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. 

looking for Omar…

I think I may have lost myself. It’s been over a year and I, for the most part of my life here in the Coconut Republic,  have been silent.  I haven’t written anything in more than six months.  For whatever reasons, I haven’t written anything in a very long time.  I blame myself.  My only passion and I let it go because I needed a  “career”.   It’s not as if i didn’t try writing.  Honest to God I did many times.  But I couldn’t seem to “force” it.  It’s not as if I ran out of ideas, in fact I had many.  I just couldn’t.  Like a fish out of water, I was out of my element…  I have lost myself.  I guess I’m doomed. 
I feel as if there is a need for me to regain myself.  At least pick up the bits and pieces and try to make myself somewhat of a whole again.  I need to write.  Anything.  Anything worthwhile, stupid or mundane.  Anything.  I don’t have the liberty to choose now.  I must write. 

So I have decided that for the next seven days I will write anything that comes out of my skin, my bowels, my loins, my pores. Anything.  May the cosmos help this sinner.

Technorati Tags: Omar,universe,metaphysics,writing

January 9, 2010 - some thoughts

The POTUS, Edward and Bella

Many people think that Obama is the next best thing ever since sliced bread. Perhaps he is.  I mean, if I get to hear my mother say "African-American" instead of saying negro when pertaining to people of color who happened to have African origins or basically to anybody who had dark skin, then Obama must be the next best thing since sliced bread. This happened when I came back to the Philippines January of last year. I arrived in Manila the day Obama got sworn in as the 44^th POTUS and the first ever person of color to be elected to the highest seat of office in any Western nation. The whole nation was tuned in to their television sets and their radios. I wasn't expecting this kind of reception towards Obama's victory. When I arrived home, my whole family was watching TV. Scratch that, the whole neighborhood was watching TV, switching between two channels to see which one had the better view. This was big, I surmised. It was like another man walked on the surface of the moon or something. Then I realized that this was definitely big when I heard my mother use the word “African-American” in a sentence. When I asked her about the sudden paradigm shift on vocabulary, she said:

"Anak hindi politically correct ang magsabi ng negro patungkol sa mga Amerikanong itim." (Son, it's not PC to say negro when pertaining to African Americans).

I almost keeled over when my mother answered that with a straight face, sash and crown and all. All she needed was to walk on stage and wave to her adoring fans.  You see, Filipinos, like any other race in this world are naturally racist. A sad fact about Filipino society is that we tend to lean more on the fairer and whiter side of the color spectrum.  As much as I hate to admit this, we have a color preference. Put it simply it all boils down to this - If your skin is white, you're beautiful, you're hot.  If your skin is dark, you're not. If you are kayumanggi (the natural color of many Filipinos), then you are common and your skin tone has to at least border on the fairer side.  If you're sorta dark or just dark but used to be white (that's the operative word there) then you have an amazing tan.  Filipinos take skin tone very seriously. So seriously that it has spawned a multi-million dollar enterprise  here in the Philippines that's being pushed aggressively by the cosmetic, pharmaceutical and advertising industries. Turn on the TV and you can't even see a naturally colored Filipino model in most of the ads.  The majority of the actors working in the film industry have fair to white to really really freaky white skin.  TV ads, movies, billboards along major roads, you name it - they are all fair, white or sorta tanned. It's like the Filipino has a big sign on his/her forehead that says, I AM WHITE. Or I need to be white.

It would be really easy to blame all of this to four hundred years of brainwashing from our foreign colonizers. The fucking Western Imperialists.  It may well be true that most of our color insecurities stem from the fact that we were colonized by two Western powers and one Asian power in our history; but it would also be way too easy if we put everything into that categorization. I think it is an important factor but its not the only one.  I don't know all the answers and I don't know all the reasons but what I do know is this - our nation is obsessed with achieving that "perfect, white glow," like that vampire guy Edward Cullen and his chick Bella. Almost everybody wants to be Edward and Bella these days. I'd prefer Jacob but he's way too young and bulky for my taste. The truth is that no matter how many soaps or creams we use, we can never be white. We can never be that vampire guy who doesn't seem to need a shower or that stalker girl perving over that unwashed vampire guy. Yet we still search for that coveted whiteness like an El Dorado.

At the risk of sounding too preachy, I would like to believe that I am writing this piece with an inspired tone of voice. Perhaps there is some sort of force out there that is telling me to be a better man and go help change the fucking world with my words and shit. Perhaps I am just intellectually masturbating. I don't know, but I think I need to write this out.

My Quiapo 

 

Two days ago, I was in Quiapo, Manila for the feast of the Black Nazarene. It was my first time to attend the yearly festivities that gathers a crowd of millions to revere and celebrate a life-sized statue of a dark skinned Jesus Christ, carrying a cross in a semi-kneeling position and clad in crimson robes. It is one of the most celebrated Catholic feasts in Manila and perhaps in the whole Philippines. The story behind the Black Nazarene, its beginnings and the miracles associated with it, is quite mythic. The statue was made by an unknown Mexican artist using a dark brown colored wood and it was brought to Manila in 1606 from Mexico on board a Spanish galleon. The ship caught fire during the voyage, which damaged the image and caused its dark color to turn black. Because of this, the image came to be known as the Black Nazarene. Through the centuries, the image of the Black Jesus Christ of Manila has become embedded in hearts of the Filipino people, perhaps partly due to its color, but moreso on the stories of miracles and of conversions and of lost men and women returning to the Catholic faith.  A little over 400 years old, the Black Nazarene has been an iconic symbol of Quiapo, it's third home. “It was initially enshrined in the first Recollect church in Bagumbayan (now part of Rizal Park). On September 10, 1606, the church was inaugurated and placed under the patronage of St. John the Baptist. In 1608, the Nazarene image was transferred to the second bigger Recollect church of San Nicolas de Tolentino built inside the fortress of Intramuros, the part of old Manila where the Spanish colonizers used to live and govern the whole country. But Fate would have it that the Black Nazarene would be moved to it's third and final home, Quiapo, a district outside Intramuros where most of the non-Spanish – the Indios, the Chinese, the Muslim, gather and exist together in not so perfect but somewhat pristine ecology of race, belief, color, economy, status and condition. If you think about it, not much has changed really. I think in some ways it has something to do with the Quiapo Church (which is less popularly called as the Basilica of St. John the Baptist, it's patron saint). More importantly, it has something to do with the Black Nazarene which has managed to survive countless troublesome times in Quiapo's and the nation's history.

I have to confess that I love Quiapo and it's surrounding districts – Sta. Cruz, Escolta, Chinatown, Divisoria, Avenida and Recto. There is something about the place that has me connected to it. It used to be the Manhattan of Manila, where all the glamorous and the famous gather and congregate. I knew the stories from my mother but I never came to know about Quiapo and her sisters in their glory days. What I know about Quiapo is that it is the working class and the mercantile section of old Manila, where all people gather to trade – legally or otherwise. Quiapo is a jungle and it's a beautiful jungle abundant with its own flora and fauna. She is vibrant with all her colors and sounds. She is magical with all her places of worship, her shamans and fortune tellers. She is a cornucopia of sights, sounds, smells, old buildings and faces. One is mesmerized by Quiapo, by it's uniqueness and by it's rough, rugged and unrefined urban landscape.

I fall in love with Quiapo every time I encounter her in my journeys. I once brought a Serbian friend to buy souvenirs in Quiapo and she fell in love with the place.  She could not compare it with the urban landscape of Makati with her majestic towers and sculpted lawns and carefully planned roads.  I tell her that Makati is another country, another realm of thought and dimension.  Makati is the dream, and Quiapo and is part of the bigger reality that is the Philippines. The Filipino dreams in the Technicolor and the Surround Sound of the sculpted modernity of Makati but wakes up in the Urbania of Quiapo's arms. Love it or hate it, it is what it is and I choose the former. Among many other things, she is about self preservation and survival. To many, Quiapo is known for its prostitutes, beggars, criminals, smugglers, quack doctors and drug dealers. To me, she is poetry. Quiapo alone celebrates the human condition. She is my Urbania, my Quiapo.

Following the Dark Skinned Jesus of Manila

Perhaps its because of these stark realities why the Black Nazarene has ended up choosing Quiapo as his permanent home. Quiapo is one suffering lady as the Black Nazarene is one suffering deity. The men and women of Quiapo, and to an extent, most Filipino Catholics, were able to see themselves in the image of the Black Nazarene. They were able to relate to a Jesus that was non-Caucasian and was working class, not to some white deity that was unfamiliar to their sense of reality and contingency. God may have created humanity in his own image, but the Filipinos have fashioned the Jesus of Quiapo Church in theirs. The Black Nazarene is their very own Son of Man of the working class – the Jesus of Manila. This was my realization as I joined the city's celebration of this Jesus of Manila last January 9 as he was paraded throughout old Manila for 2 million people to see up close.

I was never fond of religious images, especially statues. I was brought up Catholic, but I never liked the idea of kissing statues or touching them or even venerating them. Its not really because of the interpretation of the Bible or anything (I really wouldn't care); its just a personal thing. Perhaps its because of their faces; the look on their faces that exhibit so much angst, pain and suffering. I mean, why would you look at what already is obvious?

Out of curiosity, I decided to join some of my closest friends for the annual procession of the Black Nazarene through out the Quiapo district on January 9. And like with religious images, I was also never fond of joining religious processions. One of my friends has been going to the annual procession for 4 straight years. My nephew, whom I was also meeting that day, has been doing this since he was 9 years old. Compared to them, I was basically a tourist. I told myself that if I was going to be a voyeur about the whole thing, I wanted to have an open mind about it. So I did. There were times when I just took snapshots of people and observing their faces. There were even times when I went along with the flow, going where the procession is going or shouting “Viva!” and singing the first few lines of the Black Nazarene's anthem: “Nuestro Padre de Nazareno...” I even attended mass in Quiapo Church. I probably heard mass four or five times. The last one, we were fortunate enough to be inside Quiapo Church. It was around lunch time, and we were able to find an opening and were able to squeeze ourselves inside the Minor Basilica. I was being a voyeur to the truest sense of the word. I was observing every movement, every song they were singing and every prayer they were chanting. I was trying to capture every face that was within my range of vision. I was even surprised to see that my companions were praying fervently. Looking around, I felt out of place when I realized that I was the only one not praying. Trying not to let it bother me, I listened instead to the bishop's homily. He was talking about the Nazarene, of course, how this Jesus was a suffering king. Indeed he was. Suffering was operative word. Throughout the day, I've seen so many grotesque images of Jesus, crucified, carrying a cross, beaten and the like. You have got to hand it to the Catholic Church for successfully utilizing these images as forms and means of social control. For hundreds of years, Catholics saw and understood these images as a clear message that their God was to be feared because he was an angry and punishing God. And for Filipinos, he wasn't just angry and punishing, he was also foreign – a destroyer of other beliefs and practices. The Black Nazarene is perhaps the only exception as the Filipinos were able to form a special bond with the dark-skinned Jesus.

I saw that bond in Quiapo that Saturday of January 9^th. People, men, women, young and old came to the minor Basilica with the hope of touching his hands or his face or a tassel from his vestments or even the rope that pushes his carriage forward. I keep wondering why would people, as many as 2 million, would eagerly wait for hours and even the whole day even just to get a glimpse of their Nuestro Padre de Nazareno. It was for this reason why I came to Quiapo in the first place. I wanted to know why. The only way I could get an answer to this question was for me to follow the Black Nazarene's procession throughout the forgotten streets of Quiapo, Manila.

So follow I did. I went with my friends and followed that elusive Black Nazarene throughout the Quiapo district of Manila. The 5 kilometer procession from Luneta Park to Quiapo Church would have only taken a couple of hours or even less instead of a whole day if not for the millions that gathered for the festivities. This long, arduous and oftentimes dangerous procession is what makes the January 9 a special day to millions of Manileños and Filipino Catholics who gather in Manila's Quiapo district.

I have to admit that I was excited. It was my first time to participate in such an event. Although popular religiosity (or any forms of religiosity for that matter) had long since stopped having an appeal on me, I was still looking forward to everything that was going to happen. It was probably the tourist in me (I did see a lot of tourists that day). I shouted “Viva! Viva!” when the crowd was shouting “Viva! Viva!”. I walked forward when the crowd walked forward. I allowed my body to let go itself and just go with the flow of the crowd. It was one humongous moshpit. I've never experienced Mardi Gras, and I kept wondering that this what must Mardi Gras feels like – being engulfed by the crowd and getting lost in a sea of faces. It was a natural high, like drug of some sort. I didn't care that I was walking the dirty streets barefooted with a bleeding toe. I didn't give a rat's ass if I was coughing like a dying Bohemian with TB. And I sure didn't give a fuck that I smelled like a rat and needed one serious shower. All I cared about was being there. I was there and I was in some sort of trance. We were all in some sort of trance. It's no wonder why people come here every year – not just to get their prayers and petitions answered but to experience this, this joyful feeling of being gone from the world.

Back in the church I saw their faces – they were all clearly looking for answers. Answers for their prayers, as to why they were suffering and as to why they had to endure their own sufferings. If I had superpowers and I could access every person's mind in that church, I was sure as fuck that I would be hearing the same things. Help me. Save me. Cure me. Take this away from me. Don't take her away from me. Let him live. Let me live. Give me another chance. Help me get this job. Why him and not me? Why me? A part of me has always believed that selfishness is a virtue. We pray to higher power for our selfish reasons – some good, some not so good. I did pray in the church. I prayed for my own selfish reasons. I prayed like any person would pray. I prayed for all the people I loved. I prayed for my non-existent career. I prayed for peace (yes I did). I prayed for AIDS, for cancer, for hunger and death. I prayed because I was selfish. And that humbling act of selfishness through prayer made me feel proud of myself.

I lost my cellphone in the process, and so did one of my companions. Somewhere in the middle of crowd in Plaza Lacson while we were in that trance shouting “Viva! Viva!”, some unsuspecting guy in the crowd in Plaza Lacson needed more money and took our cellphones (inexpensive ones, just barely a hundred dollars' worth). This took me and my friend back to reality. We were no longer shouting “Viva! Viva!”. We were thinking about the names and the number in our cellphones. It was a good thing that I filed most of mine in some file online. In the end, in all my reflection and pseudo-intellectual ramblings, I was still a voyeur, just passing through. Fucking tourist. In a way, I was glad that I was one.

In search of a Jesus Figure 

 

Interpreters in all spectrum of the Judaeo-Christian Tradition, in one way or another speaks of a personal Jesus that lives and breathes and becomes significant in a person's own history once that person accepts Jesus as his/her personal Lord and Savior. Interpretations vary, but the message of having that personal relationship with God is the common underlying thread.

I think this is what drives people to go to Quiapo every Friday and every January 9 to encounter the dark skinned Jesus of Nazarene. The Black Nazarene is personal to many Filipinos. It may be a 400 year old piece of burnt dark wood but it is personally significant to many Filipino Catholics. Aside from the personal prayers of each person (including mine) who came to Quiapo, Filipinos are asking for something else, or rather someone else. I think there hasn't been any demigod figure in my nation's history after 1892; and the people are hungry for some sort of messiah or savior. The Black Nazarene is not an Obama who speaks of an audacious way of hoping for a better future. Nor is he a Gandhi who helped a nation realize that freedom is possible without carrying arms. He symbolizes an idea of suffering, of being contingent and limited through one's personal cross and trying to rise above and celebrate the humanity and irony of these contingencies. The image of the Black Nazarene isn't an image of a Jesus fallen, it is an image of a Jesus with his head up trying to rise with his cross. He still suffers painfully mind you, but he is focused, he is not without hope, he is resilient and strong. In my opinion, this is the something or that someone that Filipinos are looking for – some sort of demigod figure or Jesus figure that doesn't have to be like him, but needs to have the basic qualities of a Jesus figure – he suffers, he saves and he suffers more.

One obvious reason why Filipinos have this fervent devotion to the Black Nazarene is because by far, he is the only one who has been consistent from the very beginning. He suffers like his people suffers. He may be clad in royal crimson robes, but he always carries his cross like his people always carry their sufferings. Unlike the nation's past leaders (no exception), he doesn't change policies out of whim. He's not a landlord. He's poor. He is not comfortable. He doesn't complain. He is, like his people, suffering from a daily basis. Albeit wood, but he is consistent. The Filipino people look for consistency in their leaders – their word becomes their bond and if they break their word, they break the bond that ties them to their people. For non-Filipinos and for many non-Catholics, the Black Nazarene may be just a piece of 400-year old wood, but the 2 million people who went to Quiapo last Saturday, he is much, much more. He is the suffering working class. He is the disenfranchised farmer and worker. He is the single mother. He is the industrious father. He is the OFW. He is the jeepney driver. He is the gay beautician. He is the AIDS patient and the cancer patient. He is the unemployed graduate. He is the cigarette lady across the street. He is the young boy or girl in the streets of Manila who dreams of becoming important one day and changing the world. He is an idea. He is a good idea.

My Jesus of Urbania

It may sound that I do not believe in Jesus Christ. In fact I do. As fucked up as I am, I believe that Jesus moves in my own personal history. Apart from MacGyver, he was my first crush. It's ironic to think that he also used to scare the shit out of me when I was a kid (that's another story). He was my debate partner when I was in college. He was my teacher. He taught me important lessons in life, lessons that I hold dear to this day. He taught me compassion. He taught me love. He taught me hope. He taught me poetry. He taught me about my body. He taught me how my actions ripple in the pond of my own microcosm. He taught me that I was a priest, a prophet and a king. He taught me not to give a fuck to what other people would say. He taught me the benefits of consistency. He taught me that I am his reflection, a flawed reflection not striving for perfection but striving to be better, to rise with my contingencies and celebrate them and perhaps one day share them. And most importantly, he taught me that I alone could save myself and no one else. 

He is my Jesus. And he is real. 

 

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 

On the Internet, Human Rights and Open Source

I just found out today from Wired.com that 30 years ago on this day, a company called CompuServe launched its first online service for consumers.   Some of you young'uns  prolly don't know what CompuServe is.   It's actually the first major commercial online service in the United States. It was the YAHOO & GOOGLE of the 1980s and it was sidelined by information services like AOL (which later absorbed CompuServe's Information Services Division) in the mid-1990's. CompuServe's services was later rebranded by AOL as CompuServe Classic but it finally closed it doors last July 1,2009, marking the end of an Information Technology era.  formation Service, later rebranded as CompuServe Classic, was shut down July 1, 2009. The newer version of the service, CompuServe 2000, continues to operate, and AOL has said that it will continue.



The Internet has come a long way since its inception to society.  For a very young technology, it has become a very important facet in our way of living. Some legislators in the EU are even thinking of making the Internet a basic human right.  I hope this comes into fruition because I believe it is.  People should have equal access to the Internet without any constriction whatsoever.  In a society that has not only become more global but also more connected,  people in the fringes should be able to access even at least the basics of technology.   It is quite sad to think that there are still many people in the world who haven't touched or seen a computer (this is also true in countries where you think this would not be possible).  Governments spend too much on making weapons and asserting their sovereignty and threatening each other's asses with sanctions and more weapons and more bush-the-button bluffs.  Wars do make money that's true, but they leave a lot of unaccounted faces behind.  Wars leave a lot of people dead, hungry, ignorant and full of hate.    If the world would only spend more on education, environment and useful technology that is open for everybody and not a select few, then the our wetdream for world peace is not really that far-fetched.  


There is a popular saying in the Open Source Community that THE FUTURE IS OPEN and I believe it should be. Technology is not only about the advancement of the human endeavour, be it for the sake of technology itself or for economy.  It is about human beings and how we can be human in a society that is at peace, safe and open.





Nuff said.

This has been a long standing tradition of mine ever since I started this blog.  I dedicate this to the boy who smiled at me by the church yard.   It's September and it's raining today.  Where ever you are, I hope you are happy and I hope somebody is smiling with you. 

September Rain Blues

a story of the remnants of my youth

by Rufus Omar Bartleby

August 2006

I woke up with this morning with the smell of rain. I thought it was from my dream but when I looked outside the window I saw it was pouring. September beckons on my doorstep. I sit on my bed and tried to focus on the many images of Buddha hanging on my living room wall. They all look so peaceful, like Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. In two days it’s going to be September. For us Filipinos, September signals the beginning of the “ber” months, the countdown before Christmas and New Years. In happier days of not so long ago, you could hear Christmas carols being played on the month of September in shops and malls as if trying to hypnotize the listeners to buy Christmas gifts as early as possible so they wont have to bother going through all the rush in purchasing a very late Christmas gift. You’d even see the ominous Santa Claus (I don’t know why but he always scares the hell out of me) holding the bell of doom and a whip heralding the coming apocalypse lest the kids do not repent and turn back from their evil ways. But those were the happier days, when people had the luxury to spend their hard earned cash on a September day. Now these lean days of economic and political crises, September for many Filipinos is just, well, September. But for me, it’s something else. September, ever since that day on the church grounds, held a special place, dare I say it, in my heart. It’s been what, 8 years (?) since I last saw his face. But I can still remember how he looked like, how everything took place, or how it shouldn’t have taken place. I could still remember what I was wearing that day. I could still make out his face and that smile. I could still smell the cold September rain.

September 1998

It was a rainy Tuesday September morning. Michael and I just got out of the church after attending the morning mass, exasperated by Father Constancio’s (Consti as Michael and I would like to call him) latest homily. This time it was about astral projection. Michael was also crazy about crystals and new age shit, but to hear that every friggen mass was a wee bit too much even for a Wiccan such as Michael. But we gave up on the priest a long time ago. He was one of them 60’s children, flower power chakra crystal shit, but a late bloomer. Meaning he discovered the wisdom of the 60’s during the late 80’s, when he was already in his mid 50’s. And by God, woe to the man who is a late bloomer, or rather have pity on the dude (I think it’s in the Bible somewhere). God help us all if he starts forgiving our sins with his crystals while scooping out the evil from our chakras. Well, another Tuesday morning unwisely and ridiculously spent. But hey, it was our ritual of sort, what we do, Michael and I. Every Tuesday and Thursday mornings, before we start our day in school, we would attend the morning mass for kicks. We’d look at students reviewing for the exams; lovers trying to kiss and make-up (or break-up) at 7 in the morning; and the recognizable John Doe’s trying to ask God to give them a cosmic sign from heaven which winning number combination would be in the next lotto draw. And yeah, we also come there to nourish our spirits of course. For me, I’d like to observe people. It gives me peace to look at someone and not think about myself and all the shit that I had to deal with for a change.

 

Say that old lady in front who prays earnestly and holds on to every word that comes from the Great Reverend Consti’s mouth, which is mostly pure horse turd. She knows it, but still she nods and smiles whenever the great Reverend Consti would glance on her direction as if they both know that they’re playing the same game of pretend-that-you’re-listening-to-me-and-I’ll-look-in-your-direction-and-you-nod-in-total-agreement-of-any-cow-turd-that-comes-out-of-my-filthy-unbrushed-mouth. I’d count how many times she’d nod and smile. It passes the time.

And then there’s this old man who repairs watches outside the university gate. He never fails to come to the seven o’ clock mass. He’d always be standing at the back, in his Sunday best, which always consisted of this 70 ensemble of corduroys or bell bottoms and always a striped semi fitted shirt that hung comfortably on his torso like the shirt found its home. He wears those shiny shoes that never seem to have touched the earth like it just came out of the factory. And don’t forget the pomade. His hair shines during the ‘Our Father’, and I don’t have one iota of a clue as to why. I like to look at him. Once he caught me staring at him and he smiled. I was so embarrassed. The dude must have thought I was perving over him or something.

I don’t know why we do it, Michael and I. We attend the morning mass and listen to the same bald priest saying the same boring topic of politics, crystals, astral projection and salvation and eternal damnation (in that particular order) over and over again. It’s a vicious cycle really. I guess we were just Catholics, like the rest of the 20 or so people who attend Consti’s morning Eucharist. We sit and complain to God asking Him to make Consti shut up, yet the irony is that we still respond to this bald priest as he stands in front holding the crystal like he’s Lex Luthor when he cues us to stand up, sit down, hold hands or go in peace. And after hearing the Gospel according to Consti, which is about an hour or so (Consti likes overtime), we go to our normal saturated lives in a state of constipated bliss, while the Great Reverend goes out to the back door that leads to the priests’ quarters to catch his late breakfast of cold sunny side ups, Australian bacons, French toast and brewed java. I just hope that God Almighty really has a sense of justice and makes Conti choke on his French toast. Catholicism is such a bad habit I tell you. You can try to quit, but it’ll just leave you cold turkey.

August 2006

So that was my life every Tuesday and Thursday mornings in the university. Nothing much, nothing fancy. Boring as it may seem, I was quite happy. I had a boyfriend at that time. He was a junior majoring in Political Science with minors in Music Appreciation and I was a sophomore in Philosophy with a doctorate in Bullshitting. Michael doesn’t like him though. And so does my other best friend, William. They keep saying he’s like Elmer’s Glue, too possessive and clingy. What can I say; I guess that was young love for me. I kind of like being possessed from time to time. Although he may go a bit overboard sometimes especially when he gets jealous of Michael and William, or if I’m wearing tank tops (they’re too revealing, he says) or if I was 2 minutes late. There were even times that he called me “bakla” and “puta” and I got pissed at the “puta” remark. The former I can deal with. Hey, I was a true to the bone closeted gay guy (at that time, I was still in the closet dusting off the cobwebs and trying to see if my granny’s shoes would fit me… NOT); being called a whore however was another (well… I still had principles at that time… I was young damn it). I’d like to say that we didn’t talk for a week because of the remarks he made. We always kiss and make up after about a day or so, then we’d fucked like rabbits.

I was in love. He was the center of my known universe. He was my being. He knew it. But that didn’t stop him from calling me names when he had tantrums. Like me, he was also Catholic, and a very devout one for that matter. Like me, he was also in the closet but with a slight difference. He was in a safe box and in the closet. But he was the reason for my happiness. I was happy. The tantrums, the taunts, the fights plus lukewarm sex we shared from time to time kept us occupied. He loved me. And I loved him, in my own catholic schoolboy kind of way, I did. That was my life back in college - a routine of celebrating the Holy Eucharist with a demented priest, a boyfriend, my two best friends and philosophy. I was happy.

I thought I was, until I saw him.

September 1998

There was a slight drizzle when we went outside the church. It started raining during Consti’s homily but it stopped afterwards. I guess it’s God’s way of letting us know that he does know our plight when we listen to Consti’s dementia in full action. I could still smell the scent of the after shower. I love the rain more than I love anything. I believe that the rain was God’s miracle consummated. For me it was a sign from heaven. I have this theory about the rain. I think you can actually know what God is feeling after a downpour. I play this game after every rainfall. After every downpour, I’d go outside and try to smell the rainwater, and I try to ‘taste’ it in my thoughts. If the smell and the ‘taste’ was too salty then God was pissing down on us because He’s royally pissed. But if its kind of acidic then God is shedding unshed tears for the outcasts of this world, like them fags, dykes, trannies, Goths, geeks or the athletically challenged (you get the picture).

So I took in the humid air and tried to taste the smell of the rain in my thoughts. God was definitely pissing on us today, I thought to myself. Then a weird thing happened. It stopped drizzling. The sun shone so bright like nothing happened. Just that. It was like it never rained at all. God must have a urinary tract infection, I thought.

Then he passed by.

August 2006

The way he looked that day was embedded in my consciousness forever. And like anything that is embedded in your psyche, the thing that has been embedded can never be removed even if someone wishes to remove it. Back in my elementary days they taught us the number pi (π) in math class. Truth be told, I loathed math or anything that involved adding, subtracting, dividing and multiplying. One time, the school decided that I should join a regional math quiz bee without prior consent. I had a real bad case of diarrhea that day. I realized that I hated math because I hated solving equations or rather trying to solve problems that required exact answers. For me that was absurd. At that young age I was already aware that I was never gonna be a CPA or some math whiz with a good paying job. However, there was only one thing that I liked about math - it was the number π. 
 

π = 3.141592654……………………………… 
 

They told us that pi was this number that expressed the ratio of the circumference to the diameter of a circle and appears as a constant in many mathematical expressions. I didn’t get any of the shit of what the teacher told us but one thing stuck in my head – that pi continued on to infinity. It didn’t have an end, an exact number to put a stop to it. It was uncertain. That was the only thing certain about pi, that it was never certain. I never forgot about the pi lesson. And I’m sure all of us who listened to our math teachers never forgot about it either. I mean, look, if you do not know about pi, it’s either you didn’t go to school or you’re probably some retard who miraculously passed high school and got teleported to law school or business school or what shit have you right now. The point was, I didn’t forget about pi. At that very young age, it stuck itself to me like glue. Later on in life when I was in my freshman year I learned a word that I could associate with my favorite number – transcendent. I love saying that word. Transcendent. I realized that pi became transcendent to me. And like π, he became transcendent to me. A constant – something that can never be removed even if I wished to.

September 1998

His silver blue umbrella was still open and he was trying to close it. His faded blue jeans clung to his waist and to his lower extremities like there was no tomorrow. His shirt was inexplicably dry even after that glorious downpour. He was two or three inches taller than me. Probably five foot nine or ten. He had this Tommy Page haircut, which was so cool those days, and it suited him very well. And his face…

August 2006

Even after 8 years I still couldn’t forget his face. Sometimes I would forget what he’d look like and his face would be like a vague memory, like he was just some figment of my imagination. A phantasm. Then in my waking moments he would slowly reveal himself to me, and I would remember him again in such clarity. Sometimes his face would look different than before, more refined, and more beautiful. I would forget him for a moment, then he will come back again. He’s always there, inside my head, constantly swimming in my thoughts.

September 1998

He looked like Jay Manalo especially with his lips, but more pleasant (not that Jay Manalo was unpleasant to look at) and gentler. His eyebrows, come to think of it, reminded me of some Japanese actor I saw in some movie in some art house cinema. Takeshi Kaneshiro, yes, his eyebrows was almost an exact copy of the cop who kept eating expired pineapple chunks in Wong Kar Wai’s Chunking Express. His eyes were different though… incomparable to any movie star that I’ve seen in the movies. He looked at me with those eyes. They looked like raindrops. For about five seconds while he was passing by, he looked at me. Five seconds. I forgot about the Rizal exam that I was supposed to review that day. He was going inside the parish grounds. Where was he going? He wasn’t a student, but he was carrying a backpack on his left shoulder. He wasn’t an altar boy either. Having heard the mass every Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would’ve become familiar with his face already if he was. And he certainly wasn’t part of school security either. Why was he going inside the parish grounds… and inside the parish comfort room?(!) Then I had this sudden urge to take a leak.
  
Looking back, I realized that it was so low, I know. But hey, he was after all, my pi. 
 

He was already inside the parish comfort room and I was about to follow when Michael woke me up from my trance,

“Where are you going? Have you been listening to ANY word that I just said!?” said Michael who was obviously annoyed at the fact that I wasn’t really listening to his rant about Consti’s latest homily. Then he added,

“Is Ricky giving you a hard time again?”, he asked the last question placing emphasis on the ‘hard’ part with a wicked shit eating grin on his face. I swear, Michael could really be a witch sometimes. I dismissed is smart assed comment and I told him that I had to pee.

“Okay, fine. Be that way. Don’t take long because you still have to tell me the pages to review in our Rizal exam.”

And as fast as my feet would carry me, I went into the proverbial comfort room to catch a glimpse of my mystery guy with the Tommy Page haircut, Jay Manalo lips, Takeshi Kaneshiro eyebrows and raindrop eyes.

I would be a hypocrite if I did not admit that there was nothing sexual about my actions. But I was more interested in seeing his lips, his face, his eyebrows and those raindrop eyes. I just felt this urgency to be close to him. Sexual or non-sexual, I just felt that I needed to be close to him.

I went inside. Nobody else was there except me, and him without a shirt and he was already in the process of pulling down his pants. He was changing! I tried to be casual (in a friggen comfort room!!!!). I tried to focus on pulling down my zipper to pee. I looked at him for a few seconds. All it took me was a few seconds to register everything about his body. He was slim, but not skinny. His skin reminded me of a cup of Nescafe coffee mixed with six tablespoons of Bear Brand Milk Powder. His back was smooth and was so inviting to touch. When he tried to bend over to slowly pull down his tight pants, his spine and his white Hanford clad buttocks were proudly protruding towards me as if he was trying to do it on purpose. I was thinking that if Boticelli and da Vinci and Michelangelo and all them great DEAD artisans could see me right now, they’d probably have a post humus ejaculation. Yes, he was marvelous. Perfect. Like a transcendental number trying to express itself to the depths of infinity. I wanted to look up to the heavens and tell all them dead artists watching us that I declared SHOTGUN first. 
 

I was still ogling over him and I could just imagine my psychic self wearing this shit eating psychic grin. I was declaring SHOTGUN to the whole cosmology of the men’s room and that he was mine and mine alone. And then I had this feeling. This fear and trembling kind of feeling that he knew that I was watching him with all the peripheral vision I could muster.

Silence. 
 

Small beads of perspiration rally on my forehead. 

My metaphysics professor, a 40-ish man who speaks 10 languages and has a voice like Barry White, used to say that if there was sudden silence in a room it meant that an angel (a seraphim) was passing by to take pictures. 
 

It was indeed a Kodak moment. With him already partially clothed, and me trying my very best to urinate. The whole time I was there I hadn’t even let out a single ounce of urine. I was so embarrassed, to say the least. He must think I’m some kind of perverted Catholic college kid who still confesses to some demented priest every single masturbatory practice he does in his bed. I had to focus. And with all my faculties, I willed myself to pee. I tried to do a little exercise:

Pee…

Pee…

The Peelippines vs. Benigno Aquino, Jr.

Nanny mc Pee…

Pee…

SnooPee and the Peenuts …

Peeace on earth and goodwill to fucking mankind and to the flora and fauna of the universe…

Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…

Pleeeeeeease peeeeeeee.

PEE MOTHERFUCKER PEEE@!!!!!!!!!!!!!

God in heaven please let me fucking pee…

(Of course I was Ally Mc Bealing the whole time!)

And I let out a few drops. I quickly zipped up and scurried myself out of the comfort room without ever looking back. I left him in the comfort room. 

Yet he remained in my head.

I was out already when I saw Michael under the tree waiting for me with a more vicious shit-eating grin on his face. Oh my God! He fucking knew! For a split second, I felt that I was really Ricky’s proverbial “puta”, the whore of Babylon, Mr. President’s fluffer, the bitch of Nardong Tarugo in Cell Block B. But I cast them all aside trying to say to myself, “I didn’t do anything wrong! Everybody looks, so why can’t I? Can’t I have my fucking moment?” But who was I kidding? I didn’t just ‘look’, I studied and analyzed him like the way I study my philosophy books – with ardor and fervor. I was about to defend myself to Michael when he said,

“I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself since we are going to be 5 minutes late for English Lit.”

I told him to lighten up since Boobs Mc Phee, as I like to call my English Lit lecturer was probably going to be late anyway for class since she takes her sweet time in brushing up and trying to look sophisticated and booby, in matte and all.

She was beautiful in fact, my English Lit Lecturer. And she did indeed have big boobs, which my best friend William keeps staring at during class. Come to think of it, all the guys, except for Michael and me, kept on staring at her boobs like it was some lab experiment gone mad. But hey, I wasn’t a breeder. I’m friggen bent. It’s like I can will myself to like her breasts and then get an erection, you know. Peeing is one thing, but women and breasts, they’re another are another.

Michael was in his element today (must be the effect of Consti’s crystals) when he said,

“Since we are going to be absolutely late, I think I will brush up and go to the comfort room.”

The bitch!

Without thinking I told him that he couldn’t go there because ‘he’ was changing.

“Oh, so we are using personal pronouns now? When did this happen? I didn’t get the memo.” Michael quipped and then added, “And what’s with the face?!”, he said in mock disgust, “Why in the world are you affected? Forget it, I need to go to the bathroom and you can’t stop me!”

I could not hold Michael with my powers. He was a witch after all, his clan tracing its roots in the mountains of Aklan, and quite a powerful one. And I couldn’t go with him. It’ll be too obvious. What will ‘he’ think of me? All I could do was wait and pray to the God that I have been devoutly praying for every Tuesdays and Thursdays for the past two years that His divine providence would somehow play on my favor. Was I being selfish? I mentally asked myself. I shook the thought away when I saw Michael enter the comfort room. And after four seconds he went out. Jesus! He could be so blunt sometimes! He did not even pretend to urinate! I was about to admonish Michael about his behavior when he said with a look of a disappointment on his face,

“He was already fully dressed in school uniform.”

A surge of relief rushed through my veins, then the last two words of what Michael had just said registered themselves into my central nervous system. School uniform? He was a student!? But why was he changing in the parish comfort room? Where does he live? What’s his major? Why was he changing in the parish comfort room? Which building does he go to on Tuesdays and Thursdays? Why was he changing in the parish comfort room? At seven thirty in the morning?!?! As if reading my thoughts, Michael said,

“He’s a callboy Phil.” 

Insight

August 2006

Looking back now, he was too good, too attractive, and too sleek with his movements when he passed by me after the mass. And that look in his eyes. They were beautiful, but it registered something different. They were tired, his eyes. They were kind of sad. 
 

September 1998

I suddenly felt bad all over. I wanted to throw up. Not because he was a rent boy but because of something else which I couldn’t pinpoint. Come to think of it, I never did get an erection while I was looking over him. I realized that it was not sexual, the incident at the comfort room. It was more of admiration, of praise to a perfect being that was slowly unfolding itself in front of me. I felt like some kid trying to catch the end of the pi number even knowing all along that it was infinite.

I felt bad. I felt bad for him because if what Michael said were true… well, what if it was true? Why was I feeling this way? Why was I feeling at all? 
 

I pretended to dismiss what he said and told Michael that we were late for English Lit already. We passed by the church gate until Michael told me he forgot something at the front desk of the parish office. I told Michael that I’d wait for him in front of the church. 
 

Thoughts of ‘him’ came back, like water from a spring trying to make new rivers and streams by carving itself to unknown territories. This in fact, was unknown territory for me. A terra incognita as one of my philosophy professors try to call it. Ricky was never a terra incognita to me. I knew him well. I knew his quirks and his tantrums well, his sensibilities on conservative fashion and classical music and on Mary, Jesus and the Catholic Church. My friends, like Ricky, were certain to me. I know them like I know my own shadow. My life before ‘him’ was quite predictable. But with ‘him’ it was totally different. He was totally unknown to me. Which made me even more uneasy. Not afraid, but uneasy. Like there was no certainty. 
 

I was lost, still drowning in my thoughts when a girl form my Rizal Class passed by me and greeted me with a smile. And on the same direction, ‘he’ passed by just behind my girl classmate, quietly gazing at me where my girl classmate was walking. Not knowing what to do, I smiled at my girl classmate. And he SMILED BACK. He thought I was smiling at him! His teeth were so baby powder white that it again accentuated his eyes, which again reminded me of raindrops. His face, was how could I describe it… transfigured would be the closest word to describe his face at that time when he thought I was smiling at him.

Then out of nowhere, I heard a song playing in my head. The voice, all too familiar, was Aretha’s:

“The first time………… ever I saw your face………

I thought the sun ……… rose from your………………………………………”

Aretha never got to finish her song number because my moment OUR moment was trashed by the girl, who greeted me with,

“Hi Phil!!!!! Hope you’re ready for our Rizal exam today!”

I wanted to rush to the hardware store (if there was any open at that time) and buy a friggen sledgehammer, to thank her for ruining my OUR moment.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw his smile fade. Then his eyes became tired again, perhaps even more tired than before. I couldn’t see his raindrop eyes no longer because he quickly shifted his gaze to the damp ground. He passed by me, casting those raindrop eyes into empty space leaving me sadder than I was a while ago. I wanted to call him, but I didn’t know his name (at least he knew mine now). And even if I called him, what would I say? That the smile was actually meant for him? How more lame a reason could it be?

He was already crossing the street, with the back of his white polo uniform and light gray slacks bidding me farewell. I have never felt guilty in my entire life, until now. I wanted to cry. Not really wail-cry, you know. I was far too butch for that. But I wanted to shed tears, even a single one. I wanted to. But somehow, at that moment, I couldn’t. It seemed like hours, what transpired between us (and that girl) and I was still dazed until Michael came up to me and said,

“Phil, you lucky fag, he smiled at you! And don’t deny it, I saw everything! What the hell did you do? You gotta teach me that technique sometime…” he said excitedly. 
 

Then I told him about the incident between me, him and the girl from Rizal class. I could see the concern in Michael’s face as I told him the story. He knew. Michael always knew. He is after all, my best friend.

“Don’t worry, I saw his uniform. He’s engineering and some of our college algebra subjects would probably be in his building. We could stalk him! It’ll be fun you’ll see,” he said trying to cheer me up. 
 

I tried to smile at his lighthearted comment. Then I finally told him that we were royally late for English Lit and Boobs Mc Phee was probably royally pissed by now. I instantly went back to my known universe, to my certainties, to my life, as I knew it before ‘him’. I was once again, this Catholic college kid who studies philosophy and goes to hear Mass every Tuesdays and Thursdays with his gay best friend for kicks. I was once again this college kid who has a straight best friend who likes to look at their English Lit lecturer’s breasts. I was once again this college kid who dates a conservative Republican boyfriend. I was once again this college kid who loves the rain more than anything else. Life was again certain for me. But who was I fooling? He was already there in my head. Like that number that I learned way back when I was in grade school. He became that number. And like a kid mystified, I was chasing the number just to see if it ever has an end.

It never happened I keep on telling myself. But he was the lone constant in all variables in my head.

Michael and I walked towards the north campus gate. Michael was talking about something, but I could not hear him. Al I could hear was Aretha Franklin singing in my head. 
 

I wanted to cry. I wanted to shed at least a single tear for ‘him’. But it was not my element, crying genuine tears. I can ‘fake’ crying but I can never shed genuine tears. I learned at an early age that I was not one to shed tears outside. I cry within. I wanted to will it but I couldn’t. Peeing was one thing. But shedding tears was another. But as we were walking toward the north campus, something happened. It started to drizzle again, yet the sun was still shining. I inhaled the scent of the light rain and I noticed that something was different. It was odd, the rain. It wasn’t salty or acidic. The rain that I smelled and tasted in my thoughts just now tasted bittersweet. Bittersweet. At that moment as we were crossing the street, I was feeling exactly the same way. 
 

August 2006

Eight years. Looking back at everything, how it happened, and how it didn’t happen, I realized that I was far too young to understand the whole scheme of things. Well, I guess I still haven’t understood most of it. My youth, as I would like to believe it, was my seedbed. I’d like to think that I grew up a little that Tuesday September morning. I’d like to think the ending turned out different. I remember playing all the possible endings in my head. I did for months. Then I got tired and went on living my life in concrete sureness that I was living it the way that I should. But life is not all about certainties, I learned. It’s also about the opposite of anything that is sure and concrete. Like those mornings when I wake up from a dream and then I have this vague memory of his face smiling at me. This phantasm. This dream. 
 

In the dream, I smiled to him, and said the word that I was never able to say eight years ago:

“Hello.”

He’d then tell me his name and his major. We’d have coffee or lunch at the cafeteria. We’d smoke the same brand of cigarettes. We’d meet in the hallways both of us itching to tell our latest rant on life, politics and the boring professor. Then he’d smile and I’d smile back. Then when I am about to say his name…

I wake up from the dream with the song still lingering in my head.

And I could still taste the smell of the bittersweet rain.

I always look back on that Tuesday September morning eight years ago, especially when it is raining. And most especially when it’s raining on a September day. I have become less innocent of the world and more of a romantic cynic (if there is such). I would wear a face that says “who gives a fuck” but my psychic self will always smile at the rain. Sometimes I’d even play my game just for kicks. I’d smell the rain and taste it in my thoughts, hoping that the taste would be the same taste of rain eight years ago and then… well, it never tasted that way again. So I will never know. (One thing I do know is that God is definitely royally pissed at humanity for the past couple of years or so. Well good luck to mankind)

That Tuesday September morning, God wasn’t pissed at humanity…nor was he crying for fags, dykes, trannies and the outcasts of the world. That day was meant for two people, and two people alone. He was crying for these two people, for he knew that neither could cry to himself nor to each other.