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. 

"I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life."

One of my favorite lines in "The Catcher in the Rye".  JD Salinger died on Wednesday, January 27.  He was 91. 

Holden was my first literary love. Thirteen years ago, I was this lanky, intrepid teenager - short of becoming a man  who was hoping to make his mark in the world and without a clue as to what to do.   I fell in love with the lanky teenager who loved his little sister to bits and pieces and smoked shitloads of cigarettes and philosophized blue streak while trying to find yet another cigarette to put in his mouth.

Thank you for giving me Holden, Mr. JD Salinger.   You will forever be remembered. 

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.

Muelmar, a hero

I  did not know Muelmar Magallanes until today when I read the countless news about his heroism online.  What this 18 year old construction worker from Bagong Silang did yesterday was to save more than 30 souls which included his family and his neighbors from Bagong Silang, a place that is considered as one of the depressed areas in Quezon City.  Two of the people that Mulemar saved was Menchie Penalosa and her six-month old baby daughter. The two were the last to be saved by Muelmar Magallanes as he got carried away by the flood currents. His body was found the next day, miles away from Bagong Silang.  Eighteen is a very young age to die.  Muelmar Magallaness may have died poor and young but what he had accomplished has been far greater than any person could have accomplished at that age or at any age.   More than thirty people can attest to that.  


In a society where people and events can be easily forgotten by media hype and the government spins, it is my hope that people would not forget those like Muelmar Magallanes.  This young man has done more for the country than any politician or famous personality can do for us.  I would like the people who have read this blog entry to please remember this young man who had saved thirty lives and offered his own in the process.  He was not rich nor was he famous. But he had one thing that many people today seem to be lacking of - a good heart.  Muelmar Magallanes had a good heart.  Remember his name.  


Hero teenager saves more than 30 lives before he is swept away by Philippine floods
Daily Mail

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.

Spling. Trains. Dalian. Samuel L Jackson's Schlong and some other things.

April 19
Friday
2 pm Beijing Time

TRAINS

I am comfortably seated on a hard seat en route to the coastal city of Dalian. I'm traveling with one of my Chinese buddies, Qiu Min and we're going to Dalian to see our friend Dalton, who currently works there. Two hours ago, I was sitting by the exit window beside the trash bag, while being ashed by passenger smokers {couldn't blame them because Qiu Min and I were at the smoking section of the train which was also the trash section which is also the exit way. Meh}. It was a good thing that me and my Chinese friend were able to find an empty seat during the last stop, or else we would be spending the next eight hours sitting beside cigarette butts, ashes, and the trash bag, oh yeah, not to mention spit {Somebody spat like half a foot away from me two hours ago and I was thankful enough that it didn't ricochet in my direction}

SPLING

Didn't I mention it was spring already? Aaaaahh spling. Just saying it makes me get a boner. My shitsville of a city is so beautiful during springtime. It becomes some place else, almost surreal. Almost like one of the scenes in Kurosawa's Dreams. Greens, blossoms, warm weather, skirts, shirtless dudes. Priceless. People in these areas, both expat and local, start to shed off their winter duds come spring time. You get to see more skin and they start to become more pleasant in your eyes. Even I look more pleasant in springtime methinks.

RUNNING

I've been running lately. It's warm, so I run. Speaking of running, I have this recurring dream that I am running naked in some rice field or wheat field or corn field or something. Weird. It's hardly erotic I think. I mean, imagine yerself, running in your birthday duds with all that flora and fauna getting in contact with yer lil Omar. Talk about chafing yer balls.

RICE FIELD

My train is passing a rice field now. It's one big rice field. I remember the time when I was 17 and I was in the middle of a rice field and under a mango tree . Damn, I was a tweener and horny.

INSTANT NOODLES

I haven't eaten instant noodles/two minute noodles/fanbianmian in months. I only ate some on the train. Maaaaaaaaan it's so good. Thank God for the late Momofuku Ando {the dude who invented instant noodles and I have an entry about him}and for MSG! Mr. Ando, you da man!

DALIAN
12 hours, 3 different kinds of seafood and two and a half cups of instant noodles and a can of beer later...

I just came out fresh from the shower feeling really bloated after eating all that seafood and ramen noodles and I am almost ready for bed. I am billeted in this nice hotel/apartelle room with Qiu Min and Dalton, our host. The hotel {I forgot the name} is somewhat of an apartelle and some people actually time share it or something. Dalton tells Qiu Min and I that his family has a VIP card so we get some discount. He also told us that he heard some moans here and there when he checked our room before he fetched us at the train station. The three of us think that this hotel is a place where good things happen outside of marriage. Sweet.

Our room is sort of like a studio place with two beds, a kitchenette, a shower and toilet, fridge, microwave, mini washer, cable and airconditioning. Pretty nice, like a bachelor's pad. No internet which is a bummer. I still need to do some work and I asked my Chinese friend Dalton if I could get a modem or maybe I could just go to a cafe. He said, “We'll see.” I hope he does see because my boss is gonna kill me.

SAMUEL L. JACKSON'S SHLONG

A while ago, during dinner and cigarette break, Dalton, Qiu Min, and I were watching some cop movie that starred Kevin Spacey and Samuel L. Jackson. Then Qiu Min asked me if I know or have any black friends. I told them yes. Then Dalton asked me if black guys have big dicks. I was like, erm I really dunno dudes. I was tempted to tell them that if I ever do sleep with one I'd be sure to tell them if this popular belief in among Chinese about black men having big shlongs is true. The two were silent and stared back at the tv screen while the movie focused on the wounded Samuel L. Jackson lying on a stretcher in an ambulance while the camera focuses on his police badge which was conveniently placed o

n his crotch. Well, his left pant leg or whatever.

FLIP FLOPS
8 hours later...

I woke up this morning with this odd sensation that I am in somebody else's bed. I am. I open my eyes and stretched in bed and scratched my nuts. I got off of bed and went to the terrace and a view of Dalian greets me. Nice weather. Still a bit chilly but the weather report says that it was gonna be sunny today so I'm optimistic. I showered and debated if I was gonna wear shorts and flip flops. Dalton and Qiu Min found it funny that I should wear shorts and flip flops. The hell should I know that it was still gonna be cold in Dalian during this time of year. I mean, I live further up north and it was like Miami already. 30 degrees Celsius. The highest temperature in Dalian was 21. I actually did know, but I was stubborn and still took my shorts and flip flops {which I borrowed from my friend Davin}. The two of them told me to wear something warmer, like a jacket and a pair of jeans. I had jeans but I didn't bring my jacket. I decided to wear denims and flipflops and brought my back pack along with Consuelo {my laptop} and my shorts. I told myself “Fuck this, I didn't borrow these flops and brought along me shorts for nothing! I'm gonna be wearing them even if I freeze to death!”

THE HAIR IN OUR SWEET AND SOUR PORK
1 hour later

The three of us are seated in a Chinese restaurant which Dalton and Qiu Min tell me, is a fairly popular restaurant all over China. It even has several branches in Dalian. I think we were the first customers for the day because when we entered they were still cleaning the toilets and some of the staff still had sleep on their faces. We got ourselves a table ordered. We waited for quite a bit. We did small talk that mostly consisted of what was on the docket for the day. Dalton was taking us to this theme park which was OK by me though I would've just preferred to chill on the beach and drink bear and smoke fags and sleep. But Dalton said that it still wasn't good to swim around this time of year, so I relented. So there we were waiting for our brunch that consisted of some nasty looking mutton soup, eggplants, and sweet and sour pork and three bowls of rice. When it came we ate. Then Dalton noticed something. HAIR. I dunno if it's human hair but there's hair, on our sweet and sour pork. He calls the waiter. The waiter denies it was hair. It was prolly some remnant of some chemical reaction between the vinegar and the pork fat and the spices and shit but it wasn't hair. Dalton asked if he could talk to the manager. The waiter said something that I didn't understand, but it was quite clear to me that we weren't gonna be able to talk with the manager. Dalton asked the waiter what they were going to do about it. The waiter said he didn't know. Dalton said “You better do something about it”, in a firm but polite voice. The waiter excused himself. The three of us looked at the hair and then at each other. I placed the haired sweet and sour pork on a tissue put it aside just in case the jury wanted evidence. Since the waiter's would most likely not do anything about it, we concurred that we eat the wretched sweet and sour pork. So we ate. I focused on the pineapples and the bell peppers.

We did get a discount however. Like a dollar fifty. Meh.

THE BEACH. THE OCEAN THEME PARK WITH CLOWNS THAT ROCK AND ROLL, AND WITH A CHICKEN AND A CONDOM FOR MASCOTS
2 hours later

After the sweet and sour pork. I asked Dalton and Qiu Min if I could have an hour at the coffee shop so I could finish up some work. We found a coffee shop with adequately priced coffee and awesome Internet connection. After that we headed up for the Lover's Lane in Dalian which is basically a nicely manicured road on a hill where most newly weds drive their cars for pictures and shit. We were not the only ones walking, there were a good number of tourists and locals trying to enjoy the nice warm weather. We took some pictures along the way. I saw a castle along the way which turned out to be Dalian's Shell Museum. It looked so out of place and it looked like it popped out from a Brother's Grim fairy tale. Then I saw the beach. I asked Dalton and Qiu Min if we could stop by for a while. Dalton said yes, but for a while {he's a take charge kinda guy}. So we did. I finally got to wear me shorts! Booya. The entrance was 2 yuan which was ok. There was quite a crowd there too. I wanted to swim but the water was freeeeeeezing. Three of us did try to soak our feet a coupla times or more but it was freeeeeeezing. Meh. I wish that my city was by the bay. Well, at least I get to wear shorts in Dalian. And flip flops too.

Speaking of flip flops. They're killing me. Davin warned me that they hurt his feet when he wears them. Stupid me didn't listen because I thought they looked so hot in my feet {they do} and decided to borrow them from Davin. My feet look hot but they started complaining after two hours with the motherfuckers. What sucks was that I had to wear them for the whole day since I left my shoes at our hotel room.

3 hours later
The flipflops are still killin my feet. But at least I look hot in them.

We're in the Ocean Theme Park. The tickets were $27 US {which I find too expensive. Meh, I'm Asian so sue me}. It's pretty OK tho. It has shitloads of giant aquariums/aquatic museums, dolphin shows {no Orca's just flippers}, park rides {which you still had to pay for despite of the $27 ticket!}, and other attractions like a bird sanctuary and bungee jumping {which you also had to pay. I wanted to do it but I didn't bring enough money with me... Sucks being poor on holidays! I wonder if there's a Do-It-Yourself Bungee kit?}.

I didn't bother watching the dolphin show because I saw dolphin shows on TV already. So I just wandered around the aquariums while Dalton and Qiu Min and the rest of the park goers were watching flipper do the hula. I just realized that it really feels good to be the only person in an aquatic museum. I feel some sort of connection with the belugas, the sharks, the walruses, the sea turtles, the sea lions and the polar bears who are inside a Plexiglas cage. Or maybe it's just me. I took my time in the aquariums. Then the show finished so I had to meet up with Dalton and Qiu Min.

The theme park has cute staff members tho which is a plus. I just love men that smell of fish. Erm, forget that I said that. I mean it.

DONUTS
4 hours later

The three of us found this place that sell donuts. It turned out to be the same coffee shop chain that I went to this morning. The donuts we're nothing miraculous but they were close to home. I came in my pants eating two caramel glazed donuts. I was in an orgasmic daze while the three of us were walking towards the market where Qiu Min was supposed to buy his starfish {don't ask me why}. They could tell I came in my pants. Donuts.

BULGOGI - GOD'S GIFT TO KOREANS
2 hours later

The three of us met up with Dalton's girlfriend, Scarlet. I gave her the name Scarlet because she wanted an English name and her Chinese name meant “deep red”. She had been using the name “Scarlet” for almost two years but with the wrong spelling thus the wrong pronunciation. SCOWLLEN , which was really kilometers away from Scarlet. But whatever. I'm in China.

Bulgogi. Is. God's. Gift. To. Korean-kind.

And to me.

I love Bulgogi.

Bulgogi rocks.

I had a hard on while eating it.

I'm having a hard on just writing about it.

SEA URCHINS. INSTANT NOODLES, YET AGAIN
12 hours later

I Have consumed my 5^th instant noodle. And I seriously think I should be off of it for a while. I dunno how much MSG my body could handle. Dalton made Qiu Min and I eat sea urchins. Raw. Like a sea urchin cut in the middle with its innards showing and its spikes still movin. Trying to summon my inner macho man {Village People style yo}. I poured vinegar on the sea urchin and scooped up the yellow slimy substance that I was supposed to eat. It wasn't bad. Though I would've liked it cooked. I washed my mouth with instant noodle soup. I can still taste the slime. I think I need to drink mouthwash. Or vodka. I think I'm gonna go vegetarian for a coupla days or so.

TRAINS. MY GAYDAR UPGRADE

5 hours later.

I'm on the train. A sleeper train, thank God. I'm finishing up this blog entry. Qiu Min is sleeping. I'll be arriving in Changchun at 4.30 in the morning. Then I go straight to work.

I just finished texting a friend of mine in Changchun. Turns out that my gaydar is fucked up. I don't know who's gay and who's not not unless they have rainbow flags and an NBC logo on their foreheads. I seriously need an upgrade. Looong Story and I'm waay to knackered to write, meh. That's another blog entry.

farewell, momofuku ando

i write this entry on a sad note...

one of the greatest persons that ever waLked this earth has Left us. it saddens me that another genius has passed away without having the worLd paying him proper respects. i beLieve we shouLd pay momofuku ando with the respect and honor he deserves.

you may not know momofuku ando, but you may know his Legacy for personkind... the instant noodLe. yes, it was momofuku ando who invented one of the greatest yet one of the most underrated food of the 20th century.

one of the finest symboLs of capitaLism {next to mc donaLds}, ando invented the instant noodLe out of the great need to heLp the japanese peopLe of post worLd war 2 japan, who at that time were suffering from food shortages. from his humbLe beginnings, ando's LittLe venture became to be, what is known today, as the nissin food products co., a gigantic company that led to the makings of other simiLar companies that made miLLions and miLLiions of packets of instant noodLes, that fed miLLions of impoverished {and not so impoverished} coLLege students aLL over the worLd... incLuding me.

i have a confession to make. i Love instant noodLes, whatever form, whatever fLavor, whatever brand... they remind me of my sorbetes youth, when everything was just so easy and beautiful and uncompLicated and happy, and yes, instant. i know there's proLLy a thousand reasons to hate the instant noodLe and what it stands for, but as much as i want to, i confess that i cannot. the instant noodLe wiLL aLways be a part of me.

fareweLL, mr. momofuku ando. you may never know how much you have heLped me {and probabLy a thousand other peopLe or maybe even thousands or miLLions} in my coLLege years and during the times when i had nothing Left to eat but a smaLL pack of instant pansit canton because i was as penniLess as a 50 something whore with a bad crack habit... but nevertheLess, i thank you from the bottom of my sorbetes heart. you are one of my heroes. and you wiLL be remembered.

you wiLL be remembered.

the one with jesus christ

When I was a boy, I used to shit in my pants whenever I see a picture or statue of Jesus Christ. I guess you could say I had christophobia.

For those who don't know what christophobia is, it's the fear of anything ...

J E S U S.

Yes people, there is sucha thing like that. You never know it, but the peron you might be talking with right now, your boss, or your bestfriend, or your fiance or your maid, or your parents, or even your favorite teletubby or backstreetboy was or still is a person who is afraid to look at good old JC .

I confess. I was once a christophobic. And man I had it bad. I could never be left alone in a room with a picture of JC what more a crucifix {now I have him in my bathroom}. It just scared the hell outta me. I guess, it's with the look. I mean, have you tried looking at a picture of Jesus lately? If you haven't, then try it. Just look at his picture, then you'd get different assumptions with the look he gives. Like these for example:

Assumption # 1 THE JUDGMENT LOOK aka THE DEATH STARE

Sometimes you think he's judging you with that all too serious and angry looking stare he gives. Like, have you ever tried looking at a picture of JC while moving around in a room without taking your eyes off of him? Try that experiment one time. Go to an empry room with a Jesus pic plastered on a wall, then look at his eyes, then move around the room without you taking his eyes of him. You'll see that he's still staring at you wherever you go. I know, it's freaky. It freaked me out when I was little. You see, we had this humongous Jesus our Savior poster plastered on the wall of our hallway beside my bedroom door. Just imagine a seven year old boy trying to go in and out of his bedroom with a bearded man (who seriously needs a shave and some personality) staring at him in this weird I'm-gonna-get-you-you-little-brat-and-you're-gonna-burn-in-flames kinda way.

Assumption # 2 THE 'I-KNOW-WHAT-YOU-DID-LAST-SUMMER' LOOK

This look is less severe, but it still gives me the creeps. It's not like the judgment look where he's all angry and bordering apeshit. It's like the look you give that kinda says "You've been a bad, bad boy, Omar. Bad boy! Bad and naughty boy!" Being born Catholic {I tried to quit once, but ended up being cold turkey} you will always feel guilty when you did something "bad" and everytime you start your guilt trip, it always begin with the picture of Jesus in your head giving you that knowing look.

Assumption # 3 THE 'HOW-COULD-YOU-DO-THIS-TO-ME?' LOOK

Now this look is a classic. If you really did something bad and yer on a major guilt trip. Never look at JC. Or else you'd be on a guilt cruise!

Assumption # 4 THE 'I'M-THE-KING-OUTTA-MY-WAY' LOOK

Yes, there are images of Jesus that makes him look like a snob. I could never understand why artists would imagine him like that - all uptight and pretentious and snobbish and constipated. Like, "Yeah, I'm the Son of Man. Now could you move outta my way, please!" Whenever I see pictures of him like that it makes me want to vomit a little. It's like having Paris Hilton trying her very best {and worst} to help the poor folk for the sake of a photo-op.

Assumption # 5 THE 'WHAT-DID-I-DO-TO-DESERVE-THIS?' LOOK

It's just too depressing. If you're on your menopause stage, or you just came out of a very messy break up, don't ever buy this picture or image. Better stick with look#3.

The list goes on. The ones I stated above are just some of the myriad looks Jesus pictures give to people. I personally like the BUDDY JESUS.

And what about the friggin crucifixes? Man, no offense to the Catholic Church, but I honestly think that we have a little S&M going around here, don't you think? I mean. Just look, an almost naked guy, nailed and bloodied with that T pose? HELLOOOOO. I dunno about you, but if I were into leather and shit, I'd be having a woodie. And I'm glad I'm not into leather and shit. The thing is it fucken scared the shit outta me. Imagine a 7 year old having to look at this sight from just 3 feet? When I saw a crucifix the first time, I cried for hours. Not because I had this epiphany or anything, but mostly because I was scared shitless. Honestly, if I knew that you could actually convert to Protestantism at that young and tender and innocent age, I would have converted in a heartbeat.

A LITTLE BIT OF HiSTORY LESSON

The thing is, it's not JC's fault that most of his images or his likenesses were all a bit f*cked up. Don't blame JC! Blame them painters and sculptors! Sue the artists that made them. And most of all, sue the ones who commissioned those works! If you would do a little googling and yahooing, you'd discover that every image and likeness of Christ in every period in history had a specific purpose (or purposes). Most of them were used to control and scare people. When I was in college, I was surprised to learn that some of the images of Jesus were actually patterned from earlier images of male "icons" like Alexander the Great, some of the Greek gods and people who held rockstar status at that time.

I mean, it kinda makes sense doncha think? If I would market my religion {oh yeah, they do. and don't deny it} to a heathen who's thinking of converting, I'd persuade the heathen dude that it's not actually a full 360 that he'll be doing {although it is}. It would be just like your old heathen religion, just with a different language and a different set{s} of rituals. Look at our god, he kinda reminds you of Alexander the Great, doesn't it? Or maybe Ganesha? It's like telling a guy that dog meat actually tastes like chicken. *nuff said.

Don't judge me. I'm not a book. - Melanie Marquez {former supermodel and beauty queen}

Don't get me wrong, though. I love Jesus, people. He wouldn't be hanging on my bathroom wall in the first place if I didn't. My relationship with the Son-of-Man is what you would call, personal. VERY PERSONAL. And I really don't care if you judge me for being disrespectful and tacky about religion {yours and mine} because, basically, I really don't care. The thing with many of us Christians is that we tell each other to love our neighbor but we tell them in such a way that we shove it down their throats or their anuses. We are actually no better... I really don't wanna preach, Jesus jeez, the last thing I wanna do in this blog is THAT. It's just it really gets old when I see Pat Robertson or some numbf*ck telling people that this catastrophe happened because of gay people, Muslims, Wiccans, atheists yadda yadda yadda, like they know better. How infuckingsensitive. And they call themselves Christians? Try blaming yourselves for a change.

FYI. Jesus was never a Christian. So wake up and smell the jizz.

Anyways, enuff of my rant.

I love Jesus, period.

Just don't let me go near those really freaky pics of his.

Besides...

For all we know, he might not even be white.

Black, maybe. Or brown.