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.

---

Original, unedited conversation can be found here.

I Don't Think I'll Die Today At Least. Hopefully.

Image taken here.

I don’t go to the doctor.  At least, not voluntarily.  In fact, the only time you can make me go to a physician is when I’m in enough pain that I start dreaming about death.  And even then I’ll probably need to be unconscious so you can carry my limp carcass to his clinic.   

Taking into consideration the fact that I live in a cramped, smoggy and dirty city probably teeming with a gajillion viruses (in spite of which I still love), this probably means that I’m now a carrier of a number of undiagnosed diseases.  Undiagnosed diseases that would most likely commingle and produce new baby mutant viruses that will spread throughout humankind and turn us all into brain-eating zombies. And still, I won’t go to the doctor unless I’m in enough pain I might as well be actively mauled by a jungle cat.

Consider this scenario. This week I had a bout of gout. Or at least I think it’s gout since I only self-diagnosed (Google is wonderful for latrophobics). My foot swelled to almost twice its size, and I had to go to the office wearing dark socks and slippers half a size smaller than my foot. I’m not really sure what I ate which triggered the disease, but it was torture.

Gout is the essence of pain, distilled agony. It’s like God hates feet and decided to make people pay for having them.  For those who don’t have gout, this is how it feels like:  Imagine you are kneeling on a pile of salt.  Except the salt is in your feet, in the joints, and in whatever awkward cranny malicious evil salt can sneak its way into. Then imagine those sharp edges grinding inside those tender nooks, daring you to cry like a big baby.

You know what, forget salt, imagine needles instead.  A bajillion needles poking inside your foot every time you lay it on the ground. That’s what gout feels like.

J thought I should go to the doctor.  Since I didn’t want to argue, I told him it didn’t hurt that much and smiled. Or at least tried to smile, the pain was killing me.

And still, I refused to go to the doctor and just decided to wait it out. The pain subsided eventually.

I also don’t go to the dentist.  The last time I went to the dentist was years ago. As a consequence, I have horrible teeth. Or at least one horrible tooth.  It started to crack a couple of years ago and slowly disintegrated until it became a tenth of its original size. Sometimes I stare at it in the mirror and poke it with a finger. There’s a slight twinge of pain there, though it’s nothing serious.

Until I had an apple a couple of days ago, and what small amount of tooth left broke and splintered, and  a sharp cruel tooth sliver decided to painfully position itself in my gums. I tried removing it with a barbecue stick, and it didn’t help. I stopped subsequently because my gums started to bleed and I didn’t want to die because I was stabbing my mouth with what was practically a giant toothpick. Also, I’m afraid of blood.

I still poke it with a finger every now and then.  I know, gross.  But really, if you had a tooth splinter stuck in your gums, you know you would do that too.

I tried googling ways to remove tooth splinters from gums, and the results led me to a site about mouth cancer.  With pictures.  Seeing mouth cancer pictures did not help assuage my fear that the tooth splinter would worm its way through my mouth, eventually leading to my death by killing me from the inside.  It certainly didn’t help that one man looked like his jaw was about to fall off. 

So I set an appointment with a dentist this weekend. I’ll probably need to explain to her that the last time I went to the dentist was years ago, just so she’d know what to expect. That way, if she starts talking about how horribly I treat my teeth, I can say that I did warn her.

Anyway, here are the lessons you should learn from my story: 

1. Gout is painful. 

2. If you leave a cracked tooth untreated long enough, it will splinter and a piece of your own tooth would attack your gums in cruel revenge.  

3. Mouth cancer pictures are gross.  They are also very great tools at reminding people they don’t want to die with their jaws falling off. 

A Letter Regarding A Few, Unimportant Things

Image taken here.

Dear Fickle Cattle,

I came across your blog a week ago. I cannot remember how exactly. What I do remember is that part where you said you "love email." I smiled at that line, thinking about how I, too, am fond of emails. I decided then to write you one when I get the time and when I sense a need to talk to someone. Are you wondering now why I opted to talk to a stranger instead of a friend? Do you know Rainer Maria Rilke, the German poet? As I write this, a line from one of his letters echoes in my mind. He was saying something about solitude, its difficulties and pains, and how there are moments when one is solitary when one would feel the strongest urge to close one's distance from people, break the silence and talk to anyone, usually the most undeserving. Well, this is one such moment, although there is a number of discrepancies. One, you and I are definitely distant from each other (I'm guessing you are not one of the three guys I share this flat with). Two, I do not think you are most undeserving.

If I wrote this email immediately after I read your blog entries, it most probably would have contained effusive sentiments on how touched I was by some of them. Actually, I can visit your blog now and perhaps discuss the things I liked in it (not without citations) the way I would write a review of related lit as part of the many school requirements I've had, but I do not have the energy to do so. Nonetheless, I congratulate you for having achieved this -- I write because I hope, someone, somewhere, would read what I wrote and think, "yes, he's right, I get it," and understand me. Well, obviously I had to copy-paste that from your blog. I guess I had the energy after all. Anyway, I did think "you're right, I get it" and that, I'm sure, is the reason why I decided to write you.

What do I want to talk to you about, anyway?

I feel terribly lonely. I woke up at 5 am this morning and read about typhoon signals. I was almost certain I would receive a text about a class suspension albeit late. I slowly and lazily planned my day -- maybe I'll study that chapter on mycology or read about heart pathology, I should watch First Love, that Thai film a friend told me about, I will definitely read Norwegian Wood. I went over these things and then some while the winds outside slowly gained pace. I had to check if my window and my curtain were properly angled and aligned to allow for the cold to enter and to prevent my desk from getting soaked.

If you must know, I ended up watching and reading but not studying at all. And now I feel sad. It could be because of the movie. I find it funny that a feel-good movie with a decently happy ending would leave me in the brink of depression. Now I was not overly touched by the film. I reserve such honor for tours de force like La vita è bella. Actually, I have always been like this, always exceptionally saddened by stories with that theme (of First Love). Maybe because I have not encountered a thing like that. Or perhaps I'm just upset by the fact that I have let a day go by without catching up with lessons knowing that exams are near. But that's too boring a reason, don't you think?

Minutes before I started this email, I thought of writing in my journal, which I have not done in weeks. I was lying down when I groped for my journal under the bed. It was hard work because in my position, I couldn't extend my hand way under and so I was failing. I was too lazy to go on all fours and reach for it. That's when I thought of writing an email instead. Naturally, I had to get hold of my laptop which was also under the bed, beside my journal. And this time, I did go on all fours to reach for my laptop. Apparently, writing an email was a higher motivation than writing in my journal. Or I'm just fickle and silly that way. Oops, I did not mean to steal your blog's name.

This has become long-winded. Are you tired? I feel that I have not completely communicated everything that stirs in me at the moment. Then again, I don't think we can always completely communicate everything inside us. And when we do succeed in transforming the formless into a meaningful series of words, there's always at least a slight difference from what was originally born within us. Sometimes however, what does come out becomes far more beautiful, but of course what comes out that was not first born within? Nothing.

I hope to hear from you soon. How has your life been?

Sincerely,

Nico

***

Hi Nico,

This is probably one of the most interesting emails I've gotten in a while.  I must say I thoroughly enjoyed reading it; the quirky directions your thoughts suddenly take reveal a particularly sharp mind, and I'm especially grateful it is one owned by someone who actually reads my blog. I'm glad you take some pleasure from it.

I wish I knew how to respond to this email in a manner that is just as witty or as interesting, but I fear I probably won't live up to your expectations, and may just prove to myself that I am as poorly skilled at replying to interesting letters as I imagine.  

But I do understand your point about loneliness.  I experience it too. Sometimes I revel in it.  There is something uniquely, hmm, pleasurable? about taking the time to wallow in one's sadness.  Maybe because, to my mind at least, it gives one the sensation of not being content, therefore, of wanting something more.  Contentment is an overrated thing, one must always strive to be something more, to want something more, until he dies. Otherwise, what is the point of living? To choose contentment, at least, in the most mundane sense of the word, is to choose stagnation.

I'm sorry. I'm rambling. I've just finished writing four pleadings and my brain is starting to fail to function.

Let me end with this.  I want to publish your email in my blog, along with some commentary on my part. Please permit me to do so. I think my readers would find it a very interesting read.

Regards,

Fickle Cattle

P.S.  Your letter reminded me of a short story I once wrote that got published in the Sunday Manila Times. It was entitled "A Few, Unimportant Things". I reposted it as a new tab (Random Fiction).  Please feel free to take a look.

P.S. 2 I decided not to bother with the commentary. Your letter is interesting enough as it is. Thank you.

Relationships

The worst thing about growing up is how complicated things can be. I miss those days when I can honestly say when something is wrong or right, without having to consider the nuances of the situation. Things are just too complicated right now, and for the first time, my instinct is telling me to shut up. Which is weird, since I rarely shut up.

I'm sorry for not blogging in a long long time. Work is keeping me insanely busy with 12-hour workdays, skipped lunches, and general insanity. That's another bad thing about growing up: the fact that you have to work to actually live. Where's that millionaire benefactor when you need one?

Don't get me wrong, I actually like my job. The only problem, well, from my perspective at least, is that it is the type of job that forces you to choose between it and your personal life. The only way I can be good at it is to practically forego everything else. Which is what seems to be happening lately. I wish I knew what to do.

And loyalties. My god, I hate being stuck in the difficult situation of having to choose between two friends. Where choosing to do the right thing for one means being disloyal to the other. I'm starting to understand why doing the right thing sometimes sucks. Sometimes, it could cost you a valuable friendship.

Things will work out I'm sure. They always do. I'm just worried that by the time the dust settles, I would see a landscape that is strange and unfamiliar. 

Actually, that's how things feel now. So really, how bad could things get?

Please don't answer that. That was rhetorical. I know things could actually get worse. Stupid life.

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.

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.

Nature and Healing

“Diretso lang po. (Just go straight ahead.)”

Slightly disoriented by the heat, I stared at the half-naked young man, one finger pointing at a gently sloping rocky trail that wound around the majestic stone mountains of Montalban. Perhaps it was his cool indifference to my apparent confusion, or maybe he was just mocking me, that it was not without some trepidation, I picked up my bags and made my way upwards, not fully knowing what awaited me at the end of the trail.

I realize it says something about me, that, having lived all my life in Montalban, I have not visited the Wawa Dam except for that long lost time in my childhood when, as my mother recounts for me, we spent the day there in the company of family and friends. I have always been an urban rat, preferring the security and relative safety of huge metropolitan centers like Makati or Ortigas, in comparison to the disorder of fierce Mother Nature. So when my editors informed me of the planned shoot in Montalban, I was apprehensive. There was a slight interest, yes, but there was also fear. Nature and I just don’t mix, or at least I didn’t think so. Days later, the childhood memory again slightly taking form in the recesses of my mind, I guess it is not without some irony that I find myself climbing up the dirt road towards the great white wall residents call the Montalban Falls of Wawa Dam.

It was hot, and the summer sun was beating down hard on my skin. I was contemplating the merits of that wonderful invention known as sunscreen when I took a short turn, and came face to face with what was one of the most beautiful views I have ever seen.

The waterfalls cascading down the rough walls of the dam created a beautiful backdrop to the scenery before me. Above it was the clear blue summer sky, cloudless and infinite. Beside it were two stone mountains, gray with spots of green, immutable and strong. The dam itself was punctuated at the side by an ancient tower that offered a frame to the beauty before me. I was speechless. How could something so beautiful escape from my memories so easily?

I walked on, my eyes trying to capture as much as it possibly could. Huge chalky white boulders, which were marble as someone informed me later, dotted the landscape. Quaint small huts, placed strategically at different points in the place, offered some shelter for the common tourist. The water, flowing downwards from the dam, covered most of the spaces until it stopped short of several meters from the small village at the foot of the mountain.

A few minutes later, I came across an interesting card which simply stated “Paa ni Bernardo Carpio” with a small arrow pointing left underneath. Staring at the direction of the arrow, and boosted by a very fertile imagination, I guess the small body of water below the trail could maybe pass off as a print of a footstep of the mythological giant.

By the time I got to the shoot, the models were already aboard a small bamboo raft, gamely posing with the horn and trombone. Gianna was particularly luminous, her small frame clad in the pure white fabric studded with Swarovski crystals. The interplay of the modern sensibility in the clothes contrasted quite nicely with the raw imagery provided by the water and the mountains. It was breathtaking.

By lunchtime, the models found themselves on top of the old 40ft tower by the waterfalls. The four guys were teasing each other, trying to trick the other into jumping towards the green crystalline waters below. Then a white flash that seemed to come from nowhere and a loud splash. I quickly ran to see who jumped. It was Gianna, quite brave, wet and laughing, glad to show the guys a thing or two about fearlessness. Needless to say, the guys soon felt the need to jump and followed soon after.

When all the proper elements are in place, there is something about nature that allows us to connect to some stronger energy, some higher power that can give us strength and allow us to see more of who we are. Perhaps it is the rawness, the potency, the primordial power it represents, or perhaps it is something else entirely. Considering the amount of work each person had to put into that photo shoot, the fact that we never bit each other’s head off was nothing short of a miracle. Nature is a healer, definitely, and gifts us with a powerful connection, both to ourselves and to each other.

It was with some heaviness that I waited for the day to end. It ended well, the sky bursting into a multitude of brilliant colors, still cloudless, still infinite. We packed our bags and made our way downwards. There was a strong wind, and then a soft whistling. I looked around for the source of the sound and realized it was coming from the mountains, as the wind blew through its caves. I heard a tinge of sadness, weak but definitely there, and it was beautiful.

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

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.

Meeting an Idol

In the second year of my Creative Writing Course, I got one of my writing idols as a professor. Huge guy, a popular columnist in a popular daily, who is probably a shoo-in for a National Artist Award 10-15 years from now. I loved reading his books; his writing style wasn't in any way similar to how I write, which tends to be introspective and (slightly) feminine. His was macho and brooding, and the images depicted strength and a certain heaviness.

His class was "A Survey of Contemporary American Fiction", and of course we studied "Catcher in the Rye," "The Great Gatsby", "To Kill a Mockingbird", among others.

(Interesting aside, the moment I read "Catcher in the Rye," I immediately thought, "Oh my god, I am Holden Caulfield!" The idea lost its luster when I learned that every other guy in the English Department thought the same thing. It's not fun to realize you're not that unique after all.)

And so I was eager to go to my first class, knowing that I would reach new heights as a writer under the tutelage of a great master. I mean, and here was what I thought, how can one not learn so much from a man as talented as him? The idea was impossible.

But then it wasn't. The first class was okay enough; we studied Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery," where I disagreed in his assessment that it was a great example of a short story that employs the "twist" as a literary device. I said the employment of that tool has to be done gradually, with hints made throughout the story, in order to make the ending surprising but, ultimately, inevitable. I said Jackson used a sledgehammer, when she should have used a chisel. He said I wasn't reading the story properly.

And it wasn't that I disagreed with him all the time. It was just that I disagreed with him a lot: in his point of view, or in his giddy appreciation of writers I do not have the patience to read. But it did not in any way dampen my respect for his talent. It did, however, generate my disappointment. And I learned, not that long after, that disappointment almost always follows from meeting your idols. They can never live up to your expectations.

Which is not necessarily a bad thing. Idols are human too. In my case, I realize that is what makes them excellent writers.

Photo taken here.

Not Alone

I was single when I met Allan on the dance floor of a popular bar in Malate. I was in the middle of my law studies then, and he was an agent in a call center. I noticed him immediately; he was tall, with long hair pulled back into a ponytail and eyes that reminded me of an anime character. I positioned myself beside him, and after introductions and some playful bantering, we exchanged numbers.

I saw him again later that night (or morning actually, I left around 3). The friend I had with me already went home. He walked up to me and we talked. One thing led to another, and I found myself inviting him to my apartment.

He was a great kisser, that part I remember. The rest I don't. That's because I fell asleep while we were making out apparently.

(I was a law student cramming 300-400 pages of text everyday. I was tired. Don't judge me.)

So anyway, I woke up, soft morning light coming through my thin gauzy curtains, and saw him sitting on my red sofa a couple of feet away from my bed. I immediately realized what happened, and apologized profusely. He smiled, and said he didn't mind. He liked watching me sleep.

With any other guy I would have laughed because the line was so cheesy, but he managed to pull it off. I fell a little bit in love with him already.

I asked him if he wanted to have breakfast. He said it was already lunchtime. I looked at my watch and saw that he was right. My face reddened. The whole situation was mortifying.

So we went down to my car, and headed to Shangri-la Mall to grab lunch in one of the restaurants there. He was very charming and easygoing that the whole date passed by in a relaxed and comfortable manner. It was already mid-afternoon when I realized how much time had already passed. I told him I needed to start studying for my classes tomorrow, and he said he understood. I walked with him to the nearest taxi station.

He asked me, quite bluntly, if what just happened (or not happened) between us is a one-time deal, or if I wanted to see if we can take our date further. I didn't know how to answer. I didn't know how to explain to him that, marvelous as he was, I didn't feel like I wanted to pursue anything more. He was lovely, but at the time, I wasn't ready. And after getting to know him, I didn't want him to become just a one-night stand, which was all I could offer.

And for some strange reason, I decided to tell him all that. And he said he understood.

***

I saw him again on the same dance floor a year later. We were both still single, and he was still as handsome as ever. I asked him how he was, and he said that his parents have asked him to move to New York with them. He thought about it, and decided to say yes. I said I was happy for him, and I was. He deserved to be happy. We spoke some more, as if we were friends who haven't seen each other in a long time, rather than strangers who had one date and an (almost) one night stand.

He asked me if I came to the bar with anyone. I said I came with a friend, but he left already. He met someone he liked and they went somewhere else. I told Allan I was alone in a dark, gay bar, which was kind of pathetic. And he said "Of course not. You're not alone. You're with me."

And I smiled and punched him playfully on the shoulder. How he can pull off those cheesy lines, I'll never know.

I never saw him again. But in my head he is always that boy who reminded me I was not alone.

Photo taken here.

Sometimes We are Lost

(4 days ago)

It was midnight, and we were eating Chinese food in a popular restaurant near Makati Avenue. I was treating you because I just asked you for a favor and you, very graciously, obliged. Perhaps it was the late hour, but we were speaking in an almost whisper.

"I just feel lost," you said. "That's what I feel. I don't know how to describe it. I'm just lost."

And you talked about your job. And your friends. And you said that when you were still in love, you didn't feel this thing. But the dissolution of the relationship made the lack in your life more acute.

"It's frustrating. I don't know how to deal with it."

***

(2 years ago)

Another friend. We were chatting over the net. He'd been accepted for a master's program overseas, under a very prestigious scholarship. He just broke up with his boyfriend. He told the latter he couldn't promise monogamy, and the boyfriend would accept nothing less. He was alone, in a foreign place, and he just learned that his ex had no trouble finding a replacement for him. He said (rather, implied) that he found solace and comfort in the countless glasses of red wine he was consuming; the type that came in cheap boxes. He wanted to go home, but he couldn't. There was regret, and loss. His need for a connection felt almost desperate.

And I imagined him, this soul, hunched over a keyboard, in the soft light of a computer monitor, looking for meaning in a life with a future that used to be so bright he couldn't see, now foggy and seemingly meaningless.

***

(4 years ago)

Another friend. He was across the table, talking about a job that was his life. And a boss who told him that he wasn't doing enough. The frustration was etched in every word that he spoke, and he found himself shedding tears he didn't want me to see. I held his hand, and told him this is just one day, in a life that has proven itself, time and again, more than capable of achieving the almost impossible.

"You are special," I told him. "And you know that. There is no need for this."

***

(9 years ago)

We were eating in a fastfood restaurant in Marikina, and you asked me why I've been seeing you so frequently lately. I couldn't tell you, because I didn't know myself. But you were an anchor in a time when everything felt so, transient.

Instead I said, "I missed you. And we've always had a connection. It doesn't happen to me often, so you'll have to forgive me if I tend to abuse the few friendships I've managed to cultivate."

And you agreed. And you never learned how much that meant to me.

For R.

For M.

For I.

Photo taken from here.

*Winner in the 2010 Philippine Blog Awards as one of the Top Three Posts of the Year.

Why Beards are Not Important (And Also Why You Need to Listen to the Universe Sometimes)

I was smoking near the stage of a popular bar in Malate when I was introduced to Jt. I was with my friend Toph, who recognized Jt because they had a mutual friend. I made small talk and dropped a few lines I hoped sounded charming. We shared a cigarette. I found him attractive so I asked for his number. He had no problem giving it.

(Interesting aside. I initially thought Toph was introducing me to Jt because he thought we'd be a good match. I didn't realize he was actually hitting on Jt, and that he only introduced me because that was the polite thing to do. When I learned about it afterwards, I apologized, but Toph said he had absolutely no problem with it. He even said, now that he thought about it, that Jt and I would probably make a good couple. I still felt guilty, but that didn't stop me from going on that first date.)

I texted Jt, and we scheduled dinner the next day. I was late because I came from another party which I couldn't blow off. He said he didn't mind waiting, and raised the book he was carrying. We ended up in Kitchen in Greenbelt. I had chicken pandan, while he got tomato soup and a salad.

Here's the thing, I'm clumsy and awkward on first dates. I hate them with a passion. I tend to be too polite because I'm always afraid that I'd say something embarrassing. This, I think, makes me exceptionally boring.

Jt confessed later that he thought the exact same thing. He said he couldn't understand where that amiable person he met at the bar went. I told him that I was charming only because I was drunk, and that the best time to see my charismatic side is when I'm inebriated. Otherwise, he'd have to hang out with me more, and wait until I feel comfortable around him.

Notwithstanding the lackluster dinner, Jt asked if I wanted to have drinks. I said yes. A couple of glasses of wine later, I started to loosen up, and felt more like myself. We had a much better time, which led to several dates after the initial one.

At some point during that first date, I told Jt I've always had a thing for beards, which I found very attractive. Even the scraggly kind. Most people hate it because, when you kiss, it can be rough on the skin. I'm the exact opposite; I actually enjoy the sensation. It's like having a makeout session and a facial at the same time. Which means it's also a time-saver. What more do you want?

Anyway, a month later, I invited him to stay at my place for the weekend. We were getting serious, and I wanted to see if we can take it further.

Friday night, I picked him up at his office. I have this compulsive habit of rubbing my fingers on his chin while I'm driving just because I'm weird like that. I don't even realize I'm doing it sometimes. Jt didn't really mind, so the habit was reinforced. This time I realized something.

"You have stubble on your chin."

"Sort of. I think. Yes. I guess," he answered.

I looked at him briefly, narrowed my eyes, then stared back at the road. "Are you trying to grow a beard?"

Pause. "Yes."

"Why?"

"You said you find it attractive."

"Yes, but only on guys who can actually grow one. Yours is just some weird stubbly thing."

"I know. Beard-growing is not in my genes."

"Obviously. You don't need to do that. I already like you. You don't need to try too hard."

I smiled.

He smiled.

And then it hit me.

I'm in love with this guy.

My brain went into overdrive. He waited for me for almost an hour on our first date, just because he liked me. Notwithstanding our mind-numbingly boring first dinner together, he gave me a second chance. He lets me rub my fingers (which might have touched god knows what) on his chin, just because I want to. He knew he couldn't grow a beard, but he tried to anyway. For me. What more can you ask from someone?

This was it. Silver platter. Boyfriend on a plate.

I realized the universe was telling me something.

I told him I love him the Sunday after.

Photo taken here.