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.

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.

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.

---

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.

  

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

The Techno Revolution, Unnoticed

"It has always been a custom to duplicate every bit and part of me in a medium other than the hard disk. In a time when floppy drives were used to store data, I had three crates of diskettes whose sole purpose was to serve as repositories for DOS Games I copied from the computer shops in Recto."

- Stirrings of a Techno Revolution

Ten years ago, I wrote about this need to back up my files in a redundant fashion after a system error almost wiped out the digital contents of my desktop's hard drive. 

It was a different time. I still use dial-up for my internet connection. I play alternative rock and dance songs on cheap mp3 players. I still get my music from Limewire, or sometimes, from pirated CDs purchased in Greenhills or some other places in the city. 

In those early years, having a laptop - after giving away my first one to my ex - was still a distant dream and having an external hard drive was merely wishful thinking. 

It was insanely expensive and I could not afford such luxuries.

But in the fullness of time, I was able to subscribe to a broadband connection. I waited, patiently, for Skycable to be available in the neighborhood and when their service was finally offered, I was among their first subscribers. At around the same year, the desktop computer was replaced by a laptop, which I was able to buy with my savings.

A few years later, the broadband connection was upgraded to WiFi. Wireless connection finally found its way and after having to endure living in antiquity for ages, our house became at par with homes connected to a wireless network. 

However, the mp3s in my compact discs and hard drives were made obsolete after subscribing to Spotify. The app allowed me to stream every song I have in my music library. The service also lets me listen to virtually any artist from genres I barely heard before. For the first time, I was able to discover and listen to artists I barely know; my musical knowledge has expanded beyond my imagination.

---

Technology has immensely changed everything and looking back from where we started, the sea change afforded us barely enough time to see the value, of the unimaginable leaps we made to get to this point - where we spend each day trying to make better use of Netflix, or how not to forget to turn off Globe's data internet when the broadband's connection works fine, or just like today, take appreciation knowing that I was able to buy an external hard drive four years ago. I still use it for storing the films and TV series I dug on PirateBay.

Some things never change.

I would have let this rumination come to pass if not for the urgent need to back up the files of my second laptop. Not only is the machine ripe for a reformat, but I also thought of upgrading to SSD drive so that the Weatherman and I can play Cities Skylines without crashing the game.

Playroom

Consider this a "mema" entry; a flexing of the mind while contemplating the narratives to publish. Unplanned, but written with thoughtful consideration, I am left grappling for words to collect the contents of my head while Diego, now a seven-year-old boy, decides to bring his wooden bricks into my quarters and make it his temporary playroom for this evening. 

Of the four kids we are now raising, he would persistently make attempts to extend his zone of control into my room. In fact, earlier today, he was knocking at the door and calling for the Weatherman's name hoping he would be let it. I didn't pay attention, and instead, trailed my gaze on the petty fights and wokeness hell that is happening on Twitter. 

This evening, he succeeded. Maybe, I was just too unbothered while he made those incoherent play sounds, such as "woooooahhhhh ahhh ahhh," or "tshhhh, tsshhhh," while tapping the wooden cabinet beside him to make louder noises. On normal days, I would just tell him to play elsewhere, but I don't know why there's a sudden relaxing of the rules this time.

All I know is that I was meant to write about another story, but here I am writing about the most mundane stuff while admiring my nephew's gift to recreate scenes only he could appreciate.

And as I lay down on my bed while trying to shun the garbled words and the incessant "shhhsss... shhhhhsss..." out of my head, Diego continues with his bricks play. I then come to a realization that this sudden decision to let him take his toys and play with very little restrictions (he cannot put his wooden bricks on my bed), must be drawn out from a very early memory, when it was I, doing those silly sounds and recreating my imaginary worlds in someone else's room. 

There's comfort in remembering. 

I have the entire night to toil for money, and anytime soon, another distraction (or dinner call) will put this child's play to rest. This pause, however, while purely accidental, is much deserved.

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.

Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Previously: Driving Lessons

Sometime around the year 2000, my father's driver slowly inched the Toyota FX into the narrow driveway in our cramped compound. It was past 1 in the morning and as I waited for my dad to go to the master's bedroom to retire, me and Darwin, a college friend, would make hasty preparations to sneak out and test drive the car into the near-empty streets of Sampaloc. The driver bestowed his reluctant approval.

Those days, all I wanted was to drive the car to Kelly Heights in Antipolo to watch the city lights blink on the horizon. It was my ultimate senti trip - a long-forgotten tradition of pouring your heart out to another person and unburden yourself before the eventual hardening of emotions come daybreak. But because I was too lazy to get a driver's license, I was reduced to sneaking the car during early mornings, hoping I won't get into trouble. 

But luck ran out one evening.

I was backing the Isuzu Gemini - a car that was given to me by my dad, which I passively declined because of its obsolescence (I was hoping he would gift me a Toyota Corolla '98 instead) - out of the driveway not knowing I was already backing against a neighbor's car that was parked across the street. I did get a mouthful from my mother that day. Not only was I driving without a license, but also it cost my dad 4K to have the damaged car fixed.

My confidence behind the wheel crumbled after that accident. And when you get reminded of that first driving school experience, which you hated so much, might as well abandon learning to drive at all. So in the years after, aside from the occasional refresher courses I took from time to time, I was never really comfortable stepping on the gas, shifting gears, and finding my way into Metro Manila's snarling traffic.

That was until my mother's driver decided to work abroad in 2013. 

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.

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 Preserver Of Worlds | The Barbie House

At a time when our helpers were solely preoccupied with looking after my younger sister, and I was left to my own devices, as long as I don't leave the confines of our ancestral house in Santa Mesa, the afternoons were spent sneaking into that tiny room that connects my mother's bedroom to her private bathroom. On some days, I would climb into cabinets and bookcases and reach into my father's stash of adult magazines, undisturbed on the topmost shelf. At grade 5, I have yet to understand that a sexual intercourse leads into baby-making. I just look at the pictures and get fascinated with the couple's lusty facial expressions. But on other days, I would plunk myself next to the same cabinet, where my younger sister's most important toy was assembled by our father. Given to her by our stateside relatives, her Barbie House was my perversion when boys of my age were supposed to play something else.

Little can be said about my play style. There was Barbie and there was Ken. I would sometimes make them love (by simulating the pumping scenes and bent-over positions I've seen in the porn magazines) but most of the time, I stuck with my fantasy role play where Barbie was a goddess who was harassed by evil dolls who wanted the pink and plasticky house for themselves. Eventually, Barbie and Ken did adopt a kid (another action figure) who I called Miko. It would grow from there - becoming sophisticated - until I found myself assembling an "army of light" made up of tiny action figures who would protect Barbie. Ken would turn into a villain, and an angry Guile doll (from Street Fighter, which was a gift from the same relatives abroad) became the reluctant hero.

I would eventually abandon the Barbie House and the dolls after my sister told tales of my exploits to our parents. I don't recall being scolded, but the discovery was enough for me to turn my attention elsewhere.  The fantasy role play would go on for years, with Guile, and a new Barbie Doll, which I bought from my own allowance. She would become the new goddess. 

Miko went missing. I would never find that toy again.

As my sister and I get older, we would find new hobbies leaving the doll house untouched. It would be disassembled, put in a plastic bag, and was among our belongings that were moved when we settled into our new house. The disassembled Barbie House would be kept inside the closet, under the bed, and when there was no more space in my sister's room, it would eventually find itself dusting in the veranda. It was the part of the house that I claimed for my garden plants ages ago. Still, it would take years before the thought of taking out the foldable doll house from its bag and clean it would take place.  

"Kuya sa iyo na itong mga dolls ko." My sister pleaded when she learned that I was boxing all my toys. I was already getting hooked on PC games, and I was fast outgrowing my action figures. Only one doll from her, including Guile and my own Barbie, survived the passing of time.

To restore, what was considered a junk, takes a generosity of patience and a sliver of craftsmanship to accomplish this project. Dirt and grime coated the surface of the Barbie House, while its interiors were barely recognizable because of mold and other traces of plant life. It did not help that the delicately-painted wallpaper sheets were peeling off. To clean the entire thing with soap water and dish scrubber might worsen the damage wrought by neglect.

But these concerns didn't matter. I was bent on cleaning the doll house and reassemble it after being forgotten for more than a decade. So scrub and rinse I did, until my own worries were washed away. Credit to its maker, the house and what remains of its furnishing did look vintage after they have been left to dry. The problem, however, lies in how the structure would stand up. While the beams supporting the roof are still intact, its locks were already broken. The walls, which also serve as the base would not snap. It felt like building a house of cards that would anytime fall apart.

I would have given up and simply put back the house inside its bag if I were not bent on writing about the experience. The Barbie House is still my sister's possession, despite my initial thoughts of giving it away. But it mattered to me more than just a toy. It was my wellspring of creativity and the beginning of my journey toward self-discovery. Many years later, I would still recall the house while playing the Sims on my PC.

The perversion of my childhood is now an accepted adult pastime.

"It has to stand up," I mumbled as I connect the sturdy blocks that would make up the pillars that would carry the weight of the doll house's roofing. To bring back a semblance of my childhood, I brought along some action figures who once revered the dolls. Meanwhile, the pillars worked - briefly - until they became too wobbly to support the structure. The playtime approach has to be modified.

I need to think practical, like my dad.

Using duct tape (which I was supposed to use to patch that hole on my mother's bathtub) the locks were sealed and the beams were bound together. What took hours of realigning and snapping the walls to the roof was done in minutes. The Barbie House finally stood, like it did, the first time I snuck into that tiny room to play with my sister's toys.

"Ang galing naman." my sibling affectionately said when I let her see the reassembled doll house. "Pakita mo kina Lenin ha?" She insisted. "Okay lang sila maglaro diyan." Her remark left a smile on my face. I have bright hopes for my nephews.

Gazing at the Barbie House from a distance, just before I disassemble it again to store it somewhere away from the elements. I didn't see a toy coming back to life. Instead, it was a personal monument rebuilt - albeit for a day - to celebrate the being I have become.

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.

Milestone

It was a feast by all accounts.

The Pancit Malabon and the home-made spaghetti laid side by side across the large wooden table. Sticks of grilled pork flanked the two pasta dishes. A plate of roasted chicken was being passed around. Not even its bones did escape the hungry mouths of the youthful revelers. A batch of fried spring rolls was set aside on the food strainer, its coat of vegetable oil still dripping on the warm pot.  There were a lot more where it came from. The macaroni salad in the fridge remained untouched, and so were the cakes, brought by friends who arrived expectedly, even in the absence of invitations. Finally, the Lechon was delivered, paid for by the celebrant's other half who was also celebrating his birthday on that auspicious weekend. I don't recall it getting to the table with its crispy skin still intact.

Later that evening, when the family members have all left, those who stayed behind took turns singing at the karaoke. I remember Kuya Roque, the eldest of the celebrant's students crooned to classic tunes from Frank Sinatra to Procol Harum. It is as if, he had memorized all the celebrant's favorite songs and performed it with much feel. Meanwhile, cases of beer kept the live chatter late into the night, spilling into the driveway, where some of the guests had already begun swooning on their monobloc chairs. Unable to handle the alcohol that had already numbed the senses, some of the female guests were told to stay overnight. It wasn't safe to travel home. I wonder if they still remember that event from years back when they felt so euphoric, they woke up the next morning having a taste of what a wasted adult felt like.

I do, even when I was a mere spectator.

Because in the years after that feast, no longer would the celebrant throw a celebration as grand as the vignette I have written, and instead, simply waited for people to remember (and hopefully show up with food that we can all share). The students who were intoxicated now have their own lives. Rarely do they keep in touch. Kuya Roque, the crooner, has passed away after he didn't wake up one morning, and only the celebrant's friends from her old neighborhood (aside from relatives) never fail to show up, to have a modest birthday party to welcome another year.

But that will change.

She had a difficult time sleeping that night when the idea had finally sunk in. She was even worried that she might have a heart attack after failing to contain all that excitement. For after 15 years, she will have a feast, and she has the liberty to gather all the people who mattered without having to worry about the food or the venue because someone will throw her a party. It will be her 70th birthday, and no matter what the cost, all I yearn for is for her to have an unforgettable evening.

With the downpayment for the food, the cake, and the venue already paid, I still have 40 days to convince special guests to show up, make a video presentation of my mother's colorful life with the help of the Weatherman, convince myself to hire a host, and pray, for the third nephew to stay a little longer inside my sister's womb.

May the universe grant this favor.

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."

Compendium

Rarely do I stay over at my Favorite Aunt's place these days, and when I do, they would likely find me in the driveway, writing snippets for the raketship. 

But there was a time, not so long ago, that I did stay for the night and when sleep seemed hard to find, I would read books - tomes containing raw information - until daybreak - or until my eyelids demand a shut-eye. If I wasn't reading the almanac about the events of World War 2, I would on-and-on turn the pages of Kasaysayan: The Story of the Filipino People for illumination. This 10-volume body of knowledge covers everything about the Philippines. From its geography and wildlife to its precolonial past and beyond. Published by the Reader's Digest, having possession of these books is a must for a true disciple of history.

What I like about these books is the way facts are presented. Straight to the point and well-researched, but with a narrative carefully arranged by some of the best storytellers of our time. The encyclopedia portrays heroes with flaws (Manuel L. Quezon having dictatorial leanings) or a society that deviates from the collective memory (women in pre-colonial times are expected not just to manage the family affairs, but also run the business if necessary). It also tells seldom-mentioned events in our history (The brief British occupation of Manila, which is largely uneventful save for the English masters paying on time and in full for services rendered to them). The books also have short essays written by the likes of Ambeth Ocampo and Bienvenido Lumbrera. Scholars, who have to tell something about our history from their own studies. Sometimes, these essays tell of a personal experience, so harrowing that it encapsulates an entire period in Philippine history. Take for example the autobiography of Lourdes Montinola, the sole survivor of her family during the Liberation of Manila in 1945.

"Father ordered an early supper, but the Japanese soldiers came too soon. Only a gunshot, a dog's howling, and the trampling of boots announced their arrival. We were all in the vestibule, including Mother, who had witnessed the shooting from her balcony, and run downstairs to warn us. Father gathered us around him - an uncle, an aunt, their son Edgar, my mother, my sister, my brothers; five other members of the household. Father had time to say only 'be brave' before ten Japanese soldiers came barging in, bayonets gleaming, sneers on their faces. Mother protested weakly, 'We're only civilians.'"

The Americans, she wrote, had liberated the north side of Manila on February 3 of that year. Georgia Peach, the tank that crashed into their iron gate and ran over it came only on February 14. She was the only one to welcome the victors. 

What an anecdote to close an entire volume about the Japanese Occupation.

Stories like these kept me glued to the collection, that there were times I was tempted to borrow a few books from my Favorite Aunt so I can continue dwelling on the pages in the comforts of my own room. For some reasons, the idea failed to push through, and no matter how I tried looking for a set during the yearly Manila International Book Fair, I always went home empty handed. That was until this June. When a classmate from the university announced on Facebook that he was able to acquire a set for 2,000 pesos. He was gracious enough to provide the details: That Fully Booked, the bookstore, offered the set at a discounted rate. Knowing that I have always wanted to have my own, an approval from my mother (emphasizing that one day, the nephews will benefit from these books) ended with me getting a set at one of the last branches that still accept reservations. 

The books were specifically written to commemorate the centennial anniversary of the First Philippine Republic. In the 15 years after the first copies of Kasaysayan were published, much has changed and events in the years after Martial Law need to be written and put into new chapters that will make up our nation's story.

Meanwhile, the wait didn't take long. Two weeks after the payment, and the books that I reserved were already available at the bookstore for pickup. I may have never been able to read a volume from cover to cover in the nights I stayed at my Favorite Aunt's place. But now that I have my own, I will be able to digest its contents and learn more about my people's story at a leisurely pace.

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.