69 Lessons

 

 

The past year  taught me a lot of lessons in living, loving, learning and the whole shitload of everything that we call the human condition.   I can’t say that I became wiser. I consider myself as a decently smart individual,  however, I have my blond moments.  {* These days I’ve been getting them a lot. }.   Yes, I would not say that I am wiser now… Maybe a bit smarter than before.  Wiser, well I honestly don’t know.  

Ah yes, the 69 things I learned so far in the past year.

1.  I learned that  having a second had fridge  that I bought in some Japanese surplus shop so that I can have cold water in the morning is a bit extravagant, considering that I live in a box.

2.  I learned that buying second hand / cheap products doesn’t mean it’s cheap in the long run .  Wait till you get your electric bill.

3.  I learned that  an unused second hand fridge makes a real good storage cabinet for books, sugar,  and shitloads of cosmetics and beauty products.  

4. I learned that you need to act stupid sometimes in order to get your point across.  

5. I learned that it’s good to let others see your blonde side {and let them revel in it} so that you can UNLEASH the raging brunette later.  

6. I learned that money is really important in all facets of relationships.

7.  I learned that money isn’t everything.

8.  I learned that it’s easy to find a job but it’s shit difficult to establish a career.

9. I learned that there comes a point in your life where you need to choose between establishing a career or establishing a relationship.

10.  I learned that what I do in life is always about choices.  That the choice  I make may not necessarily produce my desired result in the end but I still make the choice because the intent is there. 

11.  I learned that there are times that things may not come out as planned.

12.  I learned that it is always good to have a Plan B.

13.  I learned that you start praying to the Universe/Jesus/God/Allah/Buddha/Mary/Paul/Ringo/Krishna/Shiva/Patrick/Tom when your Plan C fails.

14. I learned that it’s always good to have a day job.  

15. I learned that it isn’t enough to just have a day job in this economy.

16. I learned that the taxes I pay can pay for two maids in some places.  

17. I learned that I pay way too much taxes in this country.

18. I learned {a looooooooong time ago} that none of the taxes I pay go to public spending.

19. I learned that democracy is a very loose word…

20. … and so is Socialism.

23. I learned that Obama is not Jesus.

24. I learned that Noynoy can never be an Obama.

25. I learned that Manny Paquiao makes a Gazillion dollars in boxing.

26. I learned that I can never be a boxer.

27. I learned that Filipinos in general are really good singers.

28. I learned that I can never be a singer.

29. I learned that I really need to quit smoking.

30. I learned that buying an electronic cigarette does not mean I quit smoking already.

31.  I learned that I can eat 8 cups of rice in one seating.

32.  I also learned that eating 8 cups of rice ain’t good for my tummy. 

33. I learned that my maximum is 3 cups of rice.

34. I learned that I can get really fat in a span of 4 weeks.

35. I {re}learned that beauty is a philosophy,  a state of mind.

36. I learned that a person can be here on a Tuesday evening and be gone by Wednesday morning.

37. I learned the importance of telling the person of his/her worth. 

38. I learned that talent is discovered, but genius is reared and cultivated.

39. I learned that consistency is the key to everything.

40. I learned that family is cool.

41. I learned that you really don’t have to believe in Christmas as long as you believe in free food.

42. I learned that friends who fly thousands of miles just so that they could spend a night in my box apartment on my straw mat are the kewlest people in my book.   {Thanks guys}

43. I learned that 32 is just a number….

43.  I also learned that 32 is still 32.

44. I learned that people would do anything to get a job in this economy.

45. I learned how to say no to these people.

46. I learned that a lot of Filipinos are so fixated with American English. 

47. I learned that there is really no difference between toilet paper and paper napkins.  

48. I learned on how I could save on toilet paper and paper napkins.

49. I learned that I was living a really good life in China. 

50. I learned that sulking in one corner and thinking about the human condition {at least my condition} will do me no good except to magnify it.

51. I learned to smile on occasion.

52. I learned that it’s ok to be happy even when you’re life is really shitty at times.

53. I learned that love is sometimes a hard pill to swallow.

54. I that staying quiet doesn’t mean I  have acquiesced. it meant that I’ve understood.

55. I learned that I am indeed an Urban Sinner.

56. I learned that despite of this, I still love you.

57. I learned to believe in myself and myself alone.

58. I learned not to trust people who are cops, lawyers, doctors, business people, presidents, preachers, priests, nuns, motivational speakers, yadi yadi… because they swindle me everyday.

59. I learned that even 80 year-old cab drivers can still swindle me of my money when they get the chance.

60. I learned that it doesn’t matter whether I own a Blackberry or an Android or an iPhone because what really matters is how I use it  and why I bought it in the first place.

61. I learned that Google Sync is really a cool app. 

62. I learned that my ‘wow factor’ is only a day  when it comes to smart phones.

63. I learned that the best way to communicate is a face to face conversation.

61. I learned how to clean up my own mess.

63. I learned that it isn’t all about sex.

64. I learned that sex is great! But cuddling is better.

65. I learned that sleeping with the one you love {as in actual sleeping} when yer really knackered to the bone is way better than masturbating yourself to sleep.

66. I learned that I need to masturbate my mind more. 

67. I learned that it is important to be happy.

68. I learned that at the end of the day, I alone will experience my death.

69. I learned that there is a God/Universe within me.  

All Souls, Saints and Sinners…

 

photo credit: badongski

The streets are quiet tonight.  I can even hear the quiet under the music playing in my digital player.  I’ve been running for over 30 minutes and I don’t feel like stopping, but I know that I have to stop in a while.  Just a few more meters, I tell myself.  Forget the rain, forget the strain in my legs.  I just need to stretch it out a little for just a few more meters and then I’m good. 

The light drizzle, softly touches my skin and blends with my salty perspiration.  I quicken my pace a little as the rain begins to build momentum. I am practically running in the middle of the street.  Not a lot of cars tonight. only a lonesome sedan or taxi and  a desolate jeepney  every twenty paces.  

I stop for a quick breath in a street corner, in front of a closed restaurant.  I bend a little just to so that I would not lose balance.  My tank top is drenched with the salt of my fluids and the rain.  I lick my lips to rid of the accumulated sweat.  They are very salty.

I need to sit down so I sit by the curb to rest a little.  I turn off my digital player and just sat by the curb watching some people and cars pass by.  There were people passing by, mostly hobos and the occasional hooker and hustler.  The hobos stare at me as they push their cart pass me, while the hookers and hustlers give me the sideward glance.  Nobody bothered me though.  They probably thought I just another crazy person running in an ungodly hour like tonight. I try to read each of their minds when they look at me as they pass me by.  I don’t have the powers to do it but I try all the same.   I wonder what they were thinking.   They prolly thought I was some pervert looking for a trick, or some killer looking for a kill, or some runner practicing for an upcoming marathon,  or probably just a nobody trying to get noticed.   Who knows…

As I take the night’s silence, I notice something different tonight. The lit candles outside the doorsteps.  In fact there was one a few meters away right beside where I was sitting.   I remember now.  I though IU have forgotten because I slept most of the day.  It’s the First of November – the Feast of All Saints.  Tomorrow would be the the Feast of All Souls.  

In the Christian Tradition, November first is for the commemoration of all the holy men and women who have dedicated themselves in the service of Christianity, The Feast of All Saints.  The rest of the departed are remembered the day after.   In this country, people forego the commemoration of the saints and go right to remembering their dearly departed. I think that it  is just fitting. Why would one bother remembering someone he does not know, who has no relevance or significance in his life?  I am not one for holidays.  I enjoy them because I get to not work.  I slept most of the day because I figured that this was the only day that I get to sleep in.   Fuck’em saints and let me sleep a little.   I’m pretty sure they’d understand.  

Today is a national holiday.  People go in throngs to the cemeteries and columbaries and ossuaries of this country to clean their departed’s tombs and light candles and pray and even sing karaoke (they do, and this is how we roll in the Islands). 

The irony of the matter is, I never went to the cemetery today.  Reason is, I didn’t want to.  Not just because I slept most of the day, but mostly because I didn’t see the point of going just because it was a day to commemorate dead people, albeit it’s actually the day to commemorate holy Christian people. 

I’m prolly making excuses to myself, being the asshole and cynic that I am.   I look at the candles burning bright and I could smell the wax and burning wicks.  Another hobo passes by and gives me an odd glance.  He’s prolly wondering why I’m looking at the candles with such diligence of a schoolboy.  He prolly thinks that I was going to steal them. He prolly went to the cemetery today.   He prolly bought his own candles and matches.  Or maybe he just borrowed some matches from another hobo. 

I don’t get it sometimes.   Why do we have to light candles in front of our doorsteps when we’ve already lit the candles in the cemetery.  Would it make any difference if we place lit candles in both our dearly departed’s tomb and our doorsteps? In the the greater scheme of things, it probably serves a purpose.  It probably gives us a certain level of comfort or security.   That they may have passed but us left behind who bear the bittersweet yoke of remembering must assure ourselves more than the departed that we will never forget.   This is probably the reason why nobody remembers the Feast of All Saints.  Because in the microcosm of our own universes, they never mattered. They mattered to those that knew them.  But then again, they are all dead. In the end, it’s all about the souls and not the saints.  We are all sinners in our last breath. 

I snap out of my reverie and stand up and start my run again. 

……………..

I continue southwards.  I go to the park where I usually run in the mornings.  I haven’t ran in a long time.  I have been mostly busy with work and trying to stay afloat.  I’m sweating again and I like the feel of it.  I try to quicken my pacing but gravity humbles me. The rain is building up a little and  I do not mind. I cross the elliptical road, not bothering to use the pedestrian underpass since there are not a lot of vehicles tonight.  Once on the other side I circle the park three or four times till my legs begin to give in.  

There aren’t a lot of people in the park tonight.  Most probably because of the holiday or more likely because it’s a Monday.  There are couples in benches, kids playing frisbee in the grass, hookers and hustlers roaming around looking for their Johns and Johns looking for their tricks and security personnel trying on the look for the unsuspecting John caught in the act.   The amusement park is closed.   Some kiosks are open (prolly trying to break even or something).  Nobody’s buying though. I only saw a couple of people running like me. It’s a bit of a relief to see that I am not the only one running at this time of night. 

In the middle of the park is a monument, three obelisk like structures, with an angel holding a wreath sitting on each structure while appearing to be gazing downwards.  The obelisks are connected by three horizontal beams that forms into a triangle if you stand at the center of the structure and look up.  Below are three powerful headlights that change color every 3 minutes or so,  each positioned on each obelisk which kind of gives the viewer an ominous and foreboding feeling when one actually gives time to look at it from below. It does look eerie if you sit on one the benches and try to look at one of the angels.  I once did that in one of my morning runs and I could faintly see that the angels have their eyes closed or seem to be asleep.  Sometimes I wonder if they ever open their eyes when people are not looking.  

The monument is actually a mausoleum that houses the remains of a dead president.  It is rather ironic to think that I did not want to go to the cemetery today and light candles and shit because I wanted to sleep in, only to end up running around a supersized tomb.

I stop at the foot of the monument, sweat and rain and all.  I head for home as I take that realization as a sign. I maybe a cynic but I am a cynic that believes in palpable signs.    A cynic still, albeit a superstitious one.

…………..

I took the jeepney going back.  There were only a handful of us inside the jeepney.  Most of them probably went to the cemetery as some were carrying a bag of candles and flowers and all.  As I was going back to my apartment, I began thinking of the people I’ve lost that actually mattered to me in one way or another. They are not many, but there are some.  And they mattered to me. 

I came into my box apartment and took out some candles and incense which I “borrowed” from my upstairs neighbor.  I lit them.  I placed some candles in my room.  I placed one outside my door by the stairwell.  I placed the incense outside.  Should I say a prayer?  I don’t know.  But instinct or something inside me told me to light the candles and burn incense.  I do not know if it was guilt for not having gone to the cemetery or because this was a selfish act of self preservation or because of some divine or cosmic mandate that I should revere this day.

But “something” told me to light and burn tonight.  I have never forgotten them, truth be told.  They remain in my thoughts.  They remain in certain places, in certain books, in certain food, in certain things, in certain films and songs, in similar situations, in other people.  They remain.  And I bear the bittersweet yoke of their memory not because I of tradition, but because they mattered. And to this sinner,  they continue to be significant. 

Unang Araw by Nazareno

Ito ang unang araw na wala ka na...

Katulad kahapon, nagising na naman akong nakatulala. Pinagmamasdan ang bawat sulok ng kuwarto, lumilipad ang diwa. Maya-maya, biglang sasagi sa isipan ko na kailangan kong bumangon. Kailangan kong maligo, magsipilyo, maglagay ng deodorant, magbihis at pumasok sa trabaho. Kailangan kong umusad at sikaping tapusin ang buong maghapon. Kahit madalas, nakatitig lang sa monitor, puro facebook ang pinagkaka-abalahan at wala akong project na natatapos sa opisina. Hindi ko alam kung bakit ayaw gumalaw ng mga kamay ko para lumikha ng may katuturan, samantalang dati nama’y pakiramdam ko napaka-walang kwenta ng araw ko kapag wala akong natatapos sa maghapon. Kinagabihan naman, imbes na sa apartment ang tuloy ko, dumadaan muna ako sa kapit-bahay ko para makikain at makipag-kwentuhan. Buti na lang yung kapitbahay ko mahilig magluto. Akong taya sa kwento. Minsan inaabot kami ng hatinggabi, kwetuhang walang hanggan, pikunan at tawanan. Kapag may naghikab, ayun ang senyales namin na ayawan na.

 

Ngunit sa pagdating ng panibagong umaga, hindi na blangko ang lahat.

Bubuksan ko uli ang naiwang kuwarto. Kung anong katahimikan ang iniwan ko dito kaninang umaga’y iyon din ang sumalubong sa akin. Parang isang bisitang nahihiya sa pagtanggal ng sapatos, dahan-dahan akong pumasok at marahang isinarang muli ang pinto. Tahimik na nagsipilyo, naghilamos at pagkadaka’y inilapat na muli ang katawan upang hanaping muli ang antok. Mahigit tatlong buwan nang ganito ang araw-araw ko, ang pakiramdam ko. Blangko.

Kahapon, pinilit kong makipagkita sa kanya. Alam kong magdadahilan siya uli upang umiwas pero kailangan ko siyang makausap. Kahit limang minuto lang. At kahit na alam kong huli na ang lahat. May kailangan akong malaman. Hindi katulad ng mga naunang pag-uusap namin, pinilit kong maging kalmado. Siguro nga wala na akong pakialam na magtanong ng mga bagay-bagay sa buhay niya ngayon dahil hindi na naman kami. Nais ko lang bigyan ng hustisya ang sampung taong relasyon namin bilang mag-nobyo at respeto ang dapat sanang plano na naming pagpapakasal. Kahit sino, naghahangad ng malinaw na dahilan upang talikuran ang mga ito. Maraming dahilan ang nabanggit niya sa akin kaya siya nagdesisyong makipaghiwalay dalawang buwan na ang nakakaraan. Karamihan doon ay pagkakamali ko. Sa kabila ng mga ito, nakiusap akong ayusin muli ang aking sarili, ituwid ang mga pagkakamali. Naniniwala akong walang huli sa taong totoong naghahangad ng isang magandang relasyon. Ngunit sa bawat subok ko na makipag-usap sa kanya, lalo lang niyang inilalayo ang sarili sa akin. Dumating ang pagkakataon na nakapagbitaw ako ng hindi magandang salita, dahil sa sobrang pagkabigo. Pakiramdam ko, bigla na lang niyang iniwan sa ere ang lahat-lahat sa amin.

Kahapon, sinabi niya na binubuksan niya na muli ang sarili sa panibagong relasyon.

Pakiramdam ko, bumagsak na ang buong mundo sa likuran ko. Pakiramdam ko, tinutusok unti-unti ang puso ko. Sinabi niyang hindi ang lalaking iyon ang dahilan ng pagbitaw niya. Ngunit biglang nanumbalik sa alaala ko ang mga pagkakataon, ang pagdating ng lalaking iyon sa buhay niya. Naaalala ko ang minsang pagtawag ng lalaking iyon sa kanya habang magkasama kami at kung paano niya ipagkailang kaibigan niya lang ako. Kaibigan niya lang ako. Siya na ngayon ang taong kaya niyang paglaanan ng mahabang oras, ng panahon.

Marahil, may bahagi ang lalaking ito upang tuluyan niya ng iwan ang naghihingalong relasyon namin. Marahil, ayaw niya ng balikan at isalba ito. Ano pa nga ba ang bago? May natitira pa ba siyang lakas upang hawakan muli ito? Marahil kailangan niyang bigyan ng pagkakataon ang sarili sa panibagong relasyon, bagong kasama.

Alam kong kahit anong gawin ko, buo na ang desisyon niya. Masakit man, kailangan kong tanggapin. Kung ang mga pagkakamali ko man, ang pagkapagal niya, o ang lalaking iyon ang dahilan, ang katotohanan, ayaw na niya, at binibitawan na niya ang lahat-lahat sa aming dalawa. At kahit maglupasay pa ako sa harap niya, wala na akong magagawa. Sinasabi man ng puso at isipan ko na gawin ko ang lahat ng dapat gawin ng pagkakataong iyon upang huwag sumuko, mas pinili ko ang magparaya. Ganoon naman ang tunay na nagmamahal, hindi nagdadamot, hindi mapag-imbot.

Ito na ang huli naming pagkikita. Tinahak kong muli ang daan papauwi. Katulad ng dati, Bubuksan ko uli ang naiwang kuwarto. Kung anong katahimikan ang iniwan ko dito kaninang umaga’y iyon din ang sumalubong sa akin. Parang isang bisitang nahihiya sa pagtanggal ng sapatos, dahan-dahan akong pumasok at marahang isinarang muli ang pinto. Tahimik na nagsipilyo, naghilamos at pagkadaka’y inilapat na muli ang katawan.

Ngunit sa pagdating ng panibagong umaga, hindi na blangko ang lahat.

Naunawaan ko na hindi sa tagal ng panahon nasusukat ang lalim ng pinagsamahan.
Hindi porke nasa tabi mo ang isang tao ikaw ang nasa isip niya.
Na mas may puntos ang pagkakamali kesa sa mga nagawang tama.
Kahit anong gawin mo para magtugma kayo sa gitna, marami pa rin makikitang pagkakaiba kung nasa isip at puso na niya na magkaiba kayo.
May makikilala kang mas tugma ang ugali at interes gaya ng sayo.
Natatakpan ng paulit-ulit na pagkakamali ang pag-asa.
Lumalamat sa puso ang sakit.
Kaya mong magpatawad pero di ka nakakalimot.
Parating dumarating ang pagkakataong ikukumpara mo ang kasalukayang sitwasyon sa nakaraan.
Masasaktan at masasaktan ka.
Kaya mong bumalik uli sa relasyon para abangan lang ang pagkakamali.
Kahit ang pinaka-perpektong relasyon ay hindi perpekto.
May bagong tao na darating at muling darating sa buhay mo.
Kung parang damit na naluluma ang relasyon, napapalitan ito.
Darating ang pagkakataon na sasaktan ka ng taong pinakamamahal mo.
Nakakapagod magmahal.

Sa kabila nito, handa ka ulit ihandog ang sarili sa pagmamahal. Katulad ng una, magtitiwala ka na ito ang bubuo sa pagkatao mo. Katulad ng una, hindi mo alintana ang mga darating na pagsubok, dahil hindi mo iyon nakikita. Naniniwala kang mas magiging maganda na ang takbo ng pag-ibig para sa iyo. Katulad ng una.

Para sa nauna at patuloy na nagmamahal, masakit mang bitawan ang binuo ninyong pangarap, kaya niyang magparaya. Katulad mo, isang araw, muling titibok ang kanyang puso. Ngunit kailanman, sa kabila ng lahat, ang bawat butil ng tuwa, haplos at halik na ihahandog niya sa darating na kasalukuyan ay hindi mapapantayan ng ipinagkaloob niya sa iyo.

Ito ang unang araw na wala ka na.

After the Flood (Updated)

www.goes.noaa.gov

Rain and floods are not an uncommon phenomena in the Philippines. Just today it rained and God how it poured for six hours. The weather bureau said it was the longest ever recorded surpassing the one in 1967. 

Today's flood was my first in a very long time. The last flood experience that I had was back in 2002. I was just days away from leaving the country for China and I was also sick with pneumonia at that time. Our house in Caloocan was flooded waist deep and I couldn't do anything but watch my brother and my father rummage through the water trying to salvage everything they could from our house. The flood waters receded later that day and I was rushed by a friend to the hospital. That was seven years ago.

With an average of six to seven typhoons hitting the Philippines each year, floods have become an anticipated yet an unwanted guest in Filipino households all over the country come the wet seasons. Blame it on climate change, poor urban planning and sanitation or just plain bad management from the people in power, the floods grow worse each year. It amazes me how the Filipino survives these catastrophes even if the floodwaters seem to rise higher every time a typhoon comes visiting. As a Filipino, I can find fault on a lot of things about my people but never on their tenacity for self preservation. The flood, along with a multitude of problems that this nation faces, has become part of the Filipino human condition. The task that ordinary people face is definitely gargantuan yet the people face it squarely. The tragedies that they undergo are epic yet the people survive it. I've noticed this as I was wading through the floodwaters in Tandang Sora. My friend and neighbor, Oscar, invited me out for a walk and see what was happening outside. Our apartment was not flooded but the streets was already overflowing with rain mixed with river and sewage water. Part of me was excited because I haven't walked in the the rain in the Philippines for a very long time. Yet another part of me was worried about my family in Caloocan which was just a 45 minute jeepney ride away from my apartment in Quezon City. I knew that rains like these would bring floodwaters in our part of the neighborhood as we were near a polluted creek. They told me not to worry and they would keep me updated on the situation.  I try to block the thought out because there was no use for me to worry about my family. I called them and they said they were already bringing the household things to the second floor of our house. They have survived far worse floods before, they can survive this one, I keep telling myself.

I walked along the streets of Tandang Sora with my friend and what we saw was quite unfamiliar yet familiar at the same time. The street was already flooded, some even knee-deep, vehicles were trying to find their way out of the traffic and the floodwaters yet in vain, people were walking outside – people coming from schools and universities, from their work places and probably even from their very homes. Just looking at the rising water I picture submerged houses and shanties in the low lying places in Metro Manila. Homes submerged in a soup of rain, sewage and garbage. Quite a fitting poster for my country. My cynicism tells me that this could have been avoided. That if people, me included, would have had the discipline to manage what they consume and had the local and the national government possessed the right amount of management wisdom instead of traditional politicking and lip service campaigning, laid out a concrete plan of action on disaster control combined with a realistic urban planning, then this could have been a different picture altogether.

There is one good thing about the flood. It never discriminates. Outside the streets I saw jeepneys and buses alongside with fancy cars submerged in floodwater. I saw people in plain clothes walking alongside people with fancy clothes looking for a dry place to tide them through the heavy rain. Young, old, rich, poor, straight or otherwise were all walking in knee (some even chest) deep pool of watery shit.

In a way, it is very biblical. This is probably our punishment for being too human. I don't think it's nature that is our nemesis but ourselves for we have been way too proud of our humanity that we forget that even the minutest of our actions reverberates through the cosmos. Drenched with rain and floodwater in the middle of Tandang Sora, I asked myself if we deserved this – this punishment. Perhaps, but my humanity got the best of me. I knew at the back of my mind that it's not man against nature but man against himself yet I am comforted at the former and I pretend not to know the latter. Part of being human (which means it's not just a Filipino trait) means that we have the capacity to disguise thoughts that do not appeal to our emotions – we put layers upon layers of thoughts until they are covered and hopefully never to be recovered. But once the rains come pouring and the water rises, truth reveals itself plain as day. The plastic bags, the soda bottles, the shit, the vermin come all gushing out the streets like it was being played by the Pied Piper in our heads. We are too human sometimes, I reckon. Perhaps an ark is sufficient with us not in it. I imagine the world would be a far better place without humanity in the picture. Call me an anarchist but it's probably true. But then again, my spirit of self-preservation kicks in. And like the rest of the humanity that is drenched in this rain, I battle the flood and walk against the rising tides trying to find something, someplace warm and dry.

Hours passed and the waters receded all over Metro Manila. Tandang Sora's electricity was restored just a few hours ago, the reason I am writing this in Consuelo (my laptop). Our house in Caloocan was obviously flooded almost reaching the second floor. I was rather disappointed that they failed to bring my grandmother's antique narra table upstairs because it was one of the only heirlooms she bequeathed to my mother before she died. It was heavy after all and I couldn't expect them to bring it up. Somehow I know that the narra table will survive this flood like it has survived the previous ones. And like our narra table, the Filipinos will survive this flood. I watched and listened intently to the news on television for a few minutes, a first ever since I arrived here two months ago. Even Cory Aquino's death and funeral didn't make me watch the news as intently as I was watching the news for a few, brief minutes. Perhaps it's because this flood was personal and it hit closer to home. The networks didn't have to hype the news today. Drama was everywhere. A lot of homes were havocked by the typhoon and the flood - from shanties made of a mosaic of plywood and carton boxes to houses built of stone and expensive wood.  Many families were even stuck in the rooftops waiting for rescue. I am thankful for two things – one was that my family didn't have to go to the rooftops and the other was that there were a few casualties, 46 in the last count. Still, the look on the face of woman going home from work and realizing that the home that she help build with her family is now submerged in floodwater with her mother carrying her two-year old son and holding her five year old daughter waiting to be rescued is still not a cause for relief. The sad fact is that my country has been experiencing Katrina for decades and people both in the government and the private sector are not doing enough to prevent a solvable problem.

The Filipino rises from the tides. We are no stranger to typhoons and earthquakes and landslides. The country has survived centuries of colonization and has survived wars and countless of political upheavals. We have survived far worse and we can survive this one. After all, it's just but another flood... another Katrina and Milenyo among countless others. The question is, until when can we keep rebuilding our homes and our lives after every natural disaster or political upheaval comes in our midsts? Can our spirit of self-preservation still keep us afloat if the next flood comes? I do not know the answer but one thing is for sure, after the floodwaters recede, that mother of two who just got back from work along with the thousands of mothers affected by this flood, will collect the remains of what was once her home and she will put dinner on the table and her children will eat. My mother along with my nieces are probably doing the same thing right now – rebuilding a home trying to collect the things that held memories left by this flood. Hopefully, they will eat dinner at my lola's narra table.

This flood was my baptism. When I left the country seven years ago I realize that I have shed a lot of skin that was Filipino and that was of my former self. I have decided to come back for many reasons – some I know and many that I do not have any knowledge of. This was probably one of those mysteries. I do not know if I came back to shed the skin that was China or to reinvent myself yet again for the n^th time. I do know this – that I am here, experiencing this flood and what came after it and I am taking it all in. I came back two months ago and felt very alien to what I once called my home. But now after the flood, somehow, I feel quite familiar.

*************
for those who are interested in helping the victims of typhoon 'Ondoy', please follow tthe links provided below.  

Filipino Bloggers Vigilant with Typhoon Ondoy Floods

Where to send donations for victims of Typhoon Ondoy

or you can donate directly through the following


TXTpower.org (via PayPal)
Philippine National Red Cross 

Nine Days

I've always had this fondness for religious rituals. I don't love them but I am fond of them. I have this keen capacity to observe baptisms, weddings, blessings, the Mass and rites of passage of whatever faith culture. I know that its a very intrusive activity on my part that almost borders voyeurism. It is probably the closeted romantic in me that makes me fond of these ceremonies. Its not the religiosity of the ritual that appeals to me but its the significance. I have not practiced Catholicism in many years and I haven't truly participated in a Eucharistic celebration (aka the Mass), yet I am always at awe when I witness people gather to pray to celebrate life, death and the divine.



About two Saturdays ago, I had to go to another city to attend the ninth day novena for my sister's death. Filipino's call it Pasiyam which literally means “nine”. It was the novena for the dead. The Catholic Christian Tradition holds the novena as a devotion that consists of prayer said on nine successive days^Wikipedia, asking to obtain special graces and favors.  In the case of the novena for the dead, the congregation prays for the departed's soul for nine consecutive days in order for the soul to safely pass through the afterlife.



I arrived late because of the traffic. If truth be told, I could have gone earlier but I really wasn't keen on meeting distant relatives and neighbors. I could've missed the whole thing, but I had to do it for my family and my sister. So I arrived late and they already praying (in Filipino). They were all in the living room facing the makeshift altar that my mother made for my sister which was beside the door. They all saw me come in in my tank top and shorts and flip flops. I paid the necessary respects to the elders present by slightly bowing and then placing my forehead to the back of their hands. We call the act pagmamano in Filipino. I started with my parents, my uncles and aunts and the old neighbors who were attending the novena.



I never liked the custom because that meant one has to do it even if one doesn't like the person. I was told it was a sign of humility and of respect to elders. I've always held that humility had to be genuine and that respect must always be earned. The Bible says that Pride is a sin and perhaps it is. Then again, the Bible was edited and rewritten so many times by so many old men with nothing to do but intellectually masturbate everything that I would beg to differ. I think if there ever is a God, that God would tell us to value pride because pride and humility are both one and the same in smell and taste. Its like drinking milk – no matter what the carton is, its still white and it still tastes like milk.



I did it anyway. It was part of the ritual after all. And after I did my part, I placed myself in the farthest corner of the room where I can be nondescript and anonymous and I watched them. I watched each person facing the altar and I observed. All of them were intently focused on the prayer mouthing the litanies like it was their last day on earth. Even the two year olds were praying. Even my brother was praying. I looked at each of their faces and saw a certain sense of calmness as they mouthed the words. Most of them knew my sister but they never really knew her. I could actually count the people in the room who knew Carmen. Yet all of them were intently praying for her like she was their very daughter, sister and friend. I guess this is a very Filipino way of dealing with death. When somebody dies, it is not just the immediate family who grieves, but a community. I've always held that death is something really personal, that you alone will experience your own death and you can never share that experience with others. Dying, for me, is the most selfish and sacred human experience a person can ever have. For Filipinos however (and perhaps for the rest of humanity), the loss needs to be shared by the ones left behind. I've never understood the concept, but somehow it works for the many of us.



I am not a religious person and I make no apologies for being such.  However, seeing the people all huddled up in one corner of our living room in our house in Caloocan, I was moved. I wasn't moved to pray like they did. I was moved to reflect about the moment. I realized how much I appreciated these people. My family needed consolation, some sort of don't-worry-everything-will-be-alright-she's-in-a-better-place-now kind of consolation. It wasn't the fact that they were praying for her, my sister that moved me but it was the fact that they were praying with my family who was grieving for a daughter, a sister, an aunt and a mother. It's comforting to know that you are not grieving alone. Granted that some of them were there for the free lunch buffet but still, it moves me to see that my family share their grief with people. There was no crying in the room. After the novena, everybody was served with lunch. The food was great. My aunt volunteered to cook. And to think that she and my mother were mortal enemies not so many eons ago. I was catching up with my cousins and telling them how beautiful their children were. Children were playing outside. People were laughing at silly sex jokes. Everybody was catching up with each other exchanging phone numbers. The whole scene in our house in Caloocan was warm and comforting. I looked around and it was so different from the scene a few minutes before. Then I placed my vision at the corner by the door where my mother made a makeshift altar for my departed sister. My mother placed flowers by her portrait. The picture was really beautiful. She was all bitchy and all sultry in the photo.  A fitting honor for my sister.



One thing I realized is that my family's experience of the death of my sister really wasn't about her dying. It was about my family being left behind and trying to move forward. Grief is the only way for the ones left behind to manifest the phenomenon of death. For my sister, it was about dying and leaving and passing away. She died. We didn't. We can only grieve. I shall never know her experience of death and dying because it was hers and hers alone. Someday I will, hopefully not soon, but I look forward to the experience. I just hope I have a pen and paper when that happens.

for Carmen.

photo courtesy of Fernando Panoso

BEAUTIFUL.

She died at five fifteen Friday morning. I came to know about it four hours later.

Her body, ridden with cancer, finally gave out and expired in some government hospital in Japan. A friend called my mother about her passing.

How should one feel when a person close to him dies? I honestly do not know the answer. If I had known the answer I wouldn't be writing this. Am I sad? Probably. But I am not sure. The thing with me is that I am never sure of these things. Emotions are very tricky. You can't reason with emotions. You cannot quantify them or dissect them into little compartments so that you can analyze and utilize them to suit your every need. I was never good with emotions. I do think I possess them, but I can't seem to summon them like other people do. I guess I'm wired differently. I am more like her in that sense. She was also wired differently, like me.

She had a gutter mouth. She can be arrogant when she wants to be and she was never apologetic of her actions. She'd do everything that was contrary to other people's expectations. My sister, Carmen. Carrie as we called her.

I learned my first lessons in life through her. She was one of the first to get married in the family out of the desire to escape my father. Back then, my father ruled our household with an iron fist. With two parents and seven siblings and a nephew, our household in one of roughest places in the city was like a banana republic and my father was the dictator. We were raised Catholic but he was Bible-trained by the Seventh Day Adventist through my grandfather. We were all afraid of him, even my elder brother and come to think of it, even my mother. All except my sister Carmen.

I still remember when I visited their home when I was seven. She just gave birth to my niece a month before and I decided to drop by their house out of curiosity. She was so happy to see me. Her husband had just woken up from siesta and he gave me a nod as he passed by me to go to the makeshift kitchen to make a cup of coffee. They lived in a small space, like a box apartment. The wedding gifts were placed in one corner of the room, some still have remnants of wrappings. I looked at them intently and examined each one. Most of them were all the same traditional Filipino wedding gifts consisting of cheap china and crystal, electric fans, picture frames and an assortment of Tupperware products. They all looked like they were bought in the same store.

She offered me lunch and I accepted even though I already ate lunch before going to her box home. It was adobo made of water spinach. Like any other kid I didn't like eating vegetables back then and she knew that. She was a bit embarrassed when she offered me the food. I could tell. I could also tell that it was also their dinner the other night. I couldn't picture her living in that space. At a very young age, I could tell that she didn't like living in a box apartment with a husband and a kid. And somehow, I could also tell that she knew that I knew. I ate the adobo, and I even lied that I liked it and told her that I would ask our mother to make it for me. I left an hour later. I went back home with the knowledge that my sister wasn't happy. I was sad that she and my niece had to eat like that and sad that she had to live in a place like that. She told me to come and visit her and my niece whenever I like. I said yes like I said yes to lunch. But she knew. I learned my first life lesson – don't get married for the wrong reasons.

Two months later she was back at our house. I woke up one morning and found her with my niece and with all her wedding gifts of cheap china and crystal and a plethora of picture frames and Tupperware products in our living room.

She left for Japan later that year. I've never seen her look so happy. The last time I remember seeing her close to this being happy was when she was with her friends. She had a lot of friends, my sister. She always loved going out. She laughed so hard when she was with her friends. Probably because of the fact that my father wasn't present when in those occasions. She loved anything that involved being out of the house and out of my father's gaze. Ever since the wedding and then the divorce which prompted her to go back to our house, my father has been constantly breathing on her neck about failing to sustain a marriage for even a year. It seemed that her plan to get married so she could get out of his dominion didn't work out so well. Being married to a man with good looks wasn't enough to sustain a family. She only realized later that a backbone was more important than facial features. Albeit late, she packed my niece and her things and all her wedding gifts except the electric fan back to our house that morning. I've never seen my father gloat so much. It was like the Marcoses were back in town and the Filipino people were trying make amends for booting them out of the islands. My sister, true to her being wired the way she was wired didn't take it lightly. She enrolled herself to dancing and singing lessons and had managed to get herself a ticket to Japan. When my father found out, it was all too late for him to do anything. It was a sucker punch that me, my mother and my other siblings never dared to do. She won the battle that day. And somehow, she won that battle on behalf of my mom and my sisters and perhaps even my brother and me.

I never knew what she did in Japan. I never asked. When my mother and my sisters did, she would always give sketchy answers so I figured that she probably wanted it that we know little about her life in Japan. What I did know was that her life in Japan was hard. She got married to a Japanese guy that she met in the pub where she worked. He was a pencil pusher. He was handsome like her ex husband was handsome, but like with the first, the marriage didn't last. He gave her a son though. She formed a greater bond with her son than with her daughter that she left in the Philippines which was to be expected.

She did not communicate with us for almost three years. The letters and the phone calls just stopped. We all thought she was left for dead by the yakuzas in some gutter. At fifteen, I could hear my parents talking about her in the other room. Even my father was worried. I was worried. I heard stories about Filipina women in Japan working as entertainers, I already figured that she was one years before.

Then she called us. She said she was going home. I was already in college by then.

She once told me told me that if there was ever a song that absolutely defines her, it would be “Never Been to Me” by Charlene. One night that song came up on the radio and I told her about “Priscilla: Queen of the Desert” and it turned out that she had already seen it. She turned all serious and quiet and just listened intently to the song. She was never usually serious about anything when she talked to us. My conversations with her usually included a sex joke and a cop a feel (she did it to everybody, including my parents). We were smoking that night. When that song came up, she just let the cigarette burn while she quietly hummed along in her head. I didn't know what to say because it was the first time that she was like this to anyone of us. I came to realize that the woman in front of me. The woman I was smoking with that night as we were listening to a cheesy song was not my sister. I've always thought that my sister was this beautiful woman who walked the earth with an arrogance of a bullfighter waving her red flag with such bravado telling the world to bring it on and give her some more. The person in front of me was totally different. It was like being seven again, only this time there were no more allusions or second guesses. This time, truth revealed itself plainly to me like sunrise. This person was not my sister. She was just Carmen, revealing her naked loneliness behind the misty fumes of the fag that she was smoking. And when the cigarette slowly died out and the song started to fade, I saw her face and realized that she was the song. And as much as I didn't want to learn another one of life's important truths that night, the universe decided to reveal itself again through my sister. The sad part was, I was already grown up enough to realize that there was no more “home” to go to to escape this truth.

Our relationship became more profound when I was in China. She never mentioned about that night at our house in the Philippines and that song. We often talk on the phone. She would call me in odd hours from Japan and we would talk about guys and their dicks, blowjobs, anal sex, her skin regimen and more guys and dicks. Call it superficial, but that was how I related to my sister. That was how we talked. The serious issues we never discussed in depth because she reasoned that they would still be there after the discussion – that they would still be unresolved issues. She avoids them like a plague. Perhaps, I do too. I never called her ate (elder sister in Filipino) after that night. I always called her Carrie or Ayrak. She liked it and I liked it too. It was a silent agreement between us that we wanted to be both in equal footing. She would always say that she was the most beautiful child in our family. I'd play along and tell her that t it was usually the youngest who had the best qualities since the genes that were passed on the child were already fine tuned. We'd go on for minutes just outdoing each other. I'd tell her that her breast needed augmenting and then she'd tell me that even sex change wouldn't solve half of my problems. Good times. I never realized that my sister who was miles and miles away from me would actually turn out to be my first fruit fly.

She can be impossible at times. No, she was impossible most of the times. She made so many wrong decisions that affected her life and her children's as well. I didn't speak to her for a time because of that. I wanted her to get her act together and be a mother for once. We didn't talk for a 6 months. I was angry and apparently so was she.

It didn't last though. It only took a phone call at an odd hour. Although we both knew that we still hated each other's guts, we both still wanted the engagement that we have established for it was genuine. And like us, it was beautiful.

The last time I saw her was about five months ago. I had to ask a five day leave from work just five days after I came back from my summer holiday in the Philippines. My bosses understood. I packed like lightning and flew back to Manila. I went two days ahead of them. My sister who was in California went to Japan to bring her to the Philippines. It was a one way ticket for Carrie. I saw her at the airport. She lost a considerable amount of weight and one could tell that she was sick. She walked in very small steps like she had her feet bound with those Chinese shoes. I could hardly hear her voice. When I hugged her she started coughing and didn't stop. My sisters and my mother and even my father who has aged and mellowed through the years were shedding tears. I wasn't.  I was counting the people in the airport. Counting airplanes arriving and departing. Focusing on certain colors like blue, red or green. I wanted to be seven again. Life was too simple when you're seven. You could always go home. But when you're thirty, you're old enough to realize that a home isn't always a safe haven. A home can be intruded by hatred and violence and madness and by sadness. By cancer. When a home is intruded, one asks himself where to go. At thirty in a balmy afternoon in an airport in Manila, I was trying very hard to be seven again.

She managed to get herself a ticket back to Japan. She said that she would return and she would want to go back and spend more time with her daughter and her granddaughter. Yes, she was already a grandmother. The look on her face when she saw her grandchild. It was pure energy.

She refused to believe it was cancer. She refused chemotherapy. She said knew what to do, she would get well and that she would work again. For the first time, the family really talked. All of us. It was a first time that I've seen my brother teary eyed. I finally did cry, over the phone talking with my boyfriend. I didn't want her to see me like that. I knew her well. She didn't want a pity party. She didn't want people crying when they see her state. She wanted a sugar coated reality. And I provided it for her. I told her to make herself well before I left. I told her that she would need to live 25 more years so she could watch her grandchild grow up and get married. I told her she needed to beat whatever it was that was afflicting her. She was a bullfighter and she needed to vanquish the bull in front of her. She liked my version. Somehow, she knew that I understood.

The song came up again on my last night in Manila. I think she may have forgotten that we had this conversation years before. I didn't tell her though. I just listened. This time, she wasn't smoking a cigarette. This time it was all her. No masks. Just her. Carmen.

How does one feel when a person he loves dies? Does he cry? Or wail? Or lament at the life, precious as it was, that was stolen. I honestly don't know.

But I am happy.

Because my sister can be beautiful again.

Fridays and Mondays

I hate Mondays.  Okay, that's too much of a word, 'hate'. Let me rephrase that, I dislike Mondays.  Not that I find anything distasteful in Mondays or anything, in fact Mondays for most people in this world are okay-ish if not near awesomess.  A good number of the world's population would love waking up on Mondays {like for most people who work in banks}. Some people are even perky on Mondays.  I have a coworker who is a perky Monday person {then again, she is perky in all days... I wonder what drug she's taking?}.  I dislike Mondays.  Most of all, I dislike MONDAYS that fall on the 13th day of the month.  Monday the 13th are the worst Mondays of them all.  It's like the whole universe is conspiring against me on Monday the 13th.  The stars and the planets are all in a mysterious astrological alignment that any form of physical or mental or emotional endeavor would surely come to complete failure. Pursuing any form of endeavor on such a day {and I have proven this} would simply be begging the cosmos to smite me from behind with so much wrath that lubrication is a no option. I don't go out on Monday the 13th.  I stay indoors.  I don't clean my floor on Monday the 13th.  I let the dust settle as much as I hate it.  I don't cook on Monday the 13th. Well, I don't cook period.  Lets just say that I'm kosher on Monday the 13th. 

Mondays don't do anything for me. Mondays are just bleh.  I guess its just in my constitution, like I was built to not function well on Mondays.  I'm just not a Monday person.  Even the word 'Monday' is a bit off.  There's just something wrong with the word 'Monday'.  It's the word I think. I mean it's the beginning of the work week and the people who invented the modern calendar weren't even creative enough to think of a better word to start the friggen week.  I don't really care about the etymology of the friggen word but dudes, if you were gonna invent a calendar and pick a name for the beginning of the work week why the hell pick a boring name. The word 'Monday' doesn't have a lotta panache, I think.  'Wednesday' has more spunk even.  In fact, they should've put 'Wednesday' at the beginning of the work week and put friggen 'Monday' on the third day.  If that were the case {in a perfect world where there are no recessions and bills to pay and AIDS and cancer and hunger and wars and political commentaries and no tv commercials}, I think I would wake up every beginning of the work week with so much positivity and energy if it happened to be named 'Wednesday'. I honestly think that I would be a perky Wednesday-beginning-of-the-work-week person.  I'd wake up with a smile on my face while I'm scratching my left nut.  Then I'd be doing a thousand sit ups.  Then I'd do yoga.  Then I'd be singing songs in the shower.  Hell I'd prolly even eat breakfast.  Imagine this my friend,  if the week started on a Wednesday.  You might be doing the same thing. We would all be perky and happy and twiddledee twiddle dum cheery humming a Buddy Holly song while we go to work thinking that our work life isn't much of a grind after all.  All because we woke up on a WEDNESDAY. I honestly think that we could even be one step closer to world peace if the week started on a Wednesday. Damnit,  I'd even wear a pin if the week started on a Wednesday. 

Why the hell am I talking about Mondays on a FRIDAY night?!?!

Well, I do not know if it is age or if its because of my spiked up MSG levels but lately I have been feeling that Fridays are just like Mondays. I got two invites today, one for a post birthday party leftover dinner thing and one for a lets get pissed drunk and paint the town jizz red thing.  I both turned it down.  Three reasons.  One, I'm dead tired. Two, I'm kinda broke. Three, it feels like a Monday.
 
My inner Omar is telling me that its a combination of my advancing years and MSG intake.  I just can't party like I used to.  I really don't party that much to begin with.  I'm very domesticated yo {*wipes the counter top table and fixes his apron}. But really, I don't party that much to begin with.  But I do go out and get pissed drunk.

Note to self.
1. Moisturize
2. Eat less instant noodles

Being truthful now, there are times when the I find myself thinking on a Sunday evening that the highlight of my week was getting 8 hours of sleep.  I mean, how lame is that?

It dawned on me that I needed to be more productive.  Not with work but with my personal time.  It also dawned on me that I really don't have much that personal time. My only personal time is when I am out running and/or when I am in the gym.  I could hardly call that personal.  I think I need to do things.  Like actually get outta my apartment and do something, like go to museums or take crappy pictures or write crappy stuff or make up stories in my head or eat ice cream in the park or poison pigeons in the park. ANYTHING, just do something for myself.  I NEED TIME DAMNIT. 

It is so true though, the saying that time is a luxury these days.  In many cases you need a credit card to have some personal quality time. { I don't have a credit card. My debit card doesn't even have a hundred dollars in it }.  In this time and age, there is so little time which you could honestly call FREE.  I think people who are incarcerated have more free time and quality time for that matter. 

It's a fact in my life now, that my Fridays are just like my Mondays and I have to live with it. Sad but true. My only consolation in this realization is that at least the fifth day of the week is not called a 'Monday'.  Gawd, imagine if there were two days in the week named MONDAYS.  Monday the first and Monday the fifth.  I think I would slit my wrists.

nuff said.

7 days

I'm off topic already.

7 days

It's been 7 days already and as much as I hate to be all Dawson's Creek about this topic, I'm still going to say this,  I miss the Coconut Republic.  Sure, poverty and squalor live alongside couture malls and shopping centres like the other didn't exist; but it has its charms.   The minute my plane landed on the tarmac in Beijing Capital Airport (an awesome airport I tell ya), I already wanted to go back. Beijing greeted me with its first ever snow. The lady cabbie was ecstatic that it finally snowed in Beijing.   It was sorta romantic and I wanted to talk to the cabbie but I slept during the ride.  I was exhausted.


I so wanted to blog while I was on the road but it was difficult to get Internet access in the Coconut Republic.  Not that there aren't any, there are actually many Internet cafe's in the Philippines.  I wanted to blog with Consuelo (my laptop) but there weren't any free wireless in the places I went to, even friggen Starbucks (tell you more about that later).


My trip to the Coconut Republic would be described as overwhelmingly sublime that borders on the surreal at times. I had a great time, yep and  I actually think I grew up a little.  I stayed more with my family this time (about 10 days to be exact).  I met up with really good friends.  And I traveled with B.

Manila International Airport

If Beijing Airport is awesome that it makes me want to lick the bathroom tiles, the airport in Manila is not that awesome.  It's clean but not well maintained.  I thought that the plane would be landing at the new airport but we landed in the old one.  I had fun at the baggage claim area though.  I was expecting a guy to pop out of the baggage claim carousel (like it did the last time I arrived in Manila International Airport).  After I got Tallulah, I headed out to the arrivals section and was looking for my mother.  It was my niece that found me, Ynah (pronounced as EEEH-nah not WHY-nah). I almost screamed. She's all grown up.  Still small, but she's all ladylike now sorta.  Damn it I'm old! My mother, father and my niece and her partner found us.  I embraced them, and father dear started to tear up for no reason.  I was like "dude, chill". I was secretly happy because my father was never the mushy kind.  Age really does mellow hard men like my dad.  I looked at Dana, my niece and her partner and their three-month old baby Samantha.  Dana's different. She looked more mature, probably because of the baby.  Her partner, Rudy, is a bit quiet and timid and kept mostly to himself and gave me monosyllabic answers to the questions that I asked him.  Samantha, on the other hand, is curious about the stranger in front of him.  She kept on eyeing me with her big round eyes.  She seems at home with the airport environment. Samantha is my second grand niece. JEEEEZUS I feel so old.


Obamarama

I arrived on the 20th of January, Obama's inauguration.  I knew that Obamarama was a world phenomenon but I never expected the massive reception it got in the Philippines.  When I arrived at my sister's house that night I realized how serious the reception for the new American President was.  My sister was watching the inauguration and it turned out that all major networks were covering it. She owns a sari-sari store (Think of a mom and pop store with a 7-11 twist to it) and the neighbors were drinkin beer and watching history unfold.  My sister who's crazy about noontime shows and prime time soaps is watching Obama being sworn in, and so was my whole family.   I even heard my mother telling the whole family that we were lucky enough to witness history as the West inaugurates it's first African American president. The rest of my family nodded agreement.  That time I thought somebody kidnapped my family and replaced them with politically correct clones. My family was never NEVER politically correct. Even the TV reporters were politically correct.  Like whoa.  I was like, whoa.  She never uses the word African American before. She usually uses the N word in Spanish (its common for Filipinos to use that), but how times have changed. You gotta thank the Internet for this Obama win and for making my parents PC.  My parents. PC. Whodathunk. Next thing you know they would be demanding the IMF and World Bank to free the Third World of debt.  But that's too much to ask, I guess.

Traffic

I never realized that it was that bad in Metro Manila.  And I thought Beijing was bad.  You have to go to work at 5 am and go home at 11 pm to avoid the traffic jams. 

Starbucks

I love coffee, but I am not a fan of Starbucks.  I still prefer Dunkin Donuts over Starbucks.  I mean, if I'm gonna pay for a 4 dollar coffee, I would at least expect a free wi-fi and a blowjob (ok, at least a backrub).  But nooooooooooooooo. There ain't no free wi-fi in Starbucks.  I checked.  My sister and one of my nephews and I were waiting for the rest of my family to arrive for some dinner thing and my sister wanted to wait in Starbucks.  Reluctant as I was, I acquiesced since they already found a seat.  I queued up and waited for my turn to be served. I was carrying Tallulah with me and I was a bit groggy since I barely slept the other night and I seriously needed the caffeine jolt, so I decided to order an espresso machiatto.  When it was my turn to be served I ordered a  machiatto for me and two frappucino for the rest.  I said the whole thing to the waiter (barrista my ass), who happened to go to the same church as I do, in Filipino.  Now, I didn't get the memo that when you go to a Starbucks in Manila, you should order in English.  The waiter smiled at me and told me in a sort of patronizing Filipino tone that a machiatto was a small coffee. The lady beside me who heard the waiter's comment sorta smiled (no, she fuckin smirked). Oh, did I say, that she was asking her{grand}kids what their orders were in English 
(WACHA WANT TOO DREENK? DOO YOOO WANTA PRAFUCHEENO OR HWATEVERRR?).  
I wanted to shove Tallulah's ends up the waiter's and the lady's asses and  tell them that I knew what a freaking espresso macchiatto was. Just because I ordered the whole goddamn thing in Filipino and I was wearing non-designer flip flops and anon descript tank top and shorts doesn't mean that they could patronize me.  I have rights yo! I summoned up my inner Oprah Winfrey and told him in English that I have been drinking it even before he had pubes {which he probably now shaves considering his eyebrows were a bit sculptured}.  Then I told him in plain Filipino to make my fucking macchiatto a double. To his credit, he got embarrassed and then noticed Tallulah on my back with an airport baggage claim stub sticker thing still attached to her, to which he asked where I was from (duh my coffeee!!!!!! he was kinda cute tho).  I told him I was from Caloocan {think Brooklyn with extra frills}. I got my orders but I didn't get a double.  I prolly should've told it to him in English.  Fuckin Starbucks.

Malls

There are shitloads. And when I say shitloads, I meant shitloads.  It seems that one distinct aspect of Filipino culture in many cities (but most especially in the Metro) is that daily life seem to revolve around malls.  You can find Bayad Centers (where people can pay any kind of utility bill), chapels, fitness centers, medical facilities and the like.  In the Philippines, the malls have replaced the parks as the universal public space.   IT scares me a little truth be told.  I mean, they're nice and all but it's like giving the friggen government a whole shitload of slack which they really don't need.  I look at the state of the public spaces in the metro and to be honest there aren't enough. Granted that its really good but these tycoons who own them malls shouldn't be doing this. I love malls, don't get me wrong; but aren't we a bit mall crazy here?  Back when I was a kid, I looked forward in going to parks because there's grass.  Now, even malls have grass and waterfalls and friggen rice paddies.  And yes, you can solicit for sex in malls too! Senator Craig would have a field day in SM.

Tuyo, Tocino, Sinangag, Bibingka, Julebe

I gained 5 kilos because of these bastards. I ate at Julebe (Hoo leh beh) so many times that I felt for certain that them burgers were not 100% pure beef patties.  Whenever I would take out my nieces and nephews they would always ask me to take them to Jollibee or Chowking (a Chinese fast food joint owned by Jollibee).  They never get tired of it.


Tuyo rocks. I could never get enough of tuyo. Tuyo with  sinangag  and fried eggs is da bomb. Maaaaaaaaaaaan I once was served pasta with tuyo, olives and capers by a friend and it blew me away.  Ohhhh and the bibingka.  When Boo and I  were on our roadtrip, we ate bibingka whenever we can. The best bibingka that we had was in Liliw Laguna  and it was just 30 cents a piece.  30 cents for a piece of bibingka! You don't even get things as good as that in The Noodle Kingdom. 

Thank You
I have to thank some people I met during this trip.
Allan and Auch. No words could describe them.
Oskie and Venus.  I'm hoping I'll be in the Coconut Republic when you two exchange wedding vows.  
Andrew. Quiapo and Binondo would never be the same again. And cheesy 80's songs for that matter.
Cindy and Bingo. You two are amazing and wonderful people.  All the best with the work that you do. 
Iza and Celle. My only link to my dreadful highschool past.  :)
Bogs and Demo.  It was great meeting you two.
Drei. You are so fresh.
Boiet. It was surprising to say the least.
Chris. I still can't believe that you and I have the same camera.  I hope next time its a DSLR.
Ate Aida. Thank you for our talk and for helping orgnize my shit.

The welcoming committee

This was the first time that B and I went to the Philippines together.  In fact, this we were in the Philippines together.  I was excited for all sorts of reasons. As much as I hate admitting this on my blog,  I love the fucker and I wanted him to meet the people that mattered to me.  I mean not all of them because I honestly think he would be overwhelmed with the demographic.  I realized I have to wean him when it comes to my friends. Besides, there wasn't enough time.  We decided to go slow. We decided that he should meet my family and some of my friends. 


My family took him in like he was a long lost son (then that would mean incest, eeww?). It was not difficult to introduce him since they all have been asking when they were going to meet him and all.    Even my father was cool with it (well he is 70 so might as well go with the flow).  One of my nieces, Nee Ann, asked him about our relationship when we stopped by at one of my sister's house in Laguna before going to Manila.  Nee Ann is a 7-year old who loves writing ghost stories while putting on kid's make up (I can't believe that they already produce make up for kids).  She tells me that two of her good friends are gay (at 7) and I asked her how she knew and she said she just knows.    A fruitfly at 7. When she saw B and I coming outta B's car, she hugged and kissed me then looked at B and asked.

Nee Ann: Sino siya? (Who the hell is he?)
Uncle Omar: Siya si B (This is B)

While the two of us were eating baked macaroni that my sister prepared, Nee Ann was seated with us and kept on looking at me and B.  She prolly couldn't help it so she asked:

Nee Ann: Ankol, siya ba yung ex mo?  (Uncle, is he your ex?)
**I mentally choked on my baked mac and mentally gave myself the Heimlick manouver and told her after drinking a glass of coke:

Uncle Omar: Sino nagsabi sayo na ex ko siya (Who the hell told ya that he is my ex?)

Nee Ann: Si Mommy. (Mommy told me)
** my sister was manning her 7-11 while watching primetime soap.  B didn't know whether to keep on chewing or run to the car.  I'm glad he decided to stick to the former.  So I told Nee Ann

Uncle Omar: Hindi ko siya ex.  Boyfriend ko siya (He's not my ex. He's my boyfriend).
** she keeps quiet for a second or two and looks up the ceiling while trying to process the relevant piece of information that I just told her. Then when her 7 year old brain seemed to have processed the whole thing, she looks at me and then at B who looked kinda pale at that point but he's still chewing on the baked macaroni then tells us.

Nee Ann: Boypren? Ano yun?  Boy na pren? O BOYPREN? (Boyfriend? What do you mean by that?  Is he your friend who is a boy or is he your boyfriend)
** I was wondering at that point if B was also mentally administering the Heimlick manouver to his psychic self. I told my neice

Uncle Omar: Boyfriend ko siya.  So tawag mo sa kanya Uncle B, ok? (He's my boyfriend.  So you can also call him Uncle B, ok?)
** B nods at Nee Ann and tells her that she could call him Uncle B. She looks up the ceiling again and then looks back at the two of us and tells us.

Nee Ann: Boypren!? Double boy?! Pwede ba yun?  (Boyfriends?! Double boy? Is that even possible?)

Uncle Omar: Oo naman.  Uso yan ngayon.  (Yep, its possible.  It's a fad thats been around since the mid 90's)

Nee Ann: OK.
* * then she proceeds to eating her chicken while B gets a second helping of my sister's baked mac.

That was my boyfriend's baptism of fire. B got along with my family famously.  I mean, if he could survive Nee Ann, he could survive my other nephews and nieces and my siblings and my parents and my neighbors and the baranggay tanods.

B, Allan & Auch
B had to meet the two people that mattered to me most, my best friends - Allan and Auch. Truth be told, I was more nervous of the whole thing than B.  I think he was not fazed at all.  He was all B the whole time we were with Allan and Auch.  Allan and Auch decided to cook Sinampalukang Manok (Chicken Tamarind Soup) for us when we decided to visit them at Auch's apartment.  I was expecting it to be bloody and all as it has been known to the three of us that Allan and Auch never liked ANY of my boyfriends. I was nervous as hell to say the least.  Miracle of miracles, the two were ok with B, there wasn't any cursing.  No blood was shed.  B didn't die of food poisoning.  My water didn't break. That didn't mean that the three of them were chummy chummy and all.  The whole experience was a bit formal, but not tensed. It was a bit surreal because Allan was all fatherly and Auch was all butch all of a sudden that it would've given him a stroke had he continued to be butch for the whole day. As far as I know, this was Auch's longest.  I mean his previous record was 45 minutes.  He did it for two hours.  I wanted to tell them just to be themselves because B was oblivious to the whole thing.  I guess they wanted to make a good impression which touched me.  Inside, I was elated, but I still felt weird. 


At one point during the meal, Allan even said the following in a fatherly tone. 

Allan: Alam mo B na kaming dalawa ni Auch ay natutuwa sa inyong relasyon ni Omar.  Maligaya kami para sa inyong dalawa (I have to tell you B that Auch and I are happy about the two of you. We are really happy for you)
** Master Sergeant Auch, who was seated opposite to me couldn't help but raise an eyebrow (for two seconds). I couldn't help but smile, because I knew for a fact that it was genuine. But I also couldn't help but feel like some farm girl being offered by her parents to the sugar baron in order to pay off my family's debt.  All the scene needed  was a cow which Allan and Auch would give to B as my dowry.

B & my parents
B and I decided to take my parents with us on our 3 day trip to the countryside.  They were happy enough to oblige.  I found out later from my mother that they were both excited about the trip because they haven't had a proper vacation in years. 


B drove the whole time.  I couldn't drive.  He has a car in the Philippines and I couldn't, for the life of me, understand why he has a car in the Philippines when he's based outside the country.  He wants me to take up driving lessons.  My parents agreed. I told them that I wouldn't be able to handle my road rage.   B is such a proper driver.  He stops on a red light (I mean who does that these days); even makes way for stray dogs and cats and rats whatever living thing that crosses his path.


We went to visit a monastery that is frequented by a lot of tourists and devotees.  It was a real quiet and expansive place with a small chapel in the middle.  The four of us got out of the car and my father was complaining to my mother about his bladder  and was looking for the men's room so she asked B where the men's room was. I was 20 meters behind them and I could hear my parents talking about bladders and toilets and we were in a friggen monastery!  Good thing there were a few visitors that afternoon but I bet my ass that the nuns prolly heard the whole thing.  Meh, they prolly prayed for us too.  I love my parents.

On the road

The highlight of my vacation was the roadtrip with B.  The best times that we had was on the road and in his car. If it were a motorcycle it would've been more romantic and a bit French, but I guess the car was way better than a bike.  And besides, the hell would I pedal both of us. The car did have its uses.


It was the little things that appealed to me the most.


Like being able to smell him in close proximity with me for 8 hours straight...


or being able to listen and sing the same song over and over and over again until his ears and tonsils bled...


and playing with his hair and his nape in some lazy rainy afternoon en route to some destination...


or sleeping on the side of the road at 3 am because he was too tired to drive...


and to able to hear him snore.


and stopping by some odd place here and there for some bibingka or some pandesal or for some coffee because we were hungry.


taking photos...


going to churches, old landmarks, lazy towns and actually stopping by the markers to read them then to leave them.


to listen to his stories and talk about the future ahead of us...


to not speak to each other because of an argument that we didn't know how it started...


then to make up in the car afterwards :)


holding his hand.




It was intense to be with him the whole time.  So intense that it scared me a little. I dare say it was romantic even. It felt like I was in some early 90's European movie directed by dead filmmaker. It was so good that at the back of my head I was telling myself that this was it. This was it. Nothing more.   This was the film's climax and we're not even half way through because of budget constraints.  My evil psychic twin was telling me to expect the dreadful peripety to come falling on my head like brimstone and he was also telling me that there would never be a denouement or some form of catharsis in this story.  The dread would come to me in moments. Just seconds really.  Moments that I found most memorable and endearing.  I had to mentally slap myself everytime that feeling crept out of my skin.


I realize that trusting him more was irrelevant now.  Nor him trusting me. 


I had to trust us. 


I realized that somehow, I had to learn how to write this story, our story, with him. 

Hong Kong
We parted in Hong Kong. We stayed there for a night in some decrepit building that hosted a lot of tourists and people who were just passing through.  It was cheap.  It was small space on the 15th floor and it looked like a holding cell.  I think his car was even bigger. It was nice. 


We walked the streets of Kowloon trying to find Mixian (rice noodles) and ended up with instant noodles served with Chinese Spam. It was expensive.  We walked and walked till our feet got tired.  He held my hand the whole time.  It surprised me.  In the Philippines I had to stop myself from holding his hand or putting my arm around his waist when we were in public. I slipped most of the times.  He would sorta flinch (he did it a coupla times).  In Hong Kong he was a bit different. He was more forward. 


We parted in the airport.  He was gate 64 and I was gate 28. 
My plane landed in Beijing. It was snowing that day.  I told you that already.


Its been almost a week and I could still smell him. I guess I have it bad then.