The Year Was 2011 (A Love Letter To The Future)

 

Previously

Credit

I hope, the next time I will write this way, Jay, you will find yourself on top of a scenic vista overlooking a breathtaking landscape. Better if you remain alone, as long as you're well-accomplished in ways you have dreamed of.

I hope you will get to finish your master's degree and stay fit. May you never give up the Olympic Bars and Steel plates all because you thought, you had enough of weightlifting.

And I sincerely wish that even though you never get to see your teenage dreams fulfilled, may your sublime aspirations of becoming a teacher, a crusader of the planet, a devoted and supportive partner be realized.

May you succeed in putting your house in order.

Because despite failing miserably in laying down and showing off your earthly feats, I can tell deep down that you have served your Creator well.

Monologues On A Rainy Saturday Afternoon

 Previously: Soundtripping On A Sunny Saturday Morning

Working on a beautiful Saturday morning is really bullshit. But since I have adapted already to this working lifestyle, I might as well enjoy it. Tutal, a Saturday work means extra income. Ok na rin to kahit paano.

Working on a Saturday is no biggie at all. You've been used to the hustle - for more than half a decade now. In fact, you even work on weekends. Sometime around your thirties, you realized that your salary will not be able to support your lifestyle - especially now - that you have 4 credit cards to pay, an 18-year old Toyota Revo that demands constant car maintenance, and a house that relies on your constant financial support to keep everyone's needs fulfilled.

One thing I like in the morning shift is that the bosses aren't here... well except for my ever-concerned supervisor who was hired two weeks after we started working on the floor. Having her as our supervisor means that she's more lenient and comfortable to work with compared to my other bosses and besides we share the same wavelength since we came from the same educational environment before we arrived here.

One thing that has changed is you no longer have to follow a fixed schedule. You go online and work as you please. In theory, you are the operations head: A lenient manager who leaves the day-to-day affairs of your colleagues to resolve among themselves. The owner of the company doesn't even check on you anymore. Either he is busy with his business affairs, or he has learned to trust that you won't fuck up on the job. And it doesn't mean that you leave things unattended. Technology has advanced tenfold that you can now observe, check on your colleagues' work, and be in constant communication with them with your smartphone. 

Anyway, as the music from the radio blared again, I've realized that they were still tuned in to Love Radio. My God, I was working straight for 12 hours yesterday and the whole time, it was tuned in to that friggin station. But of course, there's nothing wrong with Love Radio. In fact, it's kinda amusing to listen to novelty songs once in a while... but to listen the whole day, dude, I'm not committing suicide here... hellur!!!

Credits

Take for example yesterday, the Song to Memorize this week was a new song by Regine. Ampota, I heard it yesterday morning, then it was played again at around brunch time, then it was played again at around 2 pm, then again at 5 pm which matching sabay kanta from my colleagues here at work. It was the same with other songs. Anubayun, nauubusan ba sila ng patutugtugin?

Lucky for me, since I am in-jigs with my morning shift supervisor, I can ask her if I could change the station on our radio.

Anyway, since you have been working at home for almost a lifetime now, there is no need to accommodate colleagues who prefer a radio station different from yours. In fact, had you been working in the office, you can simply tell them to use an earphone so as not to disturb your inner peace. Would you believe that Love Radio is still around? They have been on the airwaves long enough that some kids won't even know what "Novelty" songs are. Regine Velasquez is still an icon but she is with the Kapamilya Network now. After building a career with GMA-7, she would sign up with the largest broadcasting network in the country (that is, before the President's lawmakers refused to grant them a franchise last year.)

If I have a choice, I'd switch it to NU-107, but since our happy radio only tunes in to three stations, I have no choice but to choose the two alternatives. I was lucky to find some super-conyo station today. I tuned it to Jam 88.3 and my morning and suddenly, my morning became inspiring.

Sadly, NU-107 is now a legend. Their station had an upsetting reformat a decade ago.

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What I prefer about my music is that it should be alternative/indie - meaning, only a few people know my music and fewer would appreciate it. I prefer light alternative over metal or some other genre that involves shouting and cursing. I like my songs to be melancholic, if not relaxing. I would really love to travel listening to songs that could make me contemplate things.

Years down the road and your genre has never changed. You still switch to Alternative Rock and Indie music because they take you to another place and another time, where you see everything through rose-tinted glasses and relive moments that your heart still remembers. 

Often, I download the songs I liked on KAzAA. That way, I could include it in my collection of MP3s (which I think could already be considered as one of the most diverse among the OUTSIDERs.) In fact, I think the only one who rivals my MP3 collection is James.

If only I could have access to more indie-light alternative music like today, then I'd spend most of my evening downloading songs as I compose an entry in my blog.

And no longer do you settle for bootleg copies. Gone are the music players and MP3s are so 2010. Kazaa is history and while you have remained an avid music playlist curator, your songs these days come from streaming and you listen on platforms like Spotify. You have your handy smartphone to download the app.

  

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Before, when I was often in the party crowd, I'd choose House Music over Hip Hop. Nun nga, I was engrossing myself with Diva House when my gangsta cousin from the US, influenced me to make space for Hip Hop in my genre. After our unforgettable party at Temple, where a nice lady made passes on me, I started adopting that genre - buying pirated Hip Hop CDs at University Mall if time allowed.

And house music? Well, ever since I dropped out of Malate, I've realized that its time has already ended. We would wait perhaps another year, before another mutation of club sounds appears on our disco bars.

Sad for toinks and arrjae eh? ganun talaga eh.

A lot of things have changed since you published this blog. You have never really found Hiphop and Rap music to your liking, Diva House lost its appeal sometime in 2010, the University Mall has likely become a derelict building after face-to-face classes were prohibited last year when the pandemic began. The Malate generation has likely outgrown their taste for clubbing and electronic dance music, and Arrjae, your dear friend has passed away a few months ago. 

Someday, we hope to tell his story one last time.

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For as long as I could remember, music has always been one of my best way of relaxation/find relaxation - From the enchanting voice of Enya and happy-go-lucky songs of Eraserheads during 2nd-year highschool; to the angsty, jaded songs of Green Day, Paula Cole and Alanis Morissette during 4th-year h.s.;

From Smashing Pumpkins, Cranberries, and a dozen of alternative bands during College and Trance, house, chill out when I started partying after graduation -

I think I've always been a sound tripper.

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But some things will always stay, and likely you will carry on until the end of your days. Music for relaxation is no longer about sound tripping to fall asleep or do repetitive tasks at work (you would likely find yourself updating your Spotify playlists instead). It is more about turning your car's stereo on full volume to relax your mind as you cruise along the Skyway. Green Day, Eraserheads, Paula Cole, and Alanis Morissette would likely leave you nostalgic these days instead of actually singing along the most gut-wrenching lines of your favorite songs. For what it's worth, we look back on a rainy Saturday afternoon just to amuse ourselves at how surreal life has changed. Because should you be blessed enough to have enough breaths for another 17 years, maybe, we would find the time to write back and tell us what your life has become.

Daybreaker (Rinavia Remix)

Previously on Daybreaker

"Indigo sky. Lovely. This is the reason I love daybreaks." I posted on Twitter. I've always been a sunset person. The one you'd see staring blankly into space as the sun disappears on the horizon. But there are times I turn my back and crane my neck to the east. It's difficult for a nocturnal person to chase the sunrise, but seeing the world in slumber, about to open its eyes to a new day is a sight worth waiting.

There is nothing amusing to fall asleep at past noon, only to wake up when evening falls. Joyless it is to regain awareness (after sliding from one forgettable dream to another) only to sink into the realms of confusion as the absence of sunlight robs you with the perception of time. Occasionally, sleep knocks hours before midnight, only for me to regain peak wakefulness when everyone is already in bed. With silence as my companion, I start my day during the hours of the wolf, which extends around lunchtime, and then the circadian rhythm renews another cycle.

This has been my body clock ever since the Weatherman decided to look after his siblings. When the 3rd ECQ was announced early this month, he had to be the Kuya once more. Their father, the once head of the household, is already living with his sister and is looking after his nephews. Someone has to step into his shoes and direct the affairs of the house.

The Weatherman's absence had forced me to move my sleeping time way past sunrise. Not only do I dread the thoughts of nightfall, but in the early days of his return to his familial duties, the significant other also found it difficult to catch that much elusive sleep. So I kept him company only to realize we're still up at past 7 in the morning.

Make no mistake. Sleeping past brunch time has already been a habit, especially when there is a need for long-distance driving outside the city. The only difference now is the seemingly unshakeable pattern and the hours when drowsiness finally catches up. It's not healthy anymore.

And so, this is the nth time I would likely go to bed sometime around noon. And though the daybreak wakefulness has its perks (the sights and sounds before sunrise still leave you a little bit hopeful of tomorrow. Also, less human exposure means lesser chances of catching and passing along the Covid 19 virus), I still yearn to return to a more conventional sleeping pattern. 

Nobody wants to be the sole person awake when everyone has gone deep into slumber.

The Perversion of Information

Back when the internet was a passing fancy and everyone had to connect to the "worldwide web" through cumbersome means like a dial-up connection, we thought we were seeing the beginning of a revolution; that finally, the free flow of information will allow for equal access to knowledge, and that, ignorance will somehow be contained.

Boy, we were so wrong.

Twenty one years have passed since the threat of the Millennium Bug was proven to be a hoax and here we are, still in need of fact-checking resources. Websites like Snopes and Fake History Hunter are on the constant lookout for viral social media posts as they are likely infecting the internet with inaccurate and often exaggerated historical accounts and disproven urban legends. Theirs is a constant battle, a never-ending warfare to set things straight and weed out tall tales from scholarly-verified facts. And in a time when digital lies and propaganda could shape the outcome of election turnout (like what happened during the last 4 years under Donald Trump), their presence proves more valuable than ever.

If only such gatekeepers could really compete with the spinmasters.

As it stands, Snopes and their associates are bound to lose as it is easier to peddle lies than embrace truths. Inaccurate historical accounts like the one shared on the photo appeal more to human nature as it is sensational, even scandalous. When you apply the sensational and scandalous and weaponize them into perverted knowledge like anti-vaccine, critical race, and flat earth theory, the result is having a group of people whose ignorant and toxic beliefs poison the collective conversation. 

And it is getting worse every year.

They say lies when told over and over eventually become truths and with truths often assaulted these days, it is just a matter of time before the more discerning among us finally succumb to whatever belief a groupthink dictates.

Safe Space

 

"Whenever I give advice to people about sleepovers, I told them that if they really wanted to avoid trouble or pleasure of having an “incident” with someone who invited them to their place, which they just met personally for the first time, they should decline the invitation.

Also, I told them that if they liked the guy so much - that they are willing to take the pleasure of doing it with them then they should accept the invitation without showing any hints of hesitation.

It used to be my rule, and Bloomberg Boy* would attest to that."

Previously on After Eden: Gerumatori, Last Part

We come from a generation where sexual harassment was seen as normal. Concepts like safe space or even consensual displays of affection were yet to be conceived. The entries, written decades past tell of a time when going to a jump-packed, barely lit dance club would mean holding on to your cock before some random drunk guy grabs it inside your pants without your permission. To decline such a gesture would result in that same guy, gaslighting you - accusing you of being "nagmamaganda." when all you've ever wanted is to be left alone in peace, or at least, cruise around until you find someone whose attraction you find mutual. 

In those days too, we are pretty aware of how we started, that we are either a product of our environment, bullied into submission because of our perceived softness, or worse, victims of sexual abuse inflicted by a cousin, a friend of a friend, or even a stranger. I knew of guys who were taken advantage of as a kid. Some were even rape victims who were forced to accept their lot until it became their way of thinking. To come out remains unthinkable, and most of us had either buried our past while keeping a lifetime of resentment or for others, pass along the trauma by reliving it without the other person's consent.

And so the cycle of abuse continues.

I bring our stories to light after reports of sexual harassment surfaced on Twitter early this month. The accused were well-connected within their organization and held a sizeable clout in their respective social circles. They were known too, for perpetuating the much-derided Cancel Culture whose victims include some of my friends. So imagine how their acts of non-consensual sex created a controversy that is tearing Twitter apart. It didn't help that the people tasked to protect the victim seemed silent on the issue, with one dissenter resigning from her post after the rest refused to issue a stronger stance against the abusers. This all happened on the very month we should have been celebrating Pride. Instead, the festivities were muted, and would forever be marred by these transgressions. 

Weeks have already passed and the accusers were nowhere to be found. Their friends, who used to be the most vocal about these issues paid more attention to those who demanded transparency and accountability. I myself no longer expect a closure. The least that could happen is that the harassers can no longer "preach" and "condone" the rest who don't subscribe to their ideology. It is already a fitting punishment for me.

Unfortunately, the revelations didn't stop with them.

However, as the party goes on and the cruising intensifies, more and more guys start to flirt with the kid. I even tried exchanging stares at some of them in hopes that they get my clear and assertive message to back off.

But some of them are too slow to pick it up that’s why I have to position myself in front of Gerumatori as he stands against the cruising wall, while I looked at his sides in hopes that nobody would ever outflank me.

Early today, a well-known Spoken Word artist and the brainchild behind some of the more celebrated Boy-Love series to air on the local internet was accused of sexual harassment. The accuser is none other than one of the actors who played in his series. The details of the assault remain a closely guarded secret. But knowing how these acts of violence happen, it all began with an innocent and harmless physical contact followed by thoughtful words of admiration dropped here and there. When these acts were permitted, a bolder approach is applied next - some flirty words sent over Facebook Messenger intended for the victim, the physical and non-consensual body contacts become more pronounced and disturbing, the personal space being violated, and the relations of power getting blurred between the predator and the prey. 

We know of these things not just because of personal experience, but because in more ways than one, we have learned to read the mind of a person actively looking for a lay. The lack of safe space allowed us to be creative with our approach and used our knowledge to manipulate our engagements before things got out of hand. 

Seeing things as they are now, I am glad the kids have begun speaking up and the voices condemning these unspeakable acts of people who should have known better are louder than ever. And though the past may not be altered and our broken generation will have to live out with the scars inflicted upon us, there is something to look forward to in the future. 

I just hope that in the dawn of my awakening, I may have done things that have spared some souls a rude and violent introduction to a life they chose to live.

I may not have shown it, but I loved it every time he does baby talk. It constantly reminds me that he is still young… It reminds me that for a time, I was like him - who used to dream of having to hang out with some guy much much older than me.

For at 17, I was in my first year in college, and it was one of the most difficult periods of my life, where I have to constantly wage a war against an emerging presence that would soon become the homosexual me.

At 17, he is perfectly in control of his homosexuality. Something, most of us never got to realize at that age.

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.

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.

Taking The Wheel (Last Part)

Previously: Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Cruising the SCTEx at 100 kph, motion slows down in one's perception while speed remains unchanged. While I do not understand the physics behind the phenomenon, it happens, especially on an empty highway with little road features to get your mind distracted. But the nippy breeze coming down from the mountains was a welcome relief. The Caraballo flanks the right side of the road when you're going to Subic, with the very pillars of the expressway, planted along the foothills. Being close to the uplands, the wind carries the scent of the mountains, of undisturbed forests and razed fields, tended and watched over by the Aetas who have lived off the land for generations. Across the metal barrier to the left is the lowlands of Pampanga. The plains are a sight to behold and while visible signs of civilization point to an ever-changing landscape, the sight of Arayat shrouded in clouds, reminds you that some things will never change. 

Getting there was a journey in itself and I have a lot to be grateful. It has been two years since the Favorite Aunt thought of giving away her Toyota Revo so that my mom would have a car to use. I returned to the driving school to sign up for a refresher course. While I have always known how to drive a car, histories and the lack of confidence on the road kept me from taking the wheel. It didn't help that I have always found joy in commuting and Manila, the city that I've always known, is walkable, especially when cars are non-moving. But I could not stand having to chase taxi cabs during rush hours only to be declined to get a ride when I am with my aging mother. The indignity was unbearable, and the inconsideration of taxi drivers, even when you're with a senior woman with a disability makes your faith grow less in humanity. It didn't help that car-sharing apps like Grab could not be relied on so there were times I had to push my mom's wheelchair long distances just to find a ride home.

In the beginning, I would have wanted the Favorite Aunt's other car - the Toyota Altis. It was compact and in my head, thought, it was far easier to maneuver than a cumbersome AUV. While I have driven something bigger - like my dad's FX - I have always wondered how I would steer those family-sized automobiles with motorcycles cutting you from blind spots. And so, I let my thoughts ran across, even telling my aunt that I'd be happy to buy her Altis. But my mother's sister had other plans and looking at hindsight, wisdom sprung from her decision.

For the household had multiplied since Baby Diego was born. He was followed by Baby Castro and just last year, Baby Bella became my sister's fourth child. A five-seater car would not fit a family of 10 and this became evident last Christmas when I had to bring home four kids and four adults from my Favorite Aunt's place.

Baby steps. That was how the first days were when I finally mustered the courage to take the wheel. When my mother had to stay at my aunt's place for a week, I did my first solo practice driving and ended up at a nearby church. It was a milestone, followed by a long drive from Santa Mesa to Bicutan the next day. My aunt's driver guided me as I cruise the Skyway. 

They say that in driving school, you only get familiarized with the machine and learn the traffic signs you find along the road. Real learning comes while stepping on the gas, crossing intersections with fast-moving cars and getting to destinations on your own. And so I did, despite the setbacks of the past and in spite of the near misses that I still carelessly commit. I have been to places I would never get on foot - to Mt. Purro in Antipolo, to take the Weatherman to his retreat, to my mother's social engagements whether with friends or family, to the Manila Doctors Hospital, when Baby Bella was about to be pushed out of my sister's womb.

I have been to destinations, too many to even mention. And in every place I step my foot on after parking the car, I always carry the thought that the journeys I have been were once-upon-a-time aspirations. Whether it be that late-night cruise, days after the NLEX Connector Road was opened to the public, or that trip to Santa Clara one early morning while I did my practice driving, all I know is that there's a time and place for everything and 19 years after sneaking out my father's Toyota FX while he slept soundly in the master's bedroom, I've finally arrived at my destination.

Weeks before the first drive to Subic, I often check Google Maps to chart the next possible destination just outside the city. I was cautioned not to venture too far for I am driving a 17-year-old car. But the Weatherman had to attend a wedding and while he was fine commuting to the venue and just staying at a hotel somewhere in Olongapo - with me, I have always seen out of town trips as a chance to create those rare and memorable bondings. The Weatherman and I both enjoy road trips and him being the navigator, I knew this wedding road trip is something we do not want to miss. And so after getting permission from the Favorite Aunt herself, I brought the Revo for a last-minute checkup. Getting the green light from the mechanic, we left the city at 5 in the morning on a balmy Saturday, the first week of April. 

Subic Bay and Morong were the farthest destinations we've reached so far, farther than I've ever imagined in the one and a half years I've been driving. A record was broken. There's no longer any limit to where I can take the car.

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.

Days of Disquiet, Nights of Rage

Previously: To Die For Digong

My parents are both social change activists, who, in their youth, marched in the streets and had run-ins with authorities. My dad (bless his soul) was imprisoned during Martial Law, and my mom, who is a Sociologist held various posts in Non-Government Organizations after Democracy was restored. In a home where liberal ideas were openly discussed and somehow encouraged, I grew up knowing more than what the average kid did. In my youth, I saw Conrado de Quiros, Cheche Lazaro, Solita Monsod and Randy David as my champions. To say at least, I was informed, and this was amplified by the college program I took at the University. And although I never became a Journalist by profession, in every essay I wrote and in every spur-of-the-moment thought I posted on Twitter, I tried my best to speak the truth. 

Or at least, pass along the message.

I thought this worldview would have escaped me as I sink deeper into matters of domestic concerns. But no. Though I have refrained from writing anything political after the present powers that be took charge of the government, I continued to speak out against the wrongs of this administration. From its decision to allow the Dictator to be buried at the Libingan ng mga Bayani, to the brutality that is the Oplan Tokhang, nothing seems right about how we are governed. Two years and counting and all I can think of is how we are sold to the Chinese, how the TRAIN law will make more people poorer, how the plunderers were set free and are now making a political comeback, and how the media outlets critical of this government are being bullied to submission. With Fake News proliferating on the internet, and friendships broken because of the Dilawan/DDS divide, it seems there is no hope in sight. And the people who I once looked up to in my youth appear to have grown silent as we edge closer to a new kind of dictatorship.

There are times I wish I would just wake up and realize that everything is just a nightmare, and that, the candidates I have chosen have won last elections. But the painful truth spoils your newsfeed with bad news every day, with barely a pause to absorb the impunity and corruption done under this administration. And it seems the struggle will drag on as the worst is yet to come: The idea of "Federalism" is being peddled in the countryside as we speak of a no-election scenario in 2019. Should this become a law, local political families will have more say in the government, allowing them to rule like princelings in their own little fiefdoms. Also, Marcos Jr inches closer to getting the elected Vice-President unseated knowing his family can bend the Supreme Court to their will (Hello Sereno impeachment). Things have now become so ugly that I have started shunning friends who continue to justify this regime. 

I will remember each one of them, and judge them solely for what they stood today.

May this be the last time I would write about how fucked up this country is. While hope remains for a sunnier tomorrow, I am more inclined to believe that the damage done has become so irreparable, it will change everyone once this freak show had seen its final run. 

Paying The Price

Previously: The Slave Driver

Friday begins like any other day: He wakes up, checks his phone for Facebook messages from his partner, checks out Slack for messages from his "other" job, and if he still has the time, signs in on Gmail to check for corrections given by clients in his "official" job. Gmail browsing is just an option today as it is his official "rest day." While others are gearing up for the work-free weekend, life goes on for him. It's been years since he last had a real rest day that he has learned not to entertain thoughts of burn out. He doesn't even ask for Vacation Leaves anymore. 

Half a year ago, his department at the Snippet Writing job was dissolved. It was swift, with over 50 souls suddenly finding themselves looking for a new job a week after the retrenchment was announced. While the department's demise was expected, (blame it on automation) and that the General Manager graciously provided a lump sum to keep everyone afloat for a month, not everyone found work as easy as he had. Barely two weeks after he was axed, he found employment in another company that moderates human-generated product reviews. 

Lucky for him, isn't it?

And so, despite the toils of having to manage two full-time jobs, he has accepted his lot without any reservations. He needs money - more than anything - as he realizes that one job could never support the demands of home. Now, he has to bring his laptop all the time, rely on his phone's mobile network to connect to the Internet, and squeeze work anywhere he goes. He has to give up his social life, (as his remaining free time is divided between his family and his lover) leaving all catching up with friends, and all invitations for coffee meetups, indefinitely postponed. 

It is the same reason he has stopped going to the gym for over a year now, cease long-form writing, which he used to have time to do - religiously, tend to his herb garden, which is experiencing a slow death, refrain from getting lost in the simulated worlds of his PC Games, even though he could afford new DLCs or expansions on Steam anytime. 

But at times when he could afford to think and ruminate his situation, he still wonders if it's all worth it, to accumulate this wealth in exchange for giving up everything that he once was:

...But today was a not-so-ordinary day. In preparation for a very big wedding he will attend tomorrow, he spent the whole afternoon getting a haircut and pedicure at GC, tried new specs at Executive Optical, bought new leather shoes, a pair of slacks, a new long sleeves, a ready-to-wear necktie, and a pair of socks which he will wear at the event. He was able to pay his house's mortgage tax, eat lunch at Bonchon, and bring home a Shrimp sandwich from Wendy's for his mom, without ever feeling a pinch on his savings. (But of course, most of these were paid through Mastercard) 

But still...

It is the price he has to pay - and will continue to pay until he can keep his two jobs because times have changed, and much as he wishes for an easier life, the choice is between liberty (with empty pockets) or a little sense of security (while never really experiencing the joys of living). By now, the choice is clear: he has to endure this all. 

He has two more hours to toil for his other job before he can get some sleep. After which, he has to start another work day soon after the wedding reception is over.

Nostalgia In Blogosphere

"Where have all the fireflies gone.

Come out, come out, dear bloggers.

Spread your wings, cast your light.

Let us all fly home one more time."

- Closet Geek

  January 4, 2018

---

"Use whatever format you want: essay, short story, 

poetry, photo essay, whatever.

We are a diverse community. We always have been. 

Go at it however you want.

Let's all publish our entries on January 20.

Then send me a link to your posts after you have published them.

I'll update my entry and add links to your post.

See you all in the blogosphere.

- Jap Nishiguchi

  January 4, 2018.

There is nothing here but memories, of exciting times when voices echo through this chamber. Slice-of-life narratives abound, and so were erotic vignettes that titillated the senses. There were confessions of dreams, pronouncements of grand schemes, and whispers of accomplishments celebrated in distilled stories. Some found closure as they laid down their burdens for eager voyeurs to read, while others learned that life could imitate art in-between cryptic paragraphs. 

A community flourished in this place, publishing blog entries, day in and day out.  It didn't matter what you write. After all, the strength of your words came from personal truths. And although the style set one blogger from another, in the end, one thing has always been certain: everyone was welcome to tell their stories.  

In this tight-knit space, where one is connected to another, real-life friendships burst forth and multiplied. Anecdotal evidence now scatters the social media pages of ex-bloggers engaged in some form of collective merriment. There were romantic unions too that bloomed here, and while others have withered through time's passing, a few endures to this day.  There is no denying that we have carved divergent paths after we have outgrown this fancy and all that is left is a hollowed shell replete with draft narratives and words left unsaid.

How I wish we could bring back the old times.

Cocooned in the cradle of microblogging, (with 280 words now, to tweet your thoughts in exchange for swift catharses) a return to long-form writing is nothing but a pipe dream. It is something that I have begrudgingly accepted now that penning this blurb meant giving up precious hours before slaving again for my two jobs. But there is a wish to rekindle old ties; to bring together kindred souls back, and I for one wouldn't miss this chance to again say hello to old companions and read their lives after blogging. So I return ahead of everyone, to tell some of my stories, in hopes that this collective call to write "One More Time" would be answered by the rest.

Once more, this is Mugen, and here's to writing.

Those Little Things That Run Inside Your Head

"No, you will not walk away from your word this time,"

I told myself while trying to make a draft post while inside a moving van. I'm on my way south, to visit my very significant half. "You have allowed yourself to speak your mind on social media when you should be writing a blog." I paused, to commune with myself before writing my next words. "To indulge yourself a little longer with all the political banter, and bask at the approval you get from your community, will drain the last of your energies for this renewed enterprise."

You see, February has always been the spring of my long-form writing project. Even when I don't blog anymore, I see to it that I return, and maybe, renew my bonds with that kid who used to reside in these pages. He has grown old and has learned to keep things to himself. Adulting forces a person to pick fights and tell tactical victories wisely. It makes you appear in control, at least on the surface.

While last year's blog anniversary celebrated my return to this form of medium, (only to disappear after a month because I'm nothing but a lazy blogger) this year's belated remembrance speaks of that drive, that all-consuming passion that empowers writers to leave their footprints on the web. Is it possible to pursue journal publishing without being read? Can we emulate what the artists of the past age did by simply leaving their diary hidden - only to be discovered after they have passed on?

We'll see.

I guess the challenge - for me - is that I used to have a community on Blogger. We read each others' lives and found comfort knowing we don't have a monopoly on both triumphs and struggles of living. We learned from each other. Now that silence nearly pervades in these halls - and that there is a packed room next door where you can tell everything in seconds - and get noticed by 3,000 souls is something that is more engaging.

It is actually addictive.

Kebs if your tweet is about that Igorot hottie at the Panagbenga who's scandal appeared a day after his six packs had gone viral.

What I'm pointing at is that it is hard to practice long-form writing when you have two home-based jobs, a larger responsibility at home because you can be a daddy na, and a medium that you're still debating whether to expose in public or not. Kasi you don't want your audience to catch you staring at your navel like others do. Add to that that you've never had a niche market, you're domesticated and has purged the dramas of living a secret life, and you like to post tweets about the fuck-ups of this government and nothing more.

So are there things still worth writing? The answer is yes. The problem is time.

But this doesn't mean goodbye, and unlike the bands who come and go after their gigs are over, I would like to think that there's more to discover and be shared to everyone. I'd like to breathe nostalgia now that I'm more than a decade old in blogging. As to how much could be written, should be left for another day.  I'm about to disembark now and would you believe it took me less than an hour to write this personal reflection?

Of course, it doesn't include the revisions, which I hope, won't consume my return trip back home. I'm still hoping to write about Edsa and how dystopian our lives have become.

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.

The Preserver Of Worlds | The Remains Of His Being

Previously: Matters Of National Security

When he was still in his prime, my dad would always tell that he doesn't expect that I will fight for him. That I won't get back at the people who have wronged him in business or had thrown insults as a result of his brash character. Given this perception of ambivalence, he might have thought that I would completely erase his memory. For I was the insolent son who turned his back when he needed my help to run his businesses.

The last time I saw him alive was when he was being hauled out of an ambulance. He was on a stretcher, unconscious but still breathing. EMT's were relentlessly pumping oxygen into his body. Next came out was his sister. Her words cracking, she first said to me, "patawarin mo na ang papa mo." There were no words to say. I was looking at the brown-skinned lady, slender and in her mid-twenties, cradling her son. She was sobbing in the corner while her fingers moved as she felt the beads of the rosary. Ignoring my aunt's plea and refusing to show some compassion to the lady, I went to comfort my own mother. Had my father's sister known the depth of my savagery, I wouldn't show up at the Manila Doctor's emergency room without the blessing of my mother's sister. I was even having second thoughts of telling my mom that her husband had a major stroke.

---

Twelve years into the future and that hospital scene linger as a reminder of the choices I made. The other side of the story - the reason for the fallout - is irrelevant now. The essence lies in the gestures of the present.

I do not know if it's mere social niceties, filial piety, or some subconscious guilt that pushes me to return to his final resting place. Never in my recollection did I miss bringing flowers on the day of his earthly departure. My younger sibling who was closer to him in all those years I was giving him an icy treatment last paid a visit a few days before her elder was born. Her firstborn is now six years old. My mom, in her advanced age (and without someone to bring her all the way to Navotas), has been a no-show since 2013, when our family driver secured work abroad.  While I deliberately avoid the aunt and her dysfunctional family, who by the way, lives a few blocks from the cemetery, the presence of mums and anthuriums on his grave marker - fresh and well-arranged - tells that in spite of my father's personal tragedies, his footprints still leave a mark to at least one person, who had known the triumphs and downfalls of his life.

A double pair of thick-rimmed glasses; a Press ID issued by the publishing company that gave him a break in the newspaper industry; an organizer, with list of contacts and set appointments, some, scheduled days after his passing; certificates recognizing his contributions to the National Press Club, a Nokia 7650 phone, perhaps, the last prized possession he was clutching before his blood vessels ruptured, and brought him squirming in pain. It might be a strange coincidence or a timely providence, but these personal effects were rediscovered on the day of my dad's twelfth passing. Sifting them out of the piles of disused items inside a dusty cabinet that was cast out to rot at the veranda, I wonder what my father's thoughts were when for the first time, he had to borrow money from me when I was working for another company; or when I politely declined his offer to get me a second-hand scooter smuggled into the country? Did he feel dejected when I gave him a cold embrace the last time he showed up at the door to pay us a visit? Did he harbor ill feelings when he had to spend his last Christmas meal in a makeshift eatery, with his sister, because his children had asked him not to show up at my aunt's house where our family reunion would be taking place? 

Perhaps, the reason I keep coming back to his grave is because there were words left unsaid; that deep down, I am terrified of committing the same ruthlessness to the people I tried to scratch out from my life. Putting back these artifacts in a sturdy plastic box, I realize that as long as I walk this earth, I will carry his memory, and put it in a safe place where time could never devour it.

And within me, in that little corner of my chest that is still capable of recalling, celebrating his life, including his sins and redemptions, will be my atonement.

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.

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

To Die For Digong

You need to understand. Mayor is our heart and soul. He protected us. He is not a dictator and he listens to us. That's why we are emotional. He is like our father, he will do anything to make his children safe from any harm, he provides what we want and he understand what we need.

Please excuse us if we are too affected and emotional.

Again you will never understand cause you are not from Davao and you haven't been there.

Takawka

Let me tell you a story of a boy who grew up in a city in the south. This city has known peace since the time he blossomed into manhood. He feels safe when he walks down the streets even at past midnight. Local businesses are booming despite the conflicts in the restive regions of the island, and social institutions, like hospitals and schools actually serve the needs of the public. Even the jails for women are clean and well-maintained. There is a stand-by response team for fires and other emergencies. While issues of poverty or petty crimes still persist, there is a pervading sense of order. Mayor makes sure everyone follows the law. He doesn't steal. He lives a frugal life. He drives a taxi from time to time to hear personally what the people need. Impressive feat, in a country where most politicians feel entitled as they go on with the business of governing.

This boy, by stroke of luck, had to relocate. In the imperial capital where everything is a mess. Road gridlock makes commuting a daily pain. Trains break down all the time. His phone gets snatched, his wallet, stolen. Hospitals and schools operate beyond capacity. Corruption is rampant, the elite feels they own everything. The government protects its interest, unlike in the south where he feels the city serves its citizens. He had thoughts of giving up, to return to his homeland if not for the good pay. Then one day, the Mayor decides to run for President. The boy knew him well, like how he knew his own father: Imperfect, but effective. Reasonable, but applies discipline when needed. Protective to the point of using measures, outsiders will frown upon. 

Overnight, he dons his colors to campaign for the man. This is our Mayor, and change is coming.

Unfortunately, I am not the boy and in my eyes, I will never see what the Mayor has done for his city. Perhaps, his accomplishments are possible given its small population. Maybe, they knew him, like an old patriarch who they must follow like obedient children. I do not know. And often I do not care. Except that from time to time, I remind myself to spare his city when portraying the Mayor as the candidate who shouldn't be the next president.

He doesn't represent me. That, I posted on my Twitter account.

And for a number of reasons.

For one, he kills drug peddlers. This is all over the news. Even the Human Rights Watch has confirmed this. What if his death squad mistakes an innocent teen from a drug pusher? Who will account for the life that had been lost? Then he curses and treats women like sex objects. One that should be seen as conquests, and not partners in progress. He also doesn't mind engaging diplomats in verbal spats. Remember what he said to the Australian and the United States ambassadors after the rape joke? The Mayor doesn't even have the social niceties when describing countries and their local problems. I won't be surprised of the diplomatic snubs should he becomes the next leader. Whispers also tell of his allegiance with the Communists, his alliance with Beijing, and his plans of giving up the islands in the West Philippine Sea in exchange for a railway system in Mindanao. There is so much to tell that would make me a hater, but nothing compares to the brutality of his supporters - some personal acquaintances - who have marked me as the enemy because I speak against the Mayor.

Only a few nights ago, a friend of a friend suggested that I should consult a doctor implying that I was mad. He had the gall to block me, then speak my name when I can't read it on his Twitter feed. Fortunately, word had reached me through a concerned friend. Screen-capping his comment, I posted the update on my Twitter account for his barkada to find out. There was also another friend, of a friend, who told me through a sub tweet that I was an animal who had no achievements. This was after I told his bet that he's "yawa" for duping his supporters. When confronted about his remarks, he didn't reply to my direct message, letting his friends instead to speak on his behalf.  

Rabid dogs without balls.

If there is one thing I've learned this election, it is that politics is personal. What you say against a person who speak out against your chosen will stay after the ballots have been counted. No doubt, I will remember what they said, not because of the Mayor and his forgettable antics. But because of how I was treated by boys whose choice of candidate I never judged. So much for helping me appreciate who their Mayor is.

Fortunately, there are people who are patient enough to reach out - not to win my vote - but to see their mayor, Rodrigo Duterte, in a better light. They are the ones who shaped this entry, and by extension, my personal assessment of their candidate. It helps too, that my favorite Aunt is for the Mayor. It is because of her that I was able to distinguish the trolls from genuine supporters. She may hate the candidate I am supporting, but it doesn't change my fondness for her.

So is my willingness to recognize her leader.

If surveys are indication of who the next leader is, Digong will be the next President of the Republic. It will upset the rest, while vindicating those who stood with him, including the fictional boy in this entry who yearns nothing but a better Philippines. Being the outsider who is suspicious of those I don't know, and for the trolls who have hurt so many instead of trying to create bridges of understanding, the Mayor will not get my vote. But deep down, my sincere wish is to one day send a message to the men who overlooked my hatred and tell them I was wrong and they are right.

That beneath the facade, their Mayor has nothing but love for this nation.