so, and it can’t be wrong.

Go out on date after date after date.  Constantly be disappointed. Rejection, both rejecting and being rejected, makes you cynical. Build up walls. Surround yourself with the emotional equivalent of a moat. Insult people, and point out how they can never live up to your standards.  Stop dating. Or date with the knowledge that these people will only prove why you are better off single in the first place.

Watch Hollywood romantic movies only so you can make contemptuous comments on the stupidity of their plot. Smile patronizingly at friends who believe in a one true love.  Remind yourself that it doesn’t exist.  That it couldn’t exist. That its existence would imply that there might be something wrong with you.  And that couldn’t be true.   Convince yourself that you like being alone.  No, that you love being alone.  That you don’t feel lonely, and that whatever hole you feel in your life can be filled up by friends and family.  Sleep at night with the nagging sentiment that you are missing something, and hope for the best that things will be better in the morning.

War Paint

You start with the eyes, because they say those are the windows to the soul.  A touch of mascara perhaps, some eyeliner, and slight dark eye powder to give you that smoky look.

Then the cheeks. Bronzer, right on the cheekbones, to highlight (or create) sharper angles.  A little red coloring, to mimic (or fake) a schoolgirl blush.

Don't forget the lips. Full lips, but not red since you don't want to appear like a whore.  A neutral brownish, reddish hue perhaps, just to emphasize its voluptuousness.

Then Spanx, to create curves where there was none before. A push-up bra, to lift sagging breasts, and to create the illusion of heft.  Over which you throw the ubiquitous LBD, which effectively showcases your apparent feminine sensuality. Five inch pointy heels that can double as a lethal weapon.

You look in the mirror and smile.  With a flip of your hair, you turn, ready to conquer the world. Game face on.

Whatever Gets You Through the Day

I was a freshman in law school when my friend Mike was accepted by a university in Australia for a master’s degree. He took up Finance, under a scholarship program given by a prestigious international organization. He had a boyfriend before he left, but they broke up because they both thought that they’ll be incapable of maintaining a long-distance relationship.

We’ve been close friends for a while, so we maintained contact, although mostly through chat. We spoke with each other about two-three times a week, and discussed everything and anything under the sun. Mike was usually tipsy, if not outright drunk. It was in Sydney where he discovered his fondness for red wine, especially the cheap kind that comes in a box.

Our conversations usually start with him sending me a private message just so he can complain about mostly inane, random stuff.  I barely listened, since I was also caught up in my own worries then.  Our conversations never really felt like actual conversations.  It was more like we were delivering monologues, and the other person was just there for the ride.  We both spoke, and neither of us listened.

I didn’t notice the inordinate amount of glasses of wine he consumed, or the constant stream of complaints he made.  I also don’t think he noticed how tired I was back then, how frayed my nerves were, how wrong everything seemed to be for me.

But the fact that he was there was a comfort, even if he never really understood, or cared to understand, what I was going through.  And it was a few years later, when he came back, when I learned that he felt exactly the same way.  It didn’t matter that I wasn’t truly listening, or that I had my own concerns to worry about. The important thing was that I was there, and that was what he needed at the time.

(He told me he was suffering from a crippling depression, and could barely function as, well, a normal human being.  In one instance, he did not bathe for three weeks, and was only forced by his roommates to do so because they could no longer stand the smell.) 

And it’s funny because, to be honest, I wasn’t being a good friend at the time.  But neither was he.  We were both very selfish, and way too caught up in our own problems.  But it didn’t matter.  I was there when he needed me, and he was there when I needed him. And at the end of the day, that was enough for both of us to get us through those tough days.  

Fickle Cattle is PBA's Best Personal Blog for 2011

Great news! I won in the Philippine Blog Awards for Best Personal Blog! Thanks everyone for the well-wishes and support!

2011 Philippine Blog Awards

Some good news for this blog...

I'm a finalist for three award categories in the 2011 Blog Awards!  Yay!  And even better, there's no public voting component whatsoever. So I actually have a fighting chance of winning. :-)

In any case, I've been nominated for the following prizes:

Best Personal/Diary Blog

Best Literature/Literary Blog

Best Single Post for my blog entry "Clarity"

Thank you Philippine Blog Awards! It is very much appreciated! See you all on awards night!

Living for that Moment

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My hair is fashionably tousled, my jeans a perfect fit. I've put on some cologne which I know would evaporate as soon as I walk into the club.  I wait for my friends, and once together, talk about how wasted we want to become, how utterly out of our minds we should be before the end of the evening.

A couple of shots before going in.  For courage. And because the alcohol they sell is too damn expensive.

I enter through double doors into a dark, cramped room throbbing with loud, unrecognizable music, and a barrage of people jumping to the beat. The room is warm, and I feel a bead of sweat slowly trace itself down the side of my neck.  I smile briefly before the crowd, until the many-headed creature swallows me whole and transforms me into another one of its many heads bopping to the rhythm of one song.

Sometimes it comes naturally, the ability to dance.  Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I stand in the middle of the room, a drink in my hand, while I am pushed around by strangers. I hesitantly mimic the tap-tap-tapping of the group beside me. Or the stiff, but captivating swaying of the confident young man on stage.  Sometimes I completely let go, and dance like a wild animal, eyes closed, my mind imagining the room as empty except for me and the beat.

Then there is that magical moment, when, drunk and exhausted, I stare at the ceiling and feel (not think!) that all is right with the world. And the feeling expands and rises and mingles like smoke with the music and the people through the wild, unplanned dance the crowd is participating in.

And I wish that the moment would last forever, and that everything will always be right in the world.  Except morning would inevitably come, and always, always we would need to go home. 

An Old Conversation About Man, Personal Universes and Belief

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I was thinking about other stuff while I was in the train.

Amazing how man is no? I mean, we make beautiful things, that's for sure. We make them in all sorts of ways; tangible and intangible. Like architecture and music. It's like man has the entire universe for options and when he makes something, he picks out distinct things to work with, and he ends up with something else that's greater than its parts. I think they call it an ouevre.

And these ouevres, you know, if you come to think about it, are all basically definitions. An encapsulation of the enormity of everything. We can make it pretty, or make it sound great, or whatever you want it to be. You hold it in your hand, proclaim it's the entire existence of everything, and I don't think you're wrong. Then, when you, uhm, release it (to your desk for example), it becomes a part of every other thing. But in that moment when you had it in your hand and you're looking at it, it's the entire universe. Am I making sense?

What's amazing is that man has the ability to create these definitions for himself and has the freedom and intelligence to do so. It's like we're all gods. Or maybe pro-active observers or something.

Wow. Pure poetry. :)

We are gods. Though some replace this power with apathetic existentialist whining. That doesn't change the fact that we're still relatively insignificant in the grand scheme of things of course, but still, like you said, we are gods, if only for a particular fleeting moment that is, for oneself, as long as Time and as far-reaching as the universe.

Thanks. :) You got what I said pretty well. I was afraid someone might read whatever I wrote down in a Christian context. (Like most people would. Not that it's bad, but it's way off course).

But when you mention the universe as this vast, ultra-incomprehensible big, big space, and compare it to man, you are talking about man as a material body right? I mean yeah, we're not even a speck of all that. But when you take man's ability to create, it's like time and space cease to matter, you know? I mean, why must we all think the universe is this super big place? Why can't it be whatever we see and assess and only that? It's actually difficult to explain without contradicting myself... sigh, but I think you get it.

We need to think in both contexts, I believe. My own personal universe gives me power, but in the context of the (material) universe it stops me from being a narcissistic megalomaniac who believes is better than everyone else.

The thoughts do not really contradict themselves. They're two very different things concerning two very different logic systems.

That sounded pretty good. Why can't I phrase my thoughts and feelings like your first paragraph? Lol.

Although, I'm not really keen on the idea that man has a natural inclination towards becoming a narcissistic megalomaniac when he (only) considers his personal universe, or maybe I just don't want to believe that.  I mean, somehow, he must have already translated his experience of his personal universe as something that other people already have experienced.

I also think that this interplay of personal universes is extremely fascinating. Funny how there's a lot of conflict and compromise just to arrive at the same basic notion or idea.

You're right I guess. Empathy is usually a great way to stop oneself from becoming a narcissistic megalomaniac.

On a related note, I've always found my relative insignificance to the material universe a source of power. Put it this way: If everything I do will in the end ultimately be unimportant, and is only important to me and my immediate surrounding environment, then it becomes terribly, terribly important to me. Thus, I get power from it.

Some people, on realizing their insignificance to the universe, are paralyzed. These are usually people who believe in power and a certain grandeur i.e. heaven, money, fame, armies. Then there are those who gain power from it, like me, who enjoy their relative obscurity to the world at large.

I agree. This relative insignificance DOES make you consider your actions to be either meaningful or meaningless no? That's a great point. That's something I've always believed in, although this is, I have to admit, the first time that belief of mine has ever been put into words.

It is pure self-empowerment I think. A very humanist way of looking at the universe. The world revolves around you because when you die, it really does end; well, at least for you anyway. So everything is important.

So I believe in making a difference and trying to achieve something. But I'm not foolish enough to believe it will become more important that what it really is.

I don't know if I believe it just ends when I die. Maybe, maybe not. It ends in one sense that's for sure. But I'm alive now. And every time I reflect on the "now", that for me is infinity.

Same affinity. But, for me anyway, the threat of death (not necessarily my own) makes me look at things for what they are, without having to worry about stuff that really doesn't concern me now. Maybe death isn't the proper word. I think what I really mean is when anything important (including my own life) ends. The threat of the important thing ending gives that important thing (whatever it is) a new dimension of importance and urgency.

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Original, unedited conversation can be found here.