Fullmetal Retrieval Project

"Google is putting inactive users on notice. The tech giant says it will soon start deleting accounts that have gone two years or longer without a login or other demonstration of engagement. Stored content on Gmail, Workspace, YouTube, and Photos will all be on the chopping block—along with the associated Google accounts themselves—under the new policy, as outlined in a company blog posted Tuesday."

- Back It Up! Google Will Soon Purge Inactive Accounts, Gizmodo

When I had to abandon my old blog in 2009 to put up a new one, I came to a realization that I can never reveal the slice-of-life stories I had written during my time with Phanks. The ex-boyfriend, upon his research and investigation, learned about its existence a few months after our breakup. So I had to shut it down and leave no footprints behind.  

The disengagement was sudden and without notice, even to the community that had been following my journey. I removed the blog as if I were discarding all the dirty laundry, hoping it would never be found. However, I decided to keep a hidden backup in case I wanted to revisit my past. The blog disappeared from cyberspace, but occasionally I would read the entries and amuse myself with how lost but hopeful it seemed when I led a double life.

Eventually, I moved away from Blogger and continued chronicling my life on other platforms, such as Instagram. However, when I heard about Google's collective purging, I felt an urgent need to act. My first instinct was to retrieve the sign-in details for Fullmetal Dreams. Yet, my digital search yielded no results. So, I made the decision to import the contents of my old blog and merge them with Daybreak Embers. By accessing the present blog through my personal email, it would be protected from purging even if I were to stop writing.

For now, my personal journals remain safe.

However, my relief was short-lived when I discovered that not all entries unfolded properly after uploading the master file. It seems that the Blogger code for entries from 2004 to 2005 is incompatible with the current HTML version. Now, I have to manually publish the old entries—one by one—to complete this desperate migration, a total of 465 posts.

"Might as well do some grammar revisions and read the entries as I go over this work," I told myself while copying and pasting entire posts for re-publishing. 

Though it may not have been my original intention, I will get to be reacquainted with my lost and rebellious 24-year-old self once more.

It's nice to see you again, Proximus.   

Some Kind of Life (First Part)

It was a sort of Thanksgiving; an unspoken promise to the Weatherman that once we walk out of the woods together, I will take him to the ridges of Tagaytay and spend a night chasing the clouds. 

And so during my periodic breaks at work last week, I have been checking AirBnB for possible leads. First to be crossed out are the condominium units. While they offer fancy accomodations, the thought of people spending the weekend in droves in Tagaytay would have easily turned me off. 

Next were the cottages and apartments. A few caught my fancy but I was too late to make a move and so my preferred houses were booked first by somebody else. It was only last Friday that I had come to a decision - after realizing that the Weatherman and I have been together for years, living as couples minus the kids; that I wanted this weekend staycation to happen in a place that could exceed our ideal home. And so I looked on and found a room in a house overlooking the fields. Beyond is the Taal Lake with the silhouette of the volcano. 

At first I had my reservations. The place we would rent wasn't just in Tagaytay, it was at the heart of the most exclusive gated club in the city: The Tagaytay Highlands. I had to pay in cash, which I found too steep for my budget. The nightly rent was similar to a three-star hotel, except that you can enjoy some bliss and solitude since the 10 acre guarded community had very few houses and even fewer residents who likely treat their properties like grand vacation houses. 

But what made me decide to book the room was the thought that we have never done this kind of adventure before and in all the days we made pilgrimage to the ridges, never had we set foot in the Highlands. 

We arrived at the meeting place in Crosswinds at past 4 in the afternoon. Showing up way past the agreed time, my first gesture upon meeting the host was to apologize for being late. I couldn't tell that we took our sweet time packing our bags nor we spent some reflection time at the Little Souls Sisters Convent while doing a videocall with my mother, who took her time to pray for everyone she knows. 

The host was kind enough to overlook our disrespect of his time, and instead, quipped at me for not telling that I would be arriving with a male companion. He did merge together the two single beds in our room as I have requested for a comforter to be included. Later, he realized that when I said "partner" during our call, I was referring to a male companion, which he admits he rarely host. After showing us the amenities of our quarters (wifi connection, wall air conditioner, and a water heater whose plug won't fit in the socket), the host turned over the room. It would be the last time we would see him during our stay.

- to be continued - 

It Comes In 3s

I got my results and became part of the Statistics on Thursday.

A first cousin, who I haven't met in ages had coughing bouts and fever spells the same week I did. Her results revealed that she was Covid Positive on Sunday.

Another first cousin, someone I haven't met in a lifetime (lol), thought it was a simple case of allergies. She was sneezing and coughing until they thought of having her saliva-tested last weekend and the result came out - positive. 

That is three in a week. Happened under different and peculiar circumstances, and I had a weird feeling that our misfortunes had something to do with the general cleaning I did in our old house in Santa Mesa.

---

You see, that almost-century ancestral house never runs out of kababalaghan stories. From fair-looking beings greeting you out of nowhere to invisible entities poking you in the middle of the night, you name it and the tenants would likely tell it. When the sibling was still a toddler, she was delirious in one of her fever spells. The tawas session revealed that she was being toyed upon by the duwendes. A half-brother, who once lived in the farthest corner of the house dreamed of seeing shadows watching over him. He was sick of tuberculosis and needed to be isolated. 

He recovered weeks later.

Despite its haunted reputation, everyone believes it's a lucky house. All children (those who enrolled at least) were able to complete their studies and lead better lives despite the odds against them. No one who lives in that house ever got seriously sick (at least that's what the elders and the current tenants say.) So I treat the house with reverence, and in my desire to bring back its better days, I may have inadvertently triggered the elementals who lay undisturbed in its deepest recesses for decades.

Desperate to understand the connection between my transgressions and the peculiar affliction that came down to my family, I was likely granted an audience. In one of my dreams, I was back in the same room I cleaned the week before. There was an assembly of shadows and I was asked to speak and air my side. I said that I thought of cleaning the house and putting lights in my mother's abandoned room to bring it back to its pristine form. In my thoughts, I wanted that place to shine, even host more tenants who might benefit from the house's generosity. I do not recall apologizing, but I knew that I spoke with selfless intent and that I conveyed my desire to become the custodian of the house. The shadows were silent. I do not recall feeling their wrath or anger. Meanwhile, I saw a bunch of children gleefully peeking out from the second floor kitchen's low ceiling. 

Later on, I would learn from the caretaker that these assembly of entities were the same entities the tenants randomly come across when they tread along the unlit corridors. 

---

The next morning, I partially got my sense of taste and smell back.

Move

There was a time when walking from our house in Santa Mesa to my gym in Malate was my warm up, before some heavy and repetitive steel plate lifting tore my muscles apart. And there used to be a time when I could not fathom how some people would refuse to walk for a block or two, and instead preferred to ride a jeep, or cab, or whichever was available. And there used to be a time when people around my age would get exhausted simply by walking around UP Sunken Garden while talking about the mundane stuff, or anything that comes to mind. 

Years after acquiring the Toyota Revo from the Favourite Aunt and completely rejecting all forms of physical activity,  I would finally understand.

There is no doubt that in the past years, I have grown exponentially in body girth and mass. Last time I checked (which was early this year), I was 50 lbs overweight. I am now considered an obese person, whose health precariously hangs in the balance. I would have liked to return to the gym, but like lifelong and nurturing lovers who have parted ways, unexpectedly, the magic isn't there no matter how you try to find it elsewhere.

And the consequences are fast catching up. The heavy and constricting breaths are more apparent now. The sagging layers of skin add more years to my age, and the occassional discomfort in my groin area might be a symptom of a more serious body ailment. However, given this pandemic, a trip to the clinic might not be forthcoming. It is just fortunate that I have turned my back from the vices before they too add to the strain my body is already recieving.

But should I cease posting blog entries, it would likely mean I stopped moving, permanently, or the muses who continue to prop me suddenly walk away, leaving me unable to write a single word that would cascade into a story.

Still, there are attempts to regain some lost ground, like when I bought from Lazada (an online shop) - that was having a sale this month - resistance bands, which I have yet to use, or when I thought of walking from home to Quiapo with a trolley bag in hand to perform my palengke duties. The latter, I was having second thoughts because it has been ages since I walked that far from home and I would be brisk walking under a 9-in-the-morning sun. With Electronic Dance Music ceaselessly pumping uplifting beats directly into my head, I managed to reach my destination with barely a sweat. It was a far cry from my long jog from one end of the Malacanan to the other, but this demonstration would do, should I decide a repeat attempt in the days to come.

Race Against Time (Last Part)

Previously on L'Heure Bleue

IV.

The week after my mother received her last dose of Sinovac, I became a strong advocate of vaccination. I have seen friends suffer from the effects of Covid so I told anyone within earshot to get the vaccine, no matter what the brand is.

Persuading the boyfriend, though, was another story. Being a person with a disability, it was necessary for him to get immunization as soon as possible. Getting the jab isn't the problem as he has always been a man of science, but like everyone, he had second thoughts about getting the China-made ones. He preferred doses with higher efficacy like the one being offered by Moderna or Pfizer. In the end, he decided to wait for the vaccines to be procured by their office. It might be months before it gets shipped, but at least, it was from a more reputable pharmaceutical company.

He also said he had already signed up for it.

But I digress.

V.

Mid-May and the surge of Covid cases at the beginning of summer had somehow ebbed. It gave everyone a sense of relief, while in other countries like India, Covid deaths numbered a thousand every day. Health experts suspect it was a new and more contagious variant. Meanwhile, the vaccine rollout in the metro continued unabated and the Weatherman had, at last, received a schedule. At the same time, a vaccine is being offered by his doctor so for him, it was just a matter of choice.

I would have preferred his doctor's vaccine even if it was less effective. It had mild side effects and the doctor would be the one to administer it. Knowing firsthand that she would just be a call away if problems come up, I think it was a worthwhile tradeoff. I told him to ask the doctor's advice and she shared the same insight. The next day, I drove the partner to the clinic. The inoculation process was fast and true to our expectations, he barely felt the side effects.

It would have been a different story had he taken the Astrazeneca being offered by the local government.

VI

The days in between the Weatherman's first Sinovac dose and the fateful morning, when I showed up at the Moises Salvador Elementary School to inquire about getting a vaccine and going home with my first jab were of little consequence. Life somehow became mundane. We were clandestinely doing road trips again going to the Sierra Madre - seeing breathtaking vistas for the first time, and we were finally meeting friends, even if we had to keep ourselves some distance as told by the doctors. The only other highlight was the boyfriend's siblings getting their jab as walk-in patients. 

On the day I got my immunization, one of the kasambahays got hers and so was the brother-in-law. 

When I completed my Sinovac doses a month later, only one extended family member (an elderly uncle, who would rather believe in hearsay than facts from her doctor sibling) remains defiant of the vaccine. 

This, so far, was our journey and we did race against time to protect those closest to our hearts. The Covid explosion in India and then in Indonesia, where mass graves had to be readied for the huge number of deaths, had finally arrived in the country last August. 

Known as the Delta Variant, it spreads thrice as fast as the original Covid strain from last year. And the vaccines that give us immunity, will eventually lose their efficacy. 

It is just a matter of time.

Credit

Race Against Time (First Part)

I.

When the first batch of Covid-19 vaccines was flown in from Beijing last March, a family member was able to secure a vial and got a jab ahead of everyone else. It was of course, unacceptable, unspeakable even. But knowing how wretched the system was, anyone with military connections can secure a slot. Besides, the vaccines were avoided like flies back then. Hesitancy was so high that even healthcare workers refused to get inoculated by anything coming from China. So the government gave the first batch to anyone willing to be Sinovac's "Guinea Pigs." And there were a lot of them, actually. Born out of desperation, they signed up without even knowing the side effects of the inactivated vaccine.

II.

I was adamant to get the jab. In fact, I was once called out by the woke children on Twitter for saying, "why should I take the vaccine from the same country where this virus came from?" They said it was a racist remark. I retorted, "mama mo racist," just to taunt them back.

But my outlook began to change when I learned that the Favorite Aunt got it. Sinovac was offered to doctors, nurses, and other healthcare workers and she was among the first to sign up for vaccination. The side effects were minimal. "Inantok lang ako," she claimed, and with the second wave last summer leaving us in a weeks-long state of anxiety, I signed up my mother when slots were assigned for the elderly.

III.

A month after a family member received a Sinovac vaccine ahead of everyone, the local government of Manila had announced that it will be inoculating the city's educators. It was Mid-April and the priority will be the elderly. The news broke out on the eve of the mass vaccination event. I immediately called the Favorite Aunt to seek her advice. She was very supportive of my decision to have my mom get the Sinovac vaccine. The next day, I drove her to the Palacio de Manila in Ermita to get her dose and as the needle found its way into her arm, her eyes revealed how terrified she was.

My mother was listed as one of those on the waiting list that morning. It turned out that the teachers belonging to the city's elementary and high school system were the ones scheduled that day, not the educators from the country's state universities in the city. As we were considered walk-ins, we almost went home, resigned to the idea that we would have to postpone and get another schedule. The series of miscommunications made us think that we would have to wait until the afternoon for our turn. With God's grace and my unyielding persistence though, we discovered that the queue had disappeared an hour after we arrived at the site.

She was among the first seniors to receive her first dose.

Inspired by our accomplishment, the Weatherman's dad had his first jab in another city the next day.

- to be continued - 

The Breadlosers

Previously on After Eden: Happiness

Online bank transactions today include postpaid subscription payment to Globe, and a slew of credit cards payments for Mastercards, a JCB and a Visa. The total amount paid was 20K pesos, which is more than half of my take-home income for the month. A few days ago, I paid the entire household's water bill amounting to over a thousand pesos. In a day or two, the Internet and cable bills need to be paid, the house helpers Philhealth membership dues need to be updated, the lady who receives the parking rental fee will be following up for her payment too, and the list goes on. 

Not mentioned in the list of monthly expenditures are the car tune-up cost, the Revo's registration renewal is already long overdue as well, and since the matriarch no longer goes out to do her shopping activities, part of her retirement pay goes to grocery spending. This is separate from the weekly market visits to procure meat, fish, and vegetables. There are 11 mouths to feed three times a day, 7 days a week.

When I started blogging in 2004, I would have never imagined having to carry such responsibilities. Never have I foreseen how our lives would turn out, with my mother relying on me to keep her house running and my sibling, trying to make ends meet while keeping her 4 children's needs attended. It turned out all those woes and lamentations of having to make my 9 thousand pay last a month would pale in comparison, now that the amount of cash that passes through my hands is simply beyond everyone's imagination.

Including mine.

As our cost of living bloats every year, it is simply clear that running our house would mean acquiring more sources of cash. My sister's elder children would turn into teens in a year or two, the younger ones would go to school, and my mother's lifetime savings would finally dry up. And much as I would like to be emancipated from such burden, of having to balance our spending with our means to generate a larger personal income, the likelihood of striking on my own has become a pipe dream that I conjure every time I get fed up with our situation.

"Just hope that you will be earning a six-digit salary by then. Also, try to be extra grateful. Let's state the fact that you're no longer in the red, for now."

At 39, I don't think the previous breadwinners have to make such thoughtful calculations, and with no one to pull us should our backs are pushed against the wall, we are, by all intents and purposes,

Breadlosers.

Those Written After

We knew that as early as 2015, the age of Blogging is coming to an end. Twitter, a microblogging platform where we used to post our random stuff was gaining more appeal. The dearth of readers surrendering their love for long-form reading to instantly gratifying social media browsing hastened the migration of the community to places where they can still connect with their clique, leaving Blogspot like a ghost town, a shadow of its former self.

I have thought long and hard about abandoning this blog. After all, I could still weave words on Instagram which I could then crosspost on Facebook. Twitter, where I am firmly rooted remains my favorite haunt. And life itself needs no journal keeping. The present pass by without much fanfare and my everyday existence is affirmed by the Weatherman.

"So why are you suddenly manifesting during the Blue Hour again, Mugen?"

The answers, escape me, to be honest. Maybe the Blogger app afforded me to think about things and write them with ease? (In fact, I am writing this journal entry while lying on my bed - instead of working) The random checking of my old blogpost, and the need to somehow write a postscript prod me to keep the lights open. Or maybe, I am just a writer through and through, and like the gardening hobby that I kept from elementary, the urge to perform journal keeping resurface from time to time.

I do not know when the next hibernation will take place. But as long as the urge to write remains, stories I left hanging many years ago will be revisited in hopes that they too will be concluded, now that I tend to see the past through rose-tinted glasses.

Still Here

In the age of microblogging - no - spur-of-the-moment thought vomit sustained by social media platforms like Twitter, long-form writing has become obsolete. Ancient even. All evidence points to journal keeping becoming a niche pastime.

But still, this blog exists, and from time to time, a longing of the past and yearning to close old stories with here-and-now revelations let me drift into these forgotten shores. I might be geriatric when it comes to digital technology, but I try to use some current tools, like the Blogger app to find my way back and briefly reclaim this space. 

(It won't be too long before I drift out again)

And if you're wondering how vastly different the past half-decade was in comparison to the present, may this photo, which I conveniently pulled out from my phone's memory serve as a lesson to the great mistake of 2016. Photo aside, we've come a long way from encoding Java instructions so we can put uploaded photos from cloud platforms like Pictogram to Blogger. 

Selfie

Twitter has always been the medium to express ones' strong opinions about subjects that netizens might find inappropriate and sensitive on Facebook, where one's blood and real-life relations connect with one another. A slight to one's beliefs can spill over during family reunions and social gatherings resulting in awkward conversations and untoward snide remarks.

Meanwhile, Twitter affords relative anonymity and most people are identified with ideologies and fandom; if not online personas carefully curated to increase one's clout and make-belief popularity. It has been this way ever since the blogs fell out of fashion, and for the most part, Twitter netizens are united when it comes to calling out the pervading social ills or incompetence on the part of the government.

We only cross those who are perceived as trolls and paid hacks, or public online figures who perversely speak out in defense of the regime or help proliferate fake news.

But in the months past, a trend I once paid little attention to has become a source of dread and disappointment. The behavior I once saw as a mere "tea spilling" among individuals and groups, who might have "regrettable histories" has become an everyday phenomenon, that no longer I found Twitter a safe space to speak out my mind. Sure, the shady and witty banters were a source of entertainment, and it was fun dragging strangers who carelessly parade their privilege, entitlement, and unpopular opinions. However, when this collective online stoning happened to a dear friend, (like what Twitter did to @econcepcion), I realize that it's time to become critical of individuals who spend so much time and energy spewing hate, believing such acts are still within one's right to call out another person.

Take for example how the Netizens reacted when it was James' turn to post what he had in mind.

The tweet, which normal individuals would pay little attention to, triggered some sensibilities that he was called out and was asked to change his tone. A tone policing. They said it was preachy, and that, he should mind his own business, rather than pick on tourists who would spend so much time trying to take a perfect selfie instead of appreciating what's in front of them. Worse, someone had to dig James' Instagram to reveal that he too, had some selfies when he traveled abroad.

Bingo.

The torrent of hate came without warning.

 

Personally, I am no fan of selfies and I measure people's need for self-validation by the number of selfies posted on his or her social media accounts. And like James, I would be totally annoyed to see someone taking a selfie instead of appreciating an exhibit or a vista. But I would keep these thoughts to myself knowing that others' sense of appreciation will not conform with mine. 

James might have his reasons, and like Ethel's (@econception) petty take on her dating standards, the vitriol they received from people who know very little about them and their humanity showed how we have turned Twitter into a cesspool of hate; where people on the same side stab one another for likes, and where sorry individuals flex their gift for insult throwing hoping to shame another. What made things uglier is that it was the Generation Z - the post-millennials  - who had a mouthful to say. There was so much disconnect that one with a sane mind could no longer bear the absurdity of the spectacle.  

No wonder, netizens are beginning to reject the wokeness of Twitter and that, there's a growing call to cancel the platform's pervading call-out culture. I wouldn't be surprised when individuals would turn their accounts private one day and that the once vibrant social media space would become a mere echo chamber for "influencers" who still believe that clout makes them royalties of this virtual anthill.

Sa Muli

That I am writing to myself, and the future, hoping that in the ripeness of time, I will be found.

Trinity
February 25, 2014

If this loss of internet connection resulting in the temporary cessation of work meant having the time to write a blog entry, then so be it. Nothing could be accomplished anyway and this long-delayed submission of essay needs to be done, as I'm no longer certain when I would find the leisure to do some long-form catharsis in the near future.

The silence to the invitation has served its purpose. While I was eager to join the call, I preferred to remain uncommitted. Work demanded much of my time, that even when I drove my mother around the city, it's essential that I bring my laptop with me.

Driving a car, as it turned out, was a deeply mental and spiritual exercise. I think it's the gridlock during the rush hours. (mother dear, prefers going home early in the evening, whether we visit her favorite holy ground in Quezon City, or lately, her old happy haunt at Dapitan Crafts Market) One thing is for sure, I go straight to bed once we arrive home.

Also last week, I have been summoned by fellow truth-seekers in Timog for an evening of protest in defense of Rappler. The online news portal has been under siege by this regime lately. Supporters of the government say the company has violated the constitution, but when you ask exactly what was being violated, nobody gives a clear answer. Maybe because understanding Rappler's corporate arrangement might be too complicated for ordinary folks. Maybe there's so much propaganda being rolled out, that nobody bothers to explain anymore how the Philippine Depositary Receipt (PDR) actually works. But truth be told, I too, find it difficult to understand how that news organization gets its funding from foreign investors. It is just a matter of faith, and reliance to some of the luminaries in the Journalism field that I cast my lot with them, and while the facts Rappler newswomen write may be disputable to some, the Freedom of the Press is being attacked by the state, and so, I lent my presence and stood alongside the Leftists and the Journalists that chilly Friday evening.

Never in my 14 years of blogging have I been so invested in issues affecting the nation than I am today. I have been transformed from just being an anonymous online persona whose search for affirmation and sense of purpose preoccupied much of his everyday life, into something whose presence on social media has attracted a lot of attention from both sides of the political divide. (A senator called me "Gago" last New Year and it was in the news for almost a week.) It's like blogging all over again, except the contents of my digital personhood is being transmitted faster into the world wide web than when I was in this portal. And it sometimes makes me overwhelmed that I want to recall the old days and revisit the journey.

When I was merely a Planetship aimlessly drifting in this gay space.

Still...

Like an old, familiar confidant, I would like to commit to writing what had happened during these years of silence; of how the Encantos went their separate ways after being together for more than half a decade; of how I found acceptance at home, with my mother and my sister; of how I turned my back to clubbing after 10 years of reigning on the dance floor; of how these two years of union with the Weatherman rewarded both of us, not only of love and kinship but growth in our own intertwined lives; and of how this desire to give back and recognize this connection to our Maker drives me to grasp the truth and everything that is just and good. Sure, there were things that I have had to give up. But at a hindsight, it seems, I've simply begun looking outward, now that I no longer feel lost. 

L'Heure Bleue would still be around and I will try to come and visit once in a while. But now that the internet is back, I would have to go back to Desk and later, on Upwork, as this is how I've now learned to live.

The Things I Tweet Not

With over 3,100 followers, including lawmakers, former government officials, and even social progressives who are standing against the excesses of this administration, prudence dictates that I should exercise restraint when posting musings on Twitter. Gone are the days when my tweets were nothing but random (and sometimes sleazy) thoughts that require no contemplation or live journals that I could not publish (for being too trivial to post) when the blogs were still the preferred medium of expression. While posting chronicles of the moment still happen from time to time (to let everyone know that I still have a social life, a me-time, a family, or an identity), by all accounts, my Twitter has been completely politicized. Not to mention, being in a relationship limits your liberty to speak your mind on things that you have yet to disclose to your partner.

Like tales of past relationships.

Given this restricted space for navel gazing, here are the things that I no longer publish on my microblogging service:

1. Half-naked photos that fed my need for validation when I still have the guns to flaunt.

2. Stories of past exploits and the lessons I've learned from them.

3. References to my ex-boyfriends, flings, and strangers-in-between.

4. Unspoken frustrations that come with being in a relationship (which, I tend to leave undisturbed in my subconscious thoughts) 

5. Money and family matters.

These subjects were seldom written in long-form writing as they are irrelevant to my personal narrative. But given the anonymous nature of this blog, I may be able to exercise the freedom to write what I have in mind. Should I be able to sustain my mojo and remain defiant to the temptations of going public in exchange for more readers, you may count on some entries that put into context the stories from my dark ages. 

But first, I will need to write casually, and drop the formality that has become my voice now that I have grown.

It Always Comes Back To Call Us

Against the dying trend of long-form writing, there is a reason we never left.

We have been writing for as long as we remember. From that dream journal we had back in Grade Six, way before we learned how to properly pen in cursive letters, to that last entry we published about the matriarch's major bout of infection last year before her grand birthday party attended by so many family members and friends, we knew we can never stop. One way or the other, we will create a medium or simply resurrect this blog, to paint our thoughts like we used to when blogging was still an artform.

While coming back feels a little premature, (Twitter, with its 140 character limit already suits our needs) the events of the last two years are piling up. We were telling Sloane, a blogger friend, a few days ago that all the milestones we promised to put into this personal journal, in a creatively narrative fashion when Twitter has yet to exist, have already taken place. We still hope to connect them to past entries and write them the way we see fit. But in essence, setting our foot again to publish stories was a way of keeping a promise. A thought, or maybe a gentle nudge, while a love one's life might be in dire straights.

In case you wonder, how is life treating us lately? 

We have never been comfortable with the religious folks (with their self-righteousness and holier than though haughtiness towards non-believers) but we learned, from personal experience, that the Creator grants freebies, when you do deeds out of selfless love; A dictator was given a resting place at the Heroes Cemetery, precipitating unrest among elder street fighters and the millennials; for the first time, the next generation hosted the Noche Buena last Christmas. So begins the passing on of a tradition in the family; A lighting of candles at the start of the year cemented a vow to become a light bringer; finally, a very special person suffered so much from a serious malady. The process of recovery has just started. 

These, among other snippets of life, are what we yearn to publish, and we hope that with divine inspiration, may we never lose our thoughts in the cacophony of noises. This is Mugen, and with his inner voices in one with this undertaking, we have returned to reclaim our space and write our stories.

In Her State of Delirium (Second Part)

"Punasan mo lang ng punasan ang extremeties niya," my sister tells me. "Isama mo ang braso, pati na ang kili-kili." 

"Huwag ka lang mag concentrate sa noo." 

You can sense in her voice the grave concern as she gives the order to me. While she is a pro when it comes to taking care of sick toddlers, being away from home and from our mother who is at the moment burning up with a 40-degree fever makes it difficult for her. My lack of experience nursing people back to health doesn't help, and so is the absence of knowledge as to what my mother's cause of infection is.  

The maid returns with a basin full of cold water. Rinsing off the towel before pressing it against my mother's arm made her whimper. It has been almost an hour after she took a paracetamol and barely her condition improved. With her eyes shut tight, and her lips mumbling incoherent words, I asked the maid to get her blood pressure once again while pressing the emergency number on my mobile to ask our family doctor for the next step. 

"Hindi ba yan Dehydrated?" My Favorite Aunt inquired. The matriarch's blood pressure is below 100.

Her temperature dips slightly to 39.

"Pinainom ko po ulit ng tubig. Uminom naman siya ng kaunti" In truth, I was merely waiting for her to make the decision: to rush my mom to the emergency room so that doctors and nurses can actually attend to her needs. Aside from the reminder to have my mom drink her antibiotics, (which the Favorite Aunt prescribed without identifying the cause of the infection) and constant interrogation about the meds she was taking to keep her blood pressure in check, no decision to call Lifeline Rescue for ambulance transportation came.

In many ways, I was relieved.

I returned to applying cold compresses on my mother's sweltering skin until her sleeveless night dress was soaking from her sweat.

---

Throughout the entire ordeal, the feeling of hopelessness and resignation never really sunk in. I was surrounded by people who hardly rested while the matriarch did her best to recuperate. There was the maid who took her temperature and blood pressure and wrote down the figures on a notebook so we can compare notes. She was also the one who changed my mom's dress, (while I lifted her while she was sleeping) replaced the bag of ice cubes which she puts on her head, watched her during the day while I go to bed, and made sure she ate the food on her plate despite the lack of appetite.

Kuya O did much of the legwork - buying her medicines, bringing the urine sample to a laboratory not far from home, procuring everything that was needed because I could not leave home. Even the Weatherman, who for some reasons decided to stay over that Saturday, lent me the strength to carry on. He prayed over my mom when she was delirious before retreating to my room to resume building his town on Cities Skylines.

I have no complaints.

The Favorite Aunt dropped by every day to make sure she sees her sister. The clarity she provided, the blanket assurance that an emergency trip was not needed, and the mere fact she is there made the difference. We are indeed lucky to have a doctor in the family.  I would not speak of my place in the two sleepless nights she had her bouts of chills, fever, and stomach pain. But suffice to say, it scared me a little when she would tell me at 3 in the morning that she had no memory after the cold spells set in.

---

We still have no idea what caused her infection.

Sunday came and I was prepared for the worst. But instead of the recurring chills, a check of her temperature give away a slight fever. With the heaviness of her tummy eased by a pill, the matriarch slept without any discomfort that night.

The antibiotics might have already taken effect.

-tobecontinued-

In Her State of Delirium (First Part)

It all began with the sudden chills. 

There was no time to call my name, and only the maid, who happened to pass by her room and found her in a fetal position at the edge of the bed offered the much-needed blanket. As a precaution, I phoned the Favorite Aunt to report the developing situation. She is the family doctor. The Favorite Aunt assured me there was little to worry. It was already sundown and geriatrics like my mother experience the chills especially during this time of the year.

And so I thought.

Thirty minutes after the phone call, while I was with the Weatherman looking for a printing shop in Recto, my sister told me that my mother's temperature surged to almost 40. Another SMS message: she purged all she had eaten the entire day. I instructed the sibling to have someone check our matriarch's blood pressure before heading home without saying a word. 

When I got into her room, my mother was delirious.

Unable to speak a complete sentence or even recognize her surroundings, I was ready to dial 911 so I could rush her to the nearest hospital. Her blood pressure did shoot way above the average, but it was not as alarming as the last time it hit 200.  She complained of headaches and would have preferred to be left alone to sleep. But with the favorite aunt grilling me about the medicines she was supposed to take and with me unable to provide a concrete response, the mumbling of my lips hint of ignorance. If not for my sister who told me to calm down, I would have made rushed decisions out of fear and panic.  

Eventually, the fever had dissipated after hours of applying cold compresses to her head.  She was back in shape, without any memory of the events that night. So casual things had become that I even allowed my sister to go with her in-laws. Her family was supposed to spend the weekend in Tagaytay.  The next day, we assumed the worst was over and that the chills and the high fever were caused by indigestion. She was seen eating a cup of Taho before her guts expelled them in one nasty purge. 

It was the evening of the next day when my mother had once again complained of the chills. It was almost 10 pm on a Saturday night, and without my sister to tell me what to do, my mother's fever leap past 40. 

By then, we all knew it was an infection.

-tobecontinued-

Luna Mencias Street, Sunrise

Originally written on Facebook.

And so, I had to whisk away my laptop to the office for the nth time since last month because of my issue-ridden broadband connection kept me from doing work at home. There is a positive spin to this sudden uprooting. Not only do I enjoy high-speed internet, the solitude afforded by being cocooned in a real workplace allows me to get things done before the deadline.  

When my shift was finally over, the sun was already on the horizon. It was a different scene, not like when I had to pack my things and slip away at daybreak. I chose to stay a little late, this time, to catch up with colleagues who have been with the company longer than I can remember. Trivial stories were swapped: people who have been kicked out because of habitual absences, people who have rejoined because of their proven reliability when the situation needs their presence; little stuff that makes our days less ordinary. In that brief space afforded by my stay, one striking streetscape caught my attention - that of the vegetarian restaurant across the building that has been part of my growing-up years as a daytime resident of this neighborhood.

Nostalgia retains snippets of memory. Of taking early lunches - solo and cheery - knowing the calories I'll add will be burned at a nearby gym later that afternoon; morning sprints to the time clock as my tardiness counted against my performance; afternoon sashays - away from the workstation I secretly despise for I have to return the next day and perform productive feats for the company. 

And of the time I dated my mom because she wanted to try vegetarian.

These are random memories drawn from the cache in my head to remind myself that no matter how many projects I will be asked to lead, and how, despite my restive youth, managed to outlast all the people who swear to stay with the company, there will always be a part of me that will look back at this bend and in a reverent whisper, whose voice only the mind could hear, say:

"Change is just a construct. The essence remains the same."

A Matter Of Time

Previously on Same Love

Dread. 

This is what I felt in the wake of my posthaste admission of "swinging both ways" on a local online forum. The short-lived elation was quickly doused by growing fears that an acquaintance or worse - a homophobic college buddy might find a way to connect the dots and trace my identity despite using a pseudonym to announce my belated crossover. I remember the immediate need for subterfuge. For I was a guy who was at long last in a loving relationship with a girl. Though the masquerade had brought me some time (I had already confessed to a gay phone pal a year before that I might actually be open to same-sex attraction), and might have dispelled "rumors" already circulating because of my "gentle" personality, (they often point out my bromances, when such concept has yet to exist)

I always knew that something was odd.

That I always get off when I lock my thoughts with the actor on a straight porn instead of gratifying myself while watching the woman being banged.

The events of 2002 resurface as a reminder of how far I've come, and how the world had changed after the Queer As Folk/Will & Grace revolution happening at the same time. In our day, a gay person is forced to act effeminate. People knew them as comic relief who would wear women's clothes and accessories and not men who happen to super-like other men. Our queer time was spent in the closet and in the chatrooms, where the day to day struggle for acceptance is being shared with the kindred.

I remember meeting strangers from online websites to tell my journey. Nothing more. And in some of those sundry and profound conversations about our lives, never did the idea of same-sex marriage ever crossed our minds.

Even when some European nations began making moves for such unions to be recognized and protected by the state.

The logic then was simple. Why push for something progressive when we can't fully embrace the person we choose to be? How can gay unions even be possible when the public at large thinks people like us are immoral, a source of shame in the family, and a bane to society?

Such were the issues of the day.

Little did we know that the seeds dispersed when GMA TV audaciously produced the TV news program "Out," and the great "Pink Peso" became a buzzword for marketing firms that everything we had worked for will eventually produce results. Here and abroad, the movement liberated thousands of men who were living secret and double lives. Going out and admitting your sexuality to the world suddenly became the trend. With the Western media in the front lines, lending their air time for LBGT causes, universal self-recognition was at hand. You will see gay people today - some of them contemporaries of our time announcing on social media their engagement to their significant other.

While much work needs to be done, including laws that will expand safety nets for men who carry HIV, and the complete eradication of hate crimes and speeches against gay people, I am fairly confident that the generation after us will no longer have to live in denial. That now and forevermore, being gay is not just a phase.

And that gay couples having children of their own is as ordinary as single mothers raising kids.

Time to make history indeed! First married gay couple on a Nickelodeon cartoon!https://t.co/CI5NPmd7JU

— ㅤ (@Ieodavinci) July 16, 2016

An Act of Restoration

For I'm beginning to get tired hiding behind my own shadow.

And I'm getting weary thinking about if I would last a decade with the abuses I'm giving to my deteriorating body.

Lastly, I'm beginning to get tired ogling at some other buff bodies when I can develop my own.

I guess, it's time to claim my own place.

After all, whatever happens, It's my body and my health that mattered.

Act of Liberation, February 13, 2006
Fullmetal Dreams


--

By now, my average weight is pegged at 190 lbs. That is an excess of 35: an equivalent of half the total load that I used to lift for my Benchpresses when I was still in top shape. I would have lamented how the girth of my midsection has expanded, or how I get tired even without lifting an arm if it's not because of my own doing. Since December, I ceased going to Eclipse. My busy schedule won't allow me to travel from my place to the gym in Mabini or Shaw. I tried to compensate by enrolling at a nearby workout place and to be the Weatherman's coach, (he decided to enroll at the gym too to get himself bulkier) but I would usually go and burn the carbs when the significant other decides to join. With an unchecked food intake, an inconsistency of a slob, a metabolic rate that gets slower with age, and a complacency afforded by being domesticated, I have lost the edge. Like blogging, I engage myself in some physical activity from time to time just to remind myself that I am still into body building.

But it isn't working anymore.

I would have let things fall further into the curb and wait for a disaster to claim this corpulent frame. But with more and more of my clothes getting tighter by the week, and with the growing fear of some ancient maladies like diabetes and heart disease finally catching up, I decided to take matters into my own hands by squeezing a fitness activity to restore what was mine just last year.

I am perfectly aware that it will be a long shot, but if my most recent blood pressure check-up were any indication, I think the body has already tossed some beginner's luck for encouragement.

"Just 30 minutes of workout three times a week will do fine." My mother's doctor said. 

I used to spend 2 hours at the gym lifting heavy iron plates.

"Talaga doc?" I was brimming with excitement. There's hope after all.

"Oo naman, no need to punish your body." 

While I have already claimed my place and I am no longer attracted to men with muscular bodies, I think I owe myself a favor by just being healthy. There is no need to post my progress for other's validation.

A mere commitment will do.

With this in mind, I have resolved to put on my tattered running shoes and at least during the downtimes between my two jobs, hit the gym or jog at the Malacanang grounds if I were to preserve myself for at least another decade.

One way or another, I'll make a comeback. I have already lived the lifestyle.

A Love Offering

Previously on: A McDonald's Date

"Tumawag pala si Tita Heart mo noong isang araw." My mother said in passing while me and Kuya O, her trusted assistant were carrying her monoblock armchair down the stairs. 

We were going to the hospital for her checkup.

"Contestant daw sa art contest sa school nila si Vito." Vito is my aunt's grandson. He is the effeminate kid they'd expect to turn into a unicorn when he finally comes of age.

The news was met with the usual shrug. Why should I bother paying attention to their trivial affairs when the brief anecdote leads elsewhere? Not since February this year when I last saw the grandchildren after me and Tita Heart sent them to school. It wasn't a rosy encounter. I recall telling my mom how bratty they were, especially the elder.

"Pabili ng pabili ng kung ano-ano yung panganay eh nasa ospital na nga yung tatay nila." I was fuming when I arrived home.

"Tapos ang ingay pa at ayaw makinig sa lola."

The news of my cousin's bunso joining an art contest is nothing but a subtle attempt to remind my mother of the duties she took upon herself after my dad passed away over a decade ago. Every month, a portion of our earnings go to my aunt's family as my disabled cousin cannot find a job. His preening wife, meanwhile, would rather hang out with friends than do some back-breaking work. I do not know if things have changed after he had a stroke early this year. Last she hinted she'd leave my cousin if things don't get any better. While I was generous with my financial support then, domestic duties at home can no longer afford me to offer cash assistance.

They have to make it on their own.

I don't know if my mother was hinting if I could shoulder a portion of the money she's planning to send to my dad's younger sister. But sensing the apparent message, I flatly rejected her suggestion by saying that I don't work 7 days a week only to part my money with people who refuses to improve their lot.

I don't like leeches.

Besides, I still recall having to pay the courier after Tita Heart cornered me the last time, and asked if I could send my uncle's international driver's license to France. I learned a few weeks later that the document was already expired and I wasted a fortune for an enterprise that I thought would finally lessen our burden.

I was terribly disappointed. She and her husband never told me what happened.

"Noong isang taon ko pa sinasabi na maghanap sila ng pagkakakitaan dahil kaya ko pa silang pondohan." I was terribly annoyed.

"Huwag nila akong asahan ngayon."

My mom could only lament how Tita Heart lost me because of a single mistake. Truth is, the list of errors were adding up. I was already seeing the veneer of deception conveniently wedged into a recycled narrative. We used to be very close - so close that I overlooked the details that would make me question how they run things at home. Besides, the last time we spoke, she tearfully told me that I was the son she never had. I now doubt if everything she said was authentic or merely a lip service so she could win my sympathy. It doesn't matter now. I am numb. Meanwhile, my mom appears to be wallowing in guilt. When asked as to when she can send the grocery bag to Tita Heart, she would only say she'd have to raise some funds first.

"Hindi nun kailangan ang grocery." I shook my head in frustration. Mom tried to explain to me the real situation.

"Pera ang inaasahan noon." 

While we are no longer on speaking terms, I've never really cut my ties with my relatives on my father's side of the family. The matriarch makes it a point to tell me of their never-ending destitution (they seem to lap at their misfortune) given my financial capacity to render aid if the situation demands for it. While the obvious screams right in my face, the feeble attempts to ignore them puts me in the quandary. This isn't how I was raised by my parents. I am pretty sure the Favorite Aunt (who belongs to the mother's side of the family) would show a little more compassion than I ever will if I were to follow my nature.

Hence, in spite of the condescending private comments, and the dismissive attitude whenever Tita Heart suddenly makes her presence felt through once-in-a-month phone calls and SMS messages, I'd still find myself getting a bag of Bear Brand milk powder or cans of sardines whenever my mom would ask me to do the rounds at Puregold. A few days before the start of classes last month, I was at the Merriam-Webster bookstore in Avenida to buy some educational supplies I sent to my niece and nephew. And shortly after telling everyone within earshot (while looking at my father's portrait leaning precariously above the altar) that the only thing that can reverse my refusal to own the responsibility is for my dad to visit me in my sleep, it appears the visit is no longer necessary.

The conscience has already prevailed.

I once vowed to set aside some money for charity should I get retained at the Raketship when talk of lay-off was the order of the day. Keeping my word, I tucked a 500-peso bill inside the "Love Offering" envelope used by my Favorite Aunt when she sends over my uncle's (her brother) monthly stipend. 

It has found a renewed purpose and Tita Heart, after receiving relief, can resume her life living a tragedy she can always end.

Much Diminished

I used to write everyday on these pages.

---

The hanging herb garden outside my window used to be a source of pride and a reason to journey around the metropolis for Basil and Lavender saplings. I would then attempt to grow them despite the rampage of city birds.

---

I used to walk from home to my gym in Mabini, often, at dusk, when the sun was about to set. I used to have a time for contemplation as I gaze into the open sea: The days afforded me a moment to forge those unfulfilled dreams and cast away the regrets accumulated in years.

---

I used to brag to inferior men that I worked out three times a week.

But now, everything seems like a distant memory. Even putting into words the life I choose to lead is a struggle, a pain that keeps catching up whenever I am being reminded of the person I used to be.

Times have changed and in so many ways, so am I.