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.

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.

The First Morning I Did Not Think About You

photo

It was a typical morning. I woke up, late as usual, the sun already near its zenith, its rays streaming through half-open blinds, the day as hot and as humid as it can be. I forgot to turn off the TV. A Discovery channel host was talking about whales, his voice a deep, monotonous drone.

I stood up, my head slightly aching from oversleeping, my thoughts still a blur, my knees, wobbly and unsure.  I staggered to the door of my bedroom, and headed downstairs for a bite. I was hungry. My stomach was growling in angry, desperate need. What my brain still failed to register, my limbs automatically addressed:  I needed sustenance.

I stumbled onto the kitchen and saw my younger brother in his pajamas, eating cereal, his hair unkempt and looking like it was badly in need of a bath. Much like I looked I suppose. I stared at his bowl, and hungry as I was, realized I still hated the thought of having cereal so late in the day. I asked Manang Cely what was for lunch. She didn't reply, but I heard bustling outside, and the familiar clangs of pots and pans. I settled myself at the table, and held my head in my hands. My brother ate in silence. 

"What time did you get home?" I asked him.

"Just this morning."

"Mom and Dad already awake?"

"Nope. They were still asleep." My parents never really imposed a curfew on us, especially on weekends, but they did like it when we got home before they woke up. 

"Where did you go?"

"Nowhere. Just out with friends."

"Malate?"

"Yea."

"How was the crowd?"

"It was okay. Typical. Not a huge crowd, but enough to be fun. Why didn't you go?"

"I was bored. I figured I'd just watch television, play PS2 and sleep." 

My brother nodded, then finished his cereal. He left soon after to catch up on his sleep. I riffled through several newspaper sections, and settled on Lifestyle, reading an article Tim Yap wrote.  He was still writing for the Philippine Daily Inquirer then. 

Manang Cely walked in with a bowl of hot tinola. I immediately tucked in.

Then I remembered you. Right at that moment when the spoon, filled with steaming clear broth, hit my lips.  Rather, or more accurately, I realized I forgot about you first, and then only remembered you.

What a shock. After weeks upon weeks of moping, of listening to sad, lonely, love songs, of waking up to the deep, precious pain a young man getting over his first love can manage to inflict on himself, I woke up to a morning where you weren't the first thing on my mind. And outside of the overpowering relief, I realized how funny it was that moving on would come at a moment so utterly, absolutely mundane. While at a table, eating tinola for breakfast and/or lunch, my hair a mess, smelling like something the dog just brought in. How unimaginative. How banal. How anticlimactic.

And still, I felt happy, and finished my meal in unanticipated felicity. Though lacking in theatrics (perhaps a lightning bolt or two in the background would have been nice), I exulted in the unadulterated joy of knowing that I have finally, completely moved on.  

Moving on, is a simple thing, what it leaves behind is hard.

~~David Mustaine~~        

To the 13 Year Old Boy Who Shot His 17 Year Old Lover at the Mall (Notes on a Murder-Suicide)

Image taken here.

It was with a peculiar, and perhaps less than noble, fixation that I read about your crime.  A crime which was extraordinarily morbid, and sensational.  And I gathered the following details: You were thirteen years old. You stole a .22 caliber pistol.  You wrote a suicide letter; short, but it got the message across.  You went to SM City Mall, Pampanga.  You met your seventeen year old lover in front of the Astrovision store in the mall's Building 3.  You shot him in the head.  The bullet lodged in his brain and left him brain dead.  You then turned the gun on yourself and pulled the trigger.

And then there are the things I imagine:  How you walked up to him, angry and hurt; how you made a speech, hoping that he would understand; how he rejected you; how you pulled a gun, and felt some small bit of satisfaction at the fear that suddenly came into your lover's eyes; how you shot him in the head; how he bled, and bled, and kept on bleeding; how you realized that he was going to die for real; how you kept on repeating that you didn't mean for any of this to happen; how you realized what a lie those words were; how, in your heart, you knew you meant it; how you didn't want to die; how you felt you had you no choice; how cold, metallic and uncaring the gun felt in your hand; how thoughts of dying felt better than the idea that you would go through life without him; how you pointed the gun at yourself and pulled the trigger; how you didn't realize that there would be so much blood. That you would have so much blood. As if the flow of blood would never end. A river of blood.  

How you lay on the floor gasping, waiting for the darkness to consume you. Hoping that in death you could be together. Frightened of the possibility that you won't.

Then a moment of silence. Perhaps stubborn righteousness. Perhaps regret.

How you died.

And then a call to two sets of parents unmindful of the strange, compelling drama that has just claimed the lives of their two sons.  How they did not understand.  How they wailed and cried and mourned.  How they railed against anyone they could blame: the mall security, God, the world.  How they wanted to have their sons back, questioning how the world can continue going on. How the world remains unchanged and unconcerned. 

How they blamed themselves. How they blamed themselves. How they blamed themselves.  

How their lives are never the same again.  How they died, in their own way. How there are more victims to this story than those dead.

News about the shooting can be found here.

An Open Letter to an Old Friend

Image taken here.

I don’t remember when we first met.  We were young definitely, but outside of the faded images in my head of you running around the bright hallways of our school, I couldn’t remember much of anything else.  You had hair then, I think, which resembled your mother’s: uncontrollably wavy, and a deep black. I also remember you being a bit of a snob. Even as a six year old, you had an amazing sense of your own self worth.

But I don’t think we were friends then, although we like to tell people we were. I was too shy and awkward and you were too confident and self-assured. Sure, we exchanged occasional smiles, and probably played a few games together, but we were never close. I don’t think we really had the chance to be. We were too different.

I grew up bookish and slightly unsure of myself, though cleverly masked by the insults I carelessly threw at people as a defense mechanism. (Even then, I had an extraordinary talent for insulting people). You, unsurprisingly, grew into a remarkably adept social butterfly.

I remember you coming out of the closet at the ripe, old age of twelve. Which was funny because by the time you came to terms with who you were as a person, I barely even understood who, or what, I was. I thought it was funny how you managed to shock the school, both teachers and students alike, into accepting, albeit grudgingly, who you were. I don’t know how you felt about it, but it was quite an achievement.

I remember feeling envious. I couldn’t admit it at the time, or I didn’t want to, because to admit it meant accepting a few truths about myself I wasn’t ready to accept yet.  And I guess, looking back, I realize that that was precisely what I felt envious about. Your ability to both care and not care. And your ability to be happy.

It’s not as easy as it sounds, choosing to be happy. Sometimes it requires courage of the highest degree.

We became close at a difficult time in my life. I was struggling with bouts of depression, unsure of my place in the world, and you were, well, still yourself: confident, sure and happy. Exactly as you have always been.

I remember us spending long hours discussing, of all things, Foucault and Derrida and Marx and culture and politics and life, our raised voices disturbing what was otherwise a quiet and peaceful night. We rarely agreed on anything, except on the fact that we both enjoyed a healthy debate.

Our discussions turned into a weekly tradition; something I looked forward to at the end of an otherwise mundane week. And, in the course of those countless conversations, what casual relationship we had turned into a true and honest friendship.

But, like everything else in the world, we changed. Our values diverged, and what connection we had weakened over the years. The changes were minute, and the disintegration of our relationship barely perceptible, but it was happening, and it was very difficult for either of us to do anything about it.

Until that one moment our friendship was tested, and laid bare its weaknesses, and broke.

I can’t blame you for your decisions. They are yours, and as always, you cannot help but be who you are all the time. I hold no grudge. Know that I am still here, and that I am still your friend.

I wish things were simpler, where whatever problems we had could be solved by the simple act of picking up a phone and communicating. But our lives refuse to bend to my wishes don’t they?

I still hope that when the time is right for the both of us, when things settle down, or whatever complication we managed to make in our lives sort itself out, we can just continue the friendship right where we left off. But even if the time never becomes right, where silence and distance completely erase the possibility of the friendship we should have had, I can at least take comfort in the fact that in the twenty odd years I’ve spent in this life, I’ve met someone who left a huge indelible mark in my heart.

You Should Date a Writer

Image taken here.

(This is a response to this particularly brilliant piece of writing found here, entitled Never Date a Writer).

You should date a writer. You should date a writer because he will fictionalize everything. He will write about things you have done to him, or things you have never done to him. He will write about the time you held his hand, in the rain, and shared an umbrella. Or said nothing when he cried copiously in a movie theater. He will write, in pure passionate prose, about how, during the time you were together, you came across a stray cat on the street and you cried and you took it home and gave it to him and he fell in love with you for the first time.

You should date a writer. You should date a writer because he will fictionalize everything. He will write about the time you fought, and made up, and made love, and fought again. He will scour the details of your lives, and make from them poetry.  And his words will sing in your head like birds in spring.

You should date a writer.  You should date a writer because he will fictionalize everything.  He will write about things that have happened, or that have not happened.  He will write about the time you broke up, and he broke your heart.  Or the time that he asked you to stay, and you left.  He will write, words bleeding on a page, about love and life and lessons learned.

And you will learn about the time he waited outside your door for hours, not knowing if you were coming home or not. Or about the time he baked you a cake, lopsided and burnt, and threw it away because he did not want to give you a stupid ugly cake on your birthday. Or about the time he woke up at 5am in the morning to get you fresh flowers in the market, because he couldn’t afford the ones they sold at the mall and he knew how much you liked them.

Or about the time when he was sick, and you were there, making sure he was safe and warm. How you skipped work that day, and puttered around his apartment, making more noise than was probably necessary.  And how you kissed him on the forehead when you thought he was asleep, and whispered a promise he dared not believe.

You will learn about the time he stood by your door, and told you he loved you, and how that was the happiest and scariest day of his life.  How nervous and fearful he felt, not knowing if you loved him back.

You should date a writer.  You should date a writer because he will fictionalize everything.  He will immortalize in words, the life you shared, or the time you both laid in bed, and whispered affectionate promises of forever.

Riddles

It was the glance I think, which summarized our relationship. Half-imploring, and remarkably opposed to the seemingly cool and confident words coming out of your mouth. And I realized how to say what needs to be said can sometimes be the most impossible thing in the world. To say the words directly requires the acceptance of responsibility, and the idea that one is responsible for the truths one speaks can be daunting. It requires one to be sincere, and in some instances, to be vulnerable. And who wants to be vulnerable? It just opens you up to pain. So we spoke in a language that operated in two spheres: "How was your day? The food is lovely," to mask the words we refuse to speak aloud, but which we also hope would be understood. (I love you. Never leave me.)

We spoke in riddles to disconnect meaning from our mouths, instead hoping for a relationship that transcended language, that transcended spirit, that transcended us.

Three Stories

“I left him because he was cheating on me.”

“How did you find out?”

 “You just know.  It's...I can't explain it. The way he seems so fidgety when I catch him surfing on a computer late at night, or when he tells me he's visiting his parents and it felt like a lie, or when he's just uneasy around restaurants or public areas. A lot of small things really. They just added up into this one huge thing. Then I checked his phone messages and found out for real.”

“What did you do?”

“I told the guard at my apartment building to never let him up. I then called him and told him I was breaking up with him because he was unfaithful.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s not as easy as I’m telling it right now. It hurt like hell at the time, and I had to grieve in my own private way, but I needed to do it you know? For myself? In the end, I realized my dignity was more important.”

***

“When I found out about it, I honestly didn’t know what to do. At some point, I felt like I wanted to kill him.”

“But why did you stay?”

“Because I love him. And he reassured me that at the end of the day, I was still the most important person in his life. The others were just flings. Random encounters.”

“You believed him?”

“Well, yes. I know it sounds silly, but I really do.”

“Ok, I respect that, but how do you feel?”

“I feel hurt a lot of times, especially when I don’t know where he is, or why he isn’t texting, or when he says he’s out with friends. I also feel paranoid and insecure. But I love him, and the idea of him leaving me…I can’t stand it.”

“How about the idea of you leaving him?”

“Honestly, it never even crossed my mind. Well, maybe once or twice. But mostly, I just feel grateful he’s there.”

***

“Cheating is only cheating if it is against the rules in the first place. When you both accept the idea that it is impossible to be in a monogamous relationship in the first place, without either or both parties straying at some point, then the easier everything will be. You just have to make allowances really.”

“That seems awfully cynical.”

“And true. Honestly, for me, I wouldn’t really mind if my husband strayed as long as: a) I never catch him, b) he doesn’t get some girl pregnant, and c) he doesn’t come home with some venereal disease and infects me with it. Ignorance is key.”

“I think you just broke through the cynicism meter here.”

“Well, guess what? I’m not kidding. And frankly, I’m content and generally happy. At the end of the day, it works for me. And really, that's all anyone can ask for in a relationship. Whatever works for you.”

“But what if you find out?”

“Well, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that never happens.”

Photo taken here.

This Way, Not That

I remember when we were in the car, and you were talking about your son, and how you wanted him to be this way and not that. What “this way” or “that” was, you never fully explained, but I remember you emphasizing your point with a flimsy flip of your right hand. And that flip spoke volumes to me, because in that one small gesture, you summarized what it meant to be gay.

And I remember thinking how difficult it must have been for you to even begin to talk to me about this, considering how awfully hard it was for you to even say the word. Instead you flipped your hand again and again, knowing that I would know what you meant, because I knew where you were coming from, and because I knew your son.

Maybe you felt that speaking the words out loud would make them true. And you wanted so much for them not to be.

And I didn’t know what to say, or whether I should lie.

And so I said nothing. I wanted to hold your hand to say that your son would be more than fine, he is a decent, loving, caring human being who would no doubt grow up to become a fine adult, and this, this word you couldn’t even say, it doesn’t matter precisely because it doesn’t matter. In the general scheme of things, it is the least important of the attributes your son has been so blessed to be with.

And I wanted to say that I know that you are only worried about him, because he lives in a world that would no doubt think of him as abnormal, for a small trait that differentiates him from everyone else. And that your worry only underscores your love, but that it doesn’t change the fact that your son would rather have your support because, at the end of day, it is only when he accepts himself, and especially when the people he loves accepts him for who he is, will he be truly happy.

And I wanted to comfort you and tell you that you did not bring your son up wrong, he is a beautiful person, and that he is simply who he was meant to be. You could not have loved him more. 

Instead I remained silent, because, still, I didn’t know what to say, or whether I should lie.

And so we continued traveling, my thoughts a blur, imagining you in your corner, worried about your son in the inadequate and sometimes terrifying world he has to live in.

Photo taken here.

Attempted Murder, and a Love Post (a Capitalist Conspiracy)

Migs the Manila Gay Guy got an e-mail from a letter sender named Jake, which I thought was one of the worst things I have heard happen to a guy. Here's the part of his story that made me furious: 

I met a guy, a professional bodybuilder. Big, strong, healthy-looking. We went out and like an idiot, I let him bareback me several times. He told me YESTERDAY that he’s been HIV+ since 2007. I nearly killed him. I’m still cleaning the blood off my floor and furniture. And the weird thing is, that’s the first time in my life I’ve ever laid a hand on another human being in anger. 

I don't blame Jake. I probably would have killed the guy. It's one thing to infect another person with HIV, and quite another thing to KNOWINGLY infect a person with the disease. Fine, the rule is that you don't do bareback, period. Ok, we get that. But the bigger, more important, and so freakishly-obvious-I-don't-even-understand-why-it-needs-to-be-said rule is that you do not have unprotected sex with another person when you know you have HIV. In that case, you aren't just an idiot, you are a despicable human being that deserves no pity from anyone. You are evil. 

My heart goes out to Jake who made a mistake in trusting someone he really shouldn't have trusted, and who is now paying a terrible price. What the guy did to him was nothing short of attempted murder. It had all the hallmarks of the crime: evil intent, treachery, infliction of serious physical injuries. One does not always need a knife or a gun to kill.

Photo taken here.

***

On to nicer topics.

So it's Valentine's Day once again, and the only thing running through my head right now is how broke I am. On the one hand, I think it's fantastic to show your affection by buying your loved one cool and expensive gifts (who doesn't like gifts?); on the other hand, I kind of feel like I'm being manipulated by capitalist forces beyond my ken.

Of course, I always end up spending more than what I should spend. Take for example earlier, where I spent four times more than what I planned.

Damn you capitalist forces, I cannot win. I always bow down to your masterful manipulation.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone. Or rather, Happy Suckers-who-fall-for-genius-marketing-and-consumerism Day everyone.

Tip to make this day easier for those who spend more than they should: Embrace the dark side (of shopping). It's true, we are suckers, but we also have more fun. And, regardless of what anyone tells you, a little fun is always most of the time sometimes a good thing.

Darkness

Angelo Reyes, a retired high ranking general caught in the center of a corruption scandal, committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart in front of the grave of the love of his life: his mother. I never liked the guy as a public figure but what he did tugs at my heartstrings in a truly elemental way. The Philippine Daily Inquirer put it quite beautifully: "The crisis in which Reyes found himself was truly turbulent, and the Loyola Memorial Park (where his mother was buried) in Marikina City had turned out to be the still center, his personal zone of peace, in a storm of surprising ferocity. Many of us were shocked when we heard of his death, and the shock deepened when we learned that it was in that central stillness where Reyes had drawn the strength, not to persevere, but to kill himself."

It instantly reminded me of a high school classmate who killed himself a few years ago. I went to the funeral with a handful of friends. It was a closed casket. We were told that the reason was because he shot himself in the head.

His Friendster page "About Me" section contained only two paragraphs: first, about how lucky he was that he had found the love of his life, and second, about how he wanted to die surrounded by family and friends. And in my head I imagined him, alone and in front of a computer. When asked to describe himself, incapable of doing so in notions less than love and death. I believe he had the heart of a poet, tragic and beautiful at the same time.

I would like to say that I believe that suicide is never the answer. But I find it difficult to judge the people who choose this path. My head is unable to comprehend the depths of despair one must feel to inflict this kind of pain on one's self and on the people one loves. Why choose oblivion?

I would like to end this post with an answer, but I really couldn't. All I've got are more questions.

Photo taken here.

Clarity

It was a few weeks since I last had any contact with Chad. I was making it a point to avoid any type of communication with him since our relationship was less than perfect at the time. Not that it was ever perfect mind you; in fact, I would have settled for normal if I could. If I'm being totally honest, our relationship was, in a word, toxic, characterized by passion and love, with no real substance to ground us. The perils of youth one could say, although that assumes only the young are capable of doing stupid things, and I have far too many examples of stupid things adults do to disprove that point.

It's always difficult, I think, breaking up. Most people assume it ends with a discussion, with the parties mutually agreeing to stop seeing each other. Sometimes there are tears, or harsh words, or things thrown, but the common idea is that everything happens at that one point, as if something that important could be so easily and neatly summed up and discarded in a half hour. As if the relationship you just had with that one person was nothing more than a footnote in your otherwise perfectly normal life.

But the idea doesn't take into account the slow deterioration, the unraveling of passion, the almost imperceptible, but unmistakable, disintegration of affection. If the relationship wasn't working in the first place, the cracks will show, and the lovers will grow distant, and things will start to fall apart. But the initial process is barely recognizable, until at some point the couple realizes that they are at a place neither of them had thought they could ever come before. And the breaking up, especially with a person you love, is rarely just a one time deal; most likely it's a process that will take a while to stick.

Breakups are rarely simple, at least in my experience.

In Chad's case, we didn't really break-up, since there was nothing to break in the first place. What relationship we had was in one of those gray, blurry areas that mimicked all the symptoms of a "real" relationship, only that it wasn't. We can be postmodern about it, and say that it had no label, and it would be true, because what we had was really, well, undefinable. I hate admitting it, because it makes the relationship seem so trivial, but it was true, and maybe it really was as trivial as it seems.

So I think I was already starting to settle back into my usual routine, with sudden pangs of pain here and there (it is impossible to just walk away from a person you love I think, even if you know it's what's best for you), when I got a text message from him. It started with the usual pleasantries (How are you? I miss you. What have you been up to?) and ended with an invitation to meet up. I didn't reply, because I didn't know what to say. I knew what I wanted to say and what I needed to say (and the gap between what I wanted and what I needed was oceans-wide), but I had absolutely no idea what I would actually say. So I waited. I figured I didn't need to decide right then.

It was midnight when I texted back. And though it broke my heart to do so, I told him what I needed to say, my head slowly, but inexorably, dismantling the fantasy of the conversation I wanted, dreamed to have.

Photo taken here.

Intimacy

We were drinking in a popular wine spot in The Fort a few months ago when my close friend Ioannis, obviously inebriated and uninhibited, referred to sex as a "sport". To be fair, the sentiment wasn't completely out of nowhere: once you mix adults, alcohol and conversation, thoughts naturally seem to flow towards this more "primal" direction. But the statement was still interesting on several levels: Did he mean that it was competitive? Physically taxing? Something only a group can do?

When we asked him to elaborate, he said that he didn't mean it in the sense that it was a competition, only that the acceptance of one's inherent sexuality should be something fun and exhilarating. He underscored the idea that sexuality should be celebrated, not restrained. He found it unusual and unnecessarily restrictive to continuously dampen one's "natural" needs, simply to conform to an arbitrary societal standard. He said that we are all in charge of our own happiness, and that sometimes the bravest, and the most important thing we can do for ourselves, is to acknowledge the things that make us happy and to do something about it. He pointed out that if we refuse the things that make us happy, then what's the point of being alive?

We concurred, if conditionally. The idea sweeps at other ideas in too general a manner, and certain circumstances and factors must also be taken into consideration, but we did agree that he raised a valid point.

Afterward, he fell asleep on my other friend's lap, drunk and oblivious to the world. Ioannis has a lot of endearing qualities, but he is definitely not the classiest person when intoxicated. In fact, I consider it a minor victory that Ioannis managed to keep his shirt on while he was so obviously sloshed.

(Although, to be fair once again, I think that alcohol can sometimes bring out a person's brilliance. The lack of inhibitions it induces does not only refer to emotional inhibitions, but also to intellectual ones. I wouldn't be surprised if someone discovers that some of the world's best ideas were thought up during stages of extreme intoxication. In fact, I seriously think that someone should do a study on the relationship of alcohol and philosophy. I'm sure that a lot of the greatest philosophers in the world are non-classy, hardcore drinkers).

A few weeks later, Ioannis gets a boyfriend, whom he loves dearly. When asked about the status of their relationship, he said that they had an "open" one; that is, they are allowed to have sex with other people, subject to a few ground rules. When I asked him to elaborate on those rules, Ioannis said that he was okay with his boyfriend having sex with someone else, but that he would not be able to stand the fact if the connection between the boyfriend and the other person transcends sexuality and enters a more intimate and personal sphere. He said he can stand sexual indiscretions, just not emotional connections.

I didn't really understand what he meant, but when I asked him to elaborate further, he said he also couldn't explain it. Rather, he gave examples, such as "holding hands, kissing, going out on dates". He still believed in sex as a sport, so he felt that one could engage in it without any emotional investment, but as soon as it becomes more than sex, he said that he feels that that is where he should draw the line. When I asked him how he would know when, as he defined it, the relationship of the boyfriend and the third party becomes more intimate, he said he doesn't really know how, only that he would know. Sex can be just sex, he argued, but once it mimics the symptoms of love, then that is when there would be problems that would arise.

I still didn't understand, but I let it go at that. I have resolved, not too long ago, to try not to judge the decisions my friends make in matters of the heart. Is it possible to separate one's emotions when engaging in an act that is physically intimate in nature? I'm not so sure. In my head, it seems improbable, but I've been wrong before. Whatever works I guess. Whatever gets one through the day.

Photo taken here.

Love Evolution

Before JT, I've never actually been in a long-term relationship. The nearest I can think of was my first, which lasted a year, but it was so riddled with drama, break-ups and make-ups, that I'm not even sure I can call my partner at the time my "boyfriend". He was more my lover I guess, precisely because the relationship we had was rooted on more, uhm, primal concerns. 

It's different with JT because, well, he's my friend. I mean, technically, he's more than a friend, but what I mean is that our relationship is based on the same values that a true friendship is rooted on: trust, loyalty, empathy. The attraction is there definitely; I find him really handsome, and I'm hoping he reciprocates the admiration, but more than that, I like him; his personality, his laugh, his values. The things that make up his person, I love. I guess what I'm saying is that when I say I like him, I like him both in a physical manner, that is, how he looks, as well as in those other aspects that make me enjoy his company. 

A friend told me that she thinks that love is a "decision"; that is, that you have to wake up everyday deciding to continue to love a certain person. I told her I disagreed. I said love is a feeling, not a decision. To say that it's a decision is to dilute its unique quality, its rarity, because the thought implies that one can just decide to fall in love with anyone, in the same way one decides to buy a shirt or a car. Love requires a mixture of conscious action and serendipity; certain circumstances must arise, certain elements must fall into place. To say otherwise is to make love as mundane as, well, everything else. And love is anything but mundane.

She never agreed with me, although I pointed out that maybe what she meant is that love transforms into some thing not as easily described or defined as what it was in the beginning. It's still love I think, but it manifests itself differently. After three years of being in a relationship, I told her that the relationship I have with JT evolved, from something that seemed totally based on superficial reasons: looks, having fun, sexual compatibility, to something not as easily described. I told her it was much like my love for my family: (seemingly) inevitable, and forever.

Photo taken here.

Perspectives

I was with my friend Toph one night, driving along a stretch of highway, when he asked me to drop by the house he bought for his mom in Taguig. He wanted to visit her. I obliged; it wasn't that often that Toph manages to find time in his busy schedule to visit his mom, and I figured I had some to spare.

It was two hours before midnight when we got there, and we practically had to wake the whole household to get in. We made our way into the living room. I sat on the sofa, admiring the cool light fixture attached to the ceiling, four half globes set on a large wooden square, while Toph promptly left and made his way up to his mom's bedroom. I heard several voices; I figured his nieces, who were also living in the same house, were probably awake by now too. I didn't know what was happening, but there was a palpable excitement in the air.

Then everyone came down, and with their loud voices, you'd think they've been patiently waiting for Toph rather than being rudely awakened in the middle of the night. One niece asked for a dress from his uncle for the prom, and he said, with a smirk and a small twinkle in his eye, that he would think about it. His mom was very affectionate, constantly touching her son's cheek with an exclamation about how gwapo (handsome) his son had become.

More than the fuss over him, what amazed me was how soft Toph seemed. How human. It was as if all barriers around him were brought down, and now there was just him. It was as if I was seeing Toph, the true Toph, for the first time.

It was a remarkably touching scene, and reflected an aspect of my friend's life I wasn't familiar with. I love Toph, but he can be a bit arrogant. The arrogance has basis though; he is a self-made man, who managed to wrangle some success for himself despite the extreme poverty he inherited. Though to some he may seem abrasive, to me it is merely the tenacity of an individual unwilling to succumb to the low expectations of his community. He once told me that he knew, even as a child, that he would never allow his circumstances to define him. He believed, no, he knew that he was more than the poverty he was born into.

We didn't stay long, although we did stay long enough for Toph's mom to show me a few photographs. Her lined face seemed to be set in a perpetual smile. I realized it was because her favorite son was home. I smiled politely, and tried to be as sociable as I could. Still, I felt like I was intruding into something terribly personal.

We were quiet on the ride back, although, as it usually is with close friends, it was a warm, comfortable silence that felt natural and apt. Toph broke the silence when he told me that when he was younger, especially during the first few years when he was still trying to make his mark in the world, he was very insecure about two things: his looks, and his poverty. He made some bad decisions because of it, but as he grew up, he realized there were more important things, and that he didn't really have to prove anything to anyone. He said he was finished proving himself to everyone. He was himself, and he knew that that was all that mattered.

Photo taken here.