Dreams are Still Tricky Bastards

I was watching television in my bed when I saw a distant clump of alien-looking things floating outside my window and moving towards me . I didn't know what they were, but I noticed they were multi-colored, and stuck together like that, kind of shaped like a human brain. The nearer it got, the more anxious I became. I moved across the room to get further away from it. When light suddenly hit the floating unknown thing, I realized they were balloons tied together, with a note at the bottom. It bumped into a glass pane. I opened my window, eased the whole bunch into my room and pulled at the note.

Hope

I have traveled along the Vito Cruz Area for a while now, and have become acquainted with many of its old houses. I have a particular affinity for structures that have been ignored by the passage of time, and with these houses, even more so. They carry a connection to the past that, for me, is too important to be forgotten. They offer a powerful sense of history which gives hope.

When a friend of mine asked me to write an article about these old houses, I wasn’t enamored of the idea. Though I think of them as small historical treasures, I find I have too little knowledge of history to give an accurate account and perspective; one I wouldn’t be embarrassed to have other people read. But I realized that knowledge can be overrated, and that a sincere and honest rendering of the quality these structures can stir on a person can sometimes be more important than an accurate retelling of history, so I decided to at least give it a shot.

What is it about these old houses that make them so extraordinary? At first glance, you merely see the dirt, the crumbling walls and their insect-infested pillars. Their age is clearly evident. Aside from the obvious historical value these houses provide, why give them a second thought? In fact, why even write about them? There has to be something more; these structures must have something essential to give us, something we could learn or need.

Quite frankly, it is difficult to get past the dirt and decay, but I realize when I look closer, there is a beauty that can only come with age, and these houses have it in spades. Age offers for a common person the opportunity for nostalgic musings; and in this case, a more than hopeful rendering of a severely wished-for past. The Vito Cruz area is, for some people, a window to a past that is more beautiful, polite and cultured than the present. An age where adults take time to look and dress better; where Filipinos, at the very least, offer a semblance of graciousness when in the company of other people. The Vito Cruz area then becomes less of a historical site, and more of a door to a positivism that, at this moment, Filipinos severely need.

Change can be a dangerous thing, and the passage of time has been particularly difficult on these old houses. They have been largely forgotten, and people would rather escape to the more modern establishments than reminisce about a past too difficult to imagine. But, though I acknowledge that progress would eventually push on these houses their eventual death, we need not forget them. In them lie a connection we should not let go of; to remember them is to have light.

I do not know if this idealization is the real past; it is probably merely a dream brought about by a hyperactive mind. Still, for me, the Vito Cruz area offers a connection to a place that gives hope a permanent residence; and living in a country seemingly ruled by chaos, that is more than we can wish for.

*An old article published in a now defunct travel magazine.

Photo taken here.

Nightmares, Dark Creatures and Elementals

I used to love horror movies when I was young. I loved the feeling of my heart pounding in my chest, and my imagination whirling, looking for monsters within the dark corners of our home. I loved apocalyptic and dark, creepy movies that involved dreams; my favorites then were the “Nightmare on Elm Street” and the “Omen” series.

I was such a scaredy cat, so I had no idea why I kept watching films like these. I even made sure I had the proper atmosphere: lights are turned off, the airconditioner set at full, a bag of chips on my lap, and a thick cotton blanket around my shoulders.

Then when I got really scared, and I couldn’t sleep because I felt that someone was staring at me the second I closed my eyes, I’d creep into my younger brother’s bedroom and sleep at his feet. He’d try to kick me out (literally), but he never could; I’d be too stubborn and afraid. At some point, he’d let it go. He’d be too sleepy to care.

There was something about the warmth of another person’s body, even a foot, that made one less afraid. A certain comfort with numbers, I think. That if some thing ever came, at least we had a better chance of fighting it. Or someone could have a better chance of escaping. Or we could both die, but at least you’ll have someone with you.

My head reeled at the possible ways I could outthink my imaginary enemy. I’d walk into a room and scan possible weapons. A tennis racket? I could use that as a club. A couple of Mongol pencils? I could stab it in the eyes with that. A soft plush toy? Perhaps if I throw it really hard, it’ll be distracted, and I could run. Or maybe I could bribe the thing with it. Or I could trick the thing into believing the plush toy was alive. Dark creatures, according to a lot of movies, are stupid.

I once told my sister I saw a ghost in my bedroom. It was 3am, and I opened my eyes suddenly, inexplicably. And there it was. A faceless, old, pure white monstrosity floating at the feet of my bed. I closed my eyes and hoped I was hallucinating. When I opened my eyes again, it was gone. I wanted to run the hell out of there, but I decided not to. I turned on the TV and watched Nickelodeon instead.

That’s another tool I used to turn away monsters. Cartoons. I don’t know, I’ve always thought of them as a talisman that turned away evil creatures.

My sister told me I was probably hallucinating. I told her she’d be perfectly welcome to sleep in my room while I slept in hers. She never took up the offer.

When I told my parents about the white lady thing, they said that, in the place where my bedroom is now, there used to be a very old tree where, they said, lived an elemental. I thought that was cool. I didn’t see a ghost, I saw an elemental. It was like I had powers or something.

I never did see the white lady thing again. Sometimes I imagined her, at the corner of my sight, while reading or studying. But I’d always assumed it was just my imagination.

Then I moved out of the house, and the childish need I used to have to be scared out of my wits disappeared. Perhaps it was because I lived alone, and the idea that I could always sleep at another person’s feet when things got bad was simply not there anymore.

Featured photo taken here.

Dreams are tricky bastards

I've been having some really fucked-up dreams lately, and I'm not sure what to do with them. It's probably connected to the incredible amount of pressure I've been under recently, and since there's nothing I can do about that anytime soon, I guess I'll just have to deal with it.

The weirdest one was where I was shooting a sex video with a flamboyant straight guy in a silver thong while a group of transsexuals pranced around. It was also a music video. The dream made it abundantly clear that the guy in the silver thong was straight, only he likes having sex with transsexuals. In the dream, I believed him.

A friend told me that dreams are a reflection of our subconscious. I told him that I'm pretty sure my subconscious is not telling me I really want to have sex with either transsexuals or flamboyant straight guys in silver thongs if that was what he was implying. He said nothing and looked away. I told him I'm already gay damnit. I don't need to make my sex life more complicated.

Another dream involved my nephews. They were drowning in tiny bathtubs. The dream focused on the small bubbles forming at the corners of their small, silent mouths.

That was a nightmare. I woke up, heart pounding, and almost threw up.

Then there was that dream 10 years ago, where I fell in love with a made-up man. Faceless, and always naked. In the dream I said I didn't want to wake up because I knew he would leave, and he said he will never leave me, and that I had to go. I woke up and felt my heart break.

He visited me again a few weeks ago. He was dressed this time in a yellow shirt and jeans, and he said it was nice to see me. I said I missed him, and accused him of breaking his promise. He smiled (or at least there was an aura of a smile, he was still faceless). I said I know you're a dream, I don't love you anymore. He said you don't love me not because I'm a dream, but because you already love someone else.

I woke up.

Dreams are tricky bastards.