Christmas in September... ^%$^&$!

Late repost from last year :-(

Merry Christmas!

It's freezing here in New York. Cruel winter, expecially for us Pinoys.

Few hours from now it'll be Christmas. There's so much fuss with the holiday season here, with the ‘ball’ dropping on New Year’s eve at Times Square, unbelievable discounts in uber frenzy shops along westwick, and of course, the most elaborate yet minimalist take on Holiday cheers in MoMa.

Am re-creating christmas my own way, by listening to christmas carols, talking to families back home and feeling the familiarity of the season by talking about it and reminiscing memories. Good thing, Kath is here with me to spend christmas. We're both traveling back to our respective country of assignments on the 26th.

I had a one day break in Calcutta last week. Walked the streets where Mother Teresa once walked on. And along the cold and harsh pavements, are the ironies and realities of life. Women and children in distress, the poor, the marginalised and the oppressed. As i pretended to enjoy the grandeur that Calcutta has, i could not help but feel the presence of Mo. Teresa. And i thought, that I cannot deny the deafening silence and the wailing of the exploited. But i end up excusing myself for my fallibility and limited capacity. Hence, i become to be one of the rest of the world. who dare not go beyond their limits, for reasons that are valid in a world where reason itself has learned to rationalise.

And this christmas season, the road where Mo. Teresa treaded is beckoning.

Indeed, winter is cruel. But much of cruelty is in the man's heart. A defining christmas it is for me.

Lost in Impression

December 4, 2008
India

Living in another country is an opportunity for me to experience life beyond my control and limits. There is really something about being out there, and when I say being out there, it’s about taking the conscious decision to throw myself in an abyss where only GOD knows what is there for me. I become vulnerable and a likely target of and for people’s idiosyncracies and the crazy antics of the inevitable. My analogy of it is like standing on a high strung wire enveloped in a complete darkness with occasional goofballs aimed at me, challenging my balance and beckoning the strength that has never seen its light.

But the spirit never falters. It may get distracted and perturbed, but as soon as its power of knowing and believing takes over, I hold strongly to my faith and to all the beauty that is part of my life. Family. Values. Friendship. Dreams. Love. Country. Home.

Order in the middle of chaos. I like this phrase, and admittedly it is one of my overused lines in this life. But why? Because it reminds me of hope and the gift to turn noise to melodies, to distillate murky water and to see beauty in the ugly. Uncertainties will continue to challenge us. But my threshold has surpassed what I so long perceived to be its limit. I have seen the worst and the ugliest and have been to the most trying times. Been there and done what I could, regardless of whether I did the right or the wrong things. It’s the heart that has become that truly matters. My heart, shaped and strengthened.

Finding Solace

Acceptance is so overrated. Most times, we use ‘acceptance’ as a way of convincing ourselves that we are in control, that everything will be just fine. I am not saying that it is not good though. My point is, what comes along with it is a range of emotions that vary from denial, anger, frustration, hope and love. It does not come easy for most of us. But I am not saying that it will be that bad in a very long time. Acceptance is a humbling experience. And I believe that at the end of it all, it is not about how you were treated by ex-boyfriends, friends and strangers. But the amazing gift in US to love and to give in ways that we never imagined we could. We give ourselves a pat on the shoulder. Not everyone is able to give and love that much. Be thankful for the extent that we could give, to be unselfish, to be hurt, to be loved, and most importantly, to FORGIVE purselves.

Go give it a try. Give our all. There’s no guarantee, and that’s a given in this life. Again it is about how much we give. And not what we take.

August 21, 2008

10:18AM at my friend’s flat
Somewhere in Stallion Square
London

Mmm. Bliss. Lying in the most comfortable bed in the world, feeling all dreamy and smiley and happy, letting the morning sunlight play on my closed eyelids. Stretching my arms above my head, then collapsing contentedly onto an enormous mound of pillows. Oh, I feel good. I feel… sated. Last night was absolutely…

Well, let’s just say it was.

Oh, come on. You don’t need to know that. Anyway, can’t you use your imagination? Of course you can.

I do feel this is a pretty significant day in my life. God, he really knows how to make things come around. After the pain in my previous relationship, it is time to close that chapter. It took me until last night, while walking along Central Park to make the pain go away. I was hurting the whole time. And now, finally, no more thoughts of him, of us, of the whys and the what ifs. When I look back at the frivolous way I used to think – well, it makes me want to laugh, really. It’s as though the tinted glass have fallen off – and suddenly I can see what’s really important in the world and what’s not.


The nerve, Xander, I hope you read this. You make me sick. Go away.

Desperately Seeking Ego

Had lovely lunch with my colleagues… and it’s quite a boost to hear wonderful things said about me with regard to work… and although, probably I should be hailed the best advisor that my company has ever had… i have never really thought of it… I have been working like a dog…it’s not something new really…

Dad called yesterday, reminded me to take things slow… it seems that I have been working so hard, it’s as if I really needed it, he said. But see, I want to chart and secure my future… it’s not an easy way though.. I’ve traded a lot and sacrificed more in order to live comfortably…

I know my dad’s proud of me. I have never asked a single peso from him right after he put me through university in Australia… And apart from the financial freedom that I am enjoying, it’s also knowing about my self-worth… that I can do more and a lot of people can benefit from my work… see, I am into humanitarian and development work, and when I travel in other countries and see how dismal their situations are, it humbles me in greater ways than I could possibly do… seeing the blank stares of people living with HIV and AIDS, feeling the triumph of the spirit in souls that have remised a beautiful and forgiving life, only affirms my value as a person and the value of my family and friends…

It is really life-changing. And I know I cannot change the world.

Flashbacks of the Love Paraiah

I am feeling love but I am not in love. Not romantically involved at the moment. The eternal love pariah. A self-proclaimed cross among Bridget Jones (for her pleasantly roundness and innocence), Carrie Bradshaw (for her intellectual weaponry and the love for fashion) and Charlotte York (for her never-ending well of hope, that one day she’ll meet the One) of the third kind. I felt a ‘love rush’ a few minutes ago for no apparent realistic reason. I was just going through some messages left in my phone’s inbox, and I know I have written this in my previous blog article, but hey, I am going to blab about it again now! Anyway, the experience was a ‘trip down memory lane’. Flashbacks of the love experiences flooded my very consciousness, while I was in the middle of a training with the People Living with HIV and AIDS here in India. I’ve really evolved into a more elaborate human being who could do multi-tasking in varying degrees of interests, from technical perspective to the must mundane ones.

I must admit that when I get hurt, I tend to become a self-centered, late-twenties, prematurely plagued by the mid-life crisis, self-important, egoistic, insecure bitch. Oh. That hurt. Cruel. Did I just say that to myself? Am horrible, in manner of Miranda from The Devil Wears Prada-Simon Cowell with a bit dash of the Axe Murderer. It was just a mere cyclical mechanism to feel the loathing pain all the more loathing and bleeding. Most often, I would try to make little conversations with THYSELF and convince that what a poor and pathetic creature I have become, over the many failed relationships. And self-acceptance that I was also to blame for all the heartbreaks doesn’t come cheap and easy. Meaning, it would usually take a cardiovascular activity like SHOPPING, in potentially increasing impulsiveness that would shame the Guinness Book of World Records for holding the fastest man to evaporate solid heavenly inventions called credit card and cash. But it was all worth it. The feeling of security and wholeness that I derive from the monochrome brands complete with all the trimmings and wrappings, surely overwhelms the weight that I have put on my financial setbacks and scary overdrafts.

Convinced though that I’ve worked hard and that the US$3,200 Raymond Weil Watch I gifted myself this season will make me a better person. Am nuts. Ran out of reason though why I bought that expensive watch. Lovely. Been staring at my watch since breakfast, which is fashionably placed on top of my Fendi vanity bag.

Must dash. Need to call my financial advisor in the Philippines a.k.a. Dad.

Single Ticket

My parents travelled abroad for much of my childhood, so as an adult I should be a naturally intrepid traveller: No fear of flying, an easy knack of speed-packing and a well-honed sense of adventure. But when I first set my heart on going to Italy and couldn’t find anyone to join me, the idea of going alone somehow seemed more sad than adventurous. How could I have so many friends, yet not be able to find someone to go away with? And how could I, an independent (or so I thought) gay singleton, be so intimidated by the idea of travelling solo?

According to a survey that I read somewhere, there are a quite number of adults who are currently single. The highest growth of singles is among the affluent, travel-hungry 25-34 age group, so I’m certainly not one-off, even if it does feel like everyone else is constantly being whisked off on vacation or mini-breaks by their latest love interest, or jetting away with a gaggle of friends in search of discount shopping and sunshine.

But travelling alone is actually very liberating, as I was to discover. People seek hugely different things from holidays, depending on their income, personality and lifestyle. One person’s dream break in an opulent five-star hotel is another’s idea of hell – intimidated by the staff and scared to even look at the mini-bar peanuts that cost almost as much as a meal out. Some people have a live-now-pay-later approach, while their travel buddy is scrimping and saving at every turn – a combination bound to end in tears.

My personal phobia is the kind of trip where you leave town with a couple of good friends and end up in some tourist resort in a Pinoy Big Brother – style gang, with arguments over borrowed clothes and endless discussions over what to do when.

So it was with doing exactly as I please in mind (and my heart in my throat) that I made the monumental decision to book my trip to Italy when, heading to Florence for a solo holiday.

I had a project for my trip when I was spending three weeks in Florence, one of Europe’s capitals of romance. Conscious that I might need a bit of direction in a city with so much culture on offer, and wanting to make friends, I signed up for an art history course. Next step was where to stay: I wasn’t flush – but didn’t want to go home to some empty fleapit hotel room every night, so I rented a room with an Italian family. At first, I felt very shy and could barely speak a word of Italian, but the family couldn’t have been kinder. I loved the fact that I had a key to the front door, rather than being just another anonymous tourist, and that I had a ready-made social network.

The art history was less successful. I soon realised I was never going to find a soul mate among the finishing-school types of my rather boring course, and I abandoned it in favour of just enjoying the city. Armed with tips from the family, I walked the city for days on end, planning a different route every day.

The initial pangs of loneliness and self-consciousness soon gave way to a sense of empowerment and freedom. I made a few friends. I hit the shops. I drank espressos in smoky little bars. I practised Italian on cute waiters. And wandered round museums in manner (I like to think) of a self-assured cosmopolitan gay singleton. I had fun!

I returned home with passable Italian, a real sense of achievement – and a fabulous collection of vintage mod-feel shirts.

Francis

War is not the Answer.

I mourn for all the Iraqis and the troops of all nations who have been wounded and killed and displaced in this unnecessary war.

War is not the answer. How do we stop the international war machine? The Peace Corps budget is being slashed while U.S. weapons sales have tripled since 2005. Stop the insanity. And I strongly believe John McCain is not the person to do it.

Curbed in Left

I was at the site of the WTC yesterday ushering families out of the pit in which their family members were murdered.

That their deaths were somehow justified is a truly disgusting argument. The same people that deride U.S actions around the world, many ending in civilian deaths, somehow, someway, see this as just deserts. And that is truly sad and hateful.

The people on that day were ripped from a world they had no intention of leaving, all because they went to work. That is wrong in the U.S, in Iraq, and throughout the world.

Shame on those that claim they, as American citizens, deserved it. No one deserves to be taken in that way. No one.

How can there ever be peace as long as the US insists on world dominance.

They will whine again when there is another attack on the mainland and they will continue to say they work for peace. Duh.

As one wise man said: Why can’t they stay home and be happy. But no they always have to have a bogey man just around the corner.

Democracy it’s not.

Curbed Line

Curbed Line

When I was preparing to write another blog entry, I wanted to call my friends and ask them about any recent mishaps of living a single gay life. It could be dating boohoos or snapping out of personal financial management or just about dealing with the effervescent question of ‘when are you going to get married?’ I did, but then I wanted more. I wanted to hear rich and textured accounts and not limited on paying bills and sitting by lonesome in some obnoxious cafes or pubs. My friends can talk for hours about their lives (and of other people’s lives), sometimes over the course of many years. I reckon that in as much as success contributes to the single people’s happiness, failures of varying types of other people actually contribute about a meager 20% of my friends’ happiness.

Trying to find similar anecdotes of the lives of single gay people, though, was a whole different story. There just wasn't much out there.

The same thing happened when I tried to find scholarly writings about single people. Single straight people are of interest to academics, and for the single gay people - not so much.

Just say the word "single" and your listeners will probably make a quick mental leap to "single men and women." These are career and style obsessed individuals that leave much whole to gape at for the smug world that one day and someday, they will settle down and perpetuate the same smug world. When I told my BFF Jackie about my blog entry, she said that I was trying to write an article that was trying to appeal to a market of single gay people who are a diverse population of individuals. But I just love her, she knows that there’s not much written on gay people and that definitely it would be a breeze to read through.

Before I started typing non-stop on my laptop, I asked my friends who they thought had it harder when it came to living single in a society so preoccupied with couples. In chorus, everyone said it was the gay people. Their reasoning made a lot of sense. The single straight people, were always appreciated at social events, whereas the single gay people were as seen as entertainers or as incriminating well of self-loathing jokes on why single gay people are single. Minus the fun, they meant as nuisance. The single straight people would point to all the wedding fantasies peddled to them from their babyhoods (filled with stories about smugness) to their adulthoods (dotted with sparkly bridal magazines and syrupy "reality" TV shows such as The Bachelor and again – with all its smugness!).

I now think that there are differences in the particular ways that single straight people and single gay people are derogated, but the different myths translate into roughly disparate doses of condescension and dismissiveness.

Perceptions of single gay people (the stereotypes) aren't everything. What about evidence of discrimination? There's plenty of that, too (though singlism is vicious as it is already, you add the viciousness of homosexuality to that). In one important domain, there are clear indications of greater discrimination against single gay people than single straight people: Single gay people are almost always excluded to the chances of getting mainstream in the smug world, even when their financial and emotional capacities are the same.

Now here's what's truly remarkable: Despite all the stereotyping and discrimination, most single gay people are doing just fine. Take happiness, for example. The fun and excitement level that single gay people could be an indication that they are loving life. Although, beneath this might cover an intense feeling of loneliness, and yet, are gifted with the enormous capacity to find joy in the middle of a gaping hole of dealing with singlism and homosexuality. I still think that the average happiness level of single gay people is solidly on the happy end of the scale. And my stark realization is that, single gay people, would not become even happier, in any lasting way, if only they were straight and married.

Of course, I'm not saying that every last single gay person is happy. There are a big lot of single gay people, so some of them are going to be unhappy. But again, I reiterate that they would not become any happier if they did marry or were straight.

So here's the puzzle: Why is there such a disconnection between the negative perceptions of single gay men (in particular) and the actual life experiences of those men? I'll take that on in a future post.

Francis

Musings of a Birthday Boy

This is my birthday BLOG since I have remiss writing one last year! Busy with the woes of touring and rediscoveries!

It has been a month since i have been almost out of the country each day and today is my birthday, August 5 – I really never expected to see it, but, here I am!

A good friend from high school shares the same day and year with me so we have been joking that next year, we will have a “Hawaii 5-0” themed party. She has been a friend for more than 15 years now and A LOT of fun even just to talk to – her sense of humor is soooo off-the-wall and unexpected – you HAVE to laugh.

Another friend, gay, yes gay, sent me a beautiful birthday card reminding of all my obstacles met with perseverance which he admired and then enclosed another small handwritten slip of paper:

"The Will of God will never take you
where the Grace of God will not protect you."

I was absolutely taken back by his gesture, because my friend never seemed remotely religious or spiritual. His gesture warranted a heartfelt thank-you telephone call by me and we had a lengthy conversation about life in general – mainly how it twists and turns; never going how we had planned like back in our tweenies. We have been friends for 4 years and never once discussed religion or spirituality until 2 days ago. It was nice but I then wonder – is it age that makes people, my friends namely, more spiritual? Or, as he stated so kindly – me?

This quote is now my favorite and has become my mantra, so that I can hope to understand the direction my life has now taken. And, please remember, this is my personal belief and how I am dealing with my lot in life and as I am always saying, I would never presume to pontificate my personal spirituality on anyone. I only wish to let people know what has given me that little extra ‘umph’ to keep going.

Happy Birthday to all the August babies…and everyone else too!

Life is what you make of it no matter what has happened and I for one, have a lot to conquer in this big whole wide spectrum called L-I-F-E!

Global Mendicancy

I was always considered a softie because of my ‘promdi’ ( I come from Davao City) upbringing. No street-smart Hong Kong kid would worry about bringing leftovers to poor people or dropping coins into a beggar’s cup.

I toughened up after my first childhood visit to Mainland China in the 1980s, when urchins clung onto my ankles outside Guangzhou’s train station. “Just keep walking,” my parents said. “Don’t look at them. Don’t say anything. Don’t move your hand near your pockets or bag.”

To this day, I never give money to Hong Kong street people, as many are reportedly controlled by triads with a knack for taking advantage of the disabled and geriatric, mostly from the Mainland. These victims are placed on busy street corners, where they sometimes bang their foreheads on the ground in the traditional gesture of subservience. At the most, I’ll drop off some basic food, like fruit or buns, which at least they can eat and not pass to their “bosses”.

Most awful are the “fake monks”, beggars who don robes and shaved heads, and roam the posh bars and eateries of Hong Kong’s Soho and Lan Kwai Fong areas, hoping that foreigners won’t know the difference. Not only are they dishonest, but they also give real Chinese monks a bad name - the last thing they need right now.

Hong Kong is one of Asia’s more affluent, and therefore relatively beggar- and hawker-free, cities, but they are still there, e.g. those annoying Tsim Sha Tsui fake-watch people.

What to do? How do other travelers balance being safe and not being cheated, with not being totally heartless? Do you bargain down to the last dollar with an obviously impoverished vendor? Do you give a bit of money after snapping a shot of that beggar with your expensive digital camera? What has been your worst experience?

Occasionally, I’ll get a really good local guide who will do more than drive me to tourist spots. Recently, I had the pleasure of traveling with Gede around Ubud, Bali. He redid our schedule so we wouldn’t be at the Gunung Batur volcano lookout with all the other tourists (there’s a mobbed buffet lunch to avoid), and also warned us about the aggressive hawkers. He said they were getting so bad that some guides were reluctant to bring visitors to see the volcano at all.

In Bali, they are gentler than their counterparts in parts of India or Thailand, but I still don’t like it when I feel a strange hand touch my arm, or when people crowd around so I have to make a concerted effort to ignore them. Both here and outside the beautiful Tirta Empul temple, we were followed by cries of “One dollar! Everything one dollar!” Bali’s Kuta beach was worse. Gede had the same advice my parents gave me 20 years ago. It might seem rude to ignore someone who seems both genuinely friendly and needy, but it’s worse to encourage them by oohing and aahing over their sarongs or wood carvings, and then not buy anything. Having to shoo them away after wasting their time and getting their hopes up would be ruder, and harder.

Easier said than done. One colleague told me about being mugged in India… by a monkey. An American friend was pursued so aggressively by desperate girls in Hong Kong’s red light district that he had fingernail scratches down his arm. Travelers aren’t even safe while seaborne. In Vietnam’s Halong Bay, a lady with a young child rowed up to us in a dingy and tried to guilt us into buying overpriced bananas.

I’ve never been robbed in countries I visited in Asia (knock on wood — and that’s more than I can say about New York), but my most disturbing experience happened one evening in northwest Beijing. We were getting into a taxi when two young boys grabbed hold of the open car door. They looked to me like western Chinese migrants and were in rags. They did not touch, threaten or talk to us; they just hung onto the car with one hand and motioned for money with the other. The driver inched the vehicle forward and looked to me for guidance. We drove slowly along, hoping the kids would jump, but they clambered onto that swinging door for dear life. Should he drive faster? No. I did not want to encourage kid beggars, or whatever adult had sent them out there, but I didn’t want them to be killed on the side of a dark highway either. So I gave them a wad of small bills from my pocket. (There was no way my wallet was coming out).

Francis

Travel Bugged and Bogged

Most of us are good at a few things and bad at a longer list of other things. I am a bad traveler and I wonder if others share my infirmity.

In the past few months, I have taken trips, one to New Zealand, another to England and Ireland, India and am currently in Peru.. These were the result of invitations to give a talk or participate in a conference, but in each case there was ample time left over to do the things that travelers do.

I tried, but I just couldn’t get the hang of it.

The manifestations of my incapacity were physical, although its root causes were not. In the course of a week’s touring of Ireland, all my usual little ills returned — ­mouth sores, intestinal difficulties (a euphemism), clogged nasal passages, and what one might call “strategic fatigue.” Strategic fatigue sets in whenever I enter a museum (when I saw that the display case containing the Book of Kells was surrounded by other tourists I didn’t have the strength to push myself forward) or when I approach an ancient site (at Clonmacnoise, the location of an ancient abbey, I retreated immediately to the coffee shop and never saw the ruin) or when the possibility of getting out of the car to enjoy a scenic view presented itself (I protested that it would take too much time, or that we needed gas, or something equally feeble).

The one time I tried to be a good sport and a good tourist was at Carrowmore Megalithic Cemetery in Sligo, which, as far as I could tell, consisted of clumps of small rocks placed at inconvenient distances from one another. These rocks were, I was told, tombs and significant stone circles. It was lost on me, but I dutifully trudged around a large circle taking pictures. The reward for my efforts was the discovery later in the day that, sometime during our exercise in archaeological reverence, a backpack containing my ex-boyfriend's clothing and techie gadgets had been stolen from our rental car. That’ll teach me!

It was the fact that my ex-boyfriend was with me on this trip that alerted me to the extent of my problem. Hhe was supposed to have accompanied me to New Zealand, but couldn’t make it at the last moment. I attributed my inability fully to respond to the considerable glories of New Zealand to his absence. Had he been here, I told myself, I could have fed off his enthusiasm and taken pleasure from his pleasure. But in Ireland both his enthusiasm and his sense of pleasure were abundantly visible and still I couldn’t do much more than go through the motions. It’s not that I didn’t recognize the beauty of the landscape or the majesty of the monuments. I couldn’t rise to the level of appreciation they deserved.

Why not? What’s wrong with me? There are two answers to these questions. First, I just don’t care about seeing sights. In London, I ended up at Milton’s burial place by accident. I was there for a concert. Churches, famous squares, wide rivers, forests, cobbled streets, scenic vistas, castles, grand gardens . . . I go Spiro Agnew one better: when I’ve seen one, I’ve seen one too many.

But behind the lack of interest in sightseeing is something deeper and more unsettling. When I ask people what they like about traveling, they usually answer, I enjoy encountering different cultures and seeing how other people live. I am perfectly happy with the fact of other cultures, and I certainly hope that those who inhabit them live well; but that’s as far as it goes.

By definition, a culture other than yours is one that displays unfamiliar practices, enforces local protocols and insists on its own decorums. Some of them even have different languages and are unhappy if you don’t speak them. To me that all spells discomfort, and I don’t see why I should endure the indignities of airplane travel only to be made uncomfortable once I get where I’m going. As for seeing how other people live, that’s their business, not mine.

For a while, I tried to attach my feelings about travel to some honorable moral or intellectual tradition. I recalled some poems by Ben Jonson in which he praises Sir John Roe for the Roman virtue of being always the same no matter how extensively he traveled (”his often change of clime, though not of mind.”) But I had to acknowledge that the springs of my own sensibilities had more to do with parochialism and sloth than with some noble capaciousness of mind. In the end, I just have to admit that I was born without the travel gene, which probably means that I was also born without the curiosity gene, and that I’ll just have to live with it.

Or, rather, my ex-boyfriend will.

Surviving Down Under

June 18, 2008

Twelve years ago, when I was sixteen, I went away to Queensland University of Technology in Brisbane in order to study that unstable art or science, whichever it is, that goes by the name of International Development Management (IDM).

IDM.I liked the sound of it. It felt roughly formed and accessible, tactile and breathing. It opened doors in the corporeal world that were logical, quirky, arcane, and sometimes whimsical. Sex and economics lay at the bottom of it, and also the collapsing edge of elaborate amorality. It seemed to me that IDM is a kind of poetry, a way of guessing at the links between pragmatic and reaction, and furthermore, no one else except my family and closest friends knew that I was doing it. The rest thought that I was in Rouchard, France tending to the winery and the vineyards on weekends while keeping up academically in a ‘provincial’ university.

I come from a family of farmers in Davao City. My father is a retired neurologist that in his later life went full time plowing the ricefields, growing bangus fries and feeding them with algae and planktons. Mum is an anaesthesiologist who ran her own Bali-inspired wellness center while trading copra in some of her time. Growing up, my siblings and I were taught to literally plow the field not with a tractor or any machine but with a carabao. On summers while our classmates were traveling or just plainly lingering around the game arcade, my brother and I had to earn our keep for the coming school year. At one point, I felt a grave injustice was being committed against my trivial interests. All came reasonably, when I lived alone in Brisbane to study. My parents, well my Dad, was teaching us the value of painstaking labor and the pleasure of a hard-earned keep.

I lived alone for the first time in Brisbane at sixteen in a cramped apartment on a short dark street near the main campus. It was a frightening but joyous experiment. I learned how it was possible to stretch a small sum of money, over the exigencies of rent, food, clothes, books, and movies. On a daily basis, I survived on a Aus$ 30.00 budget. Each meal cost me 8.00$, and it consisted usually of a platter of pasta or some Vietnamese Pho, and of course a can of root beer. McDonald’s had a value meal that cost 5.00$, and it consisted of a large fries, a large burger and a large Coke. Ronald McDonald became my bestfriend, hence.

On my way home from school, I usually took a long walk passing through Queen Street Mall. Just right across the Moddle Café was my favorite spot. I would sit there for an hour or two, with a BigGulp from Cole’s for a brainfreeze and get drowned in the flux of dizzying individuals that passed me by. I’d get entertained with a whole bunch of eccentric individuals that hawked the mall. There were emo and gothic freaks in visually bewildering outfits, lesbian Koreans kissing publicly (a lot of them!) and the artsy-fartsy indies which lured you to toss in a dollar for a foolish street magic. At this period of my life I also found myself several afternoons a week seated in dark boxlike theaters where I drank in the dappled images and subtitles and nuanced exhortations of foreign-film makers, always, afterward, re-entering the clean sun-specked streets of Brisbane full of cheerful skepticism and surprise at where destiny had thus far delivered me.

I took up cycling and then fencing, gave up red meat, smoked small amounts of hash with a wide spectrum of friends, a few of whom I am still in touch with, and once or twice became dismayingly, bone-shakingly drunk on cheap wine. I was cheerful more often than I was sad, and was prideful about my discovery that happiness was a kind of by-product of existence and not an end in itself. Wearing flip-flops, I sat in various Brisbane coffee shops talking and being talked at and laying to rest such issues as the evils of imperialism, the menace of nuclear arms, the weight of patriarchy and the old uncharitable persistence of spiritual belief. I learned, sitting cross-legged on my bed, to play a few chords on a guitar and to sing mournfully to myself, relishing this self-image above all others. And at the end of my course, a few weeks after my twentieth birthday, I was awarded a bachelor’s degree on IDM.

I survived it all.

Francis

Fuckwittage!

June 15, 2008

11:57 PM

Very bad day. I went ‘round Jake’s earlier in zomboid state. He and Mart were going on and on saying I had to get back on some kind of horse and started – frankly insultingly – surfing through the Guys4Men website.

Indignantly, I didn’t want to look at guys4men. Although, admittedly I told Jake once that PGMA should set up a government dating agency for the Singletons. He reminded me of that,errrr…, ‘brilliant’ idea and I thought that political integrity was important.

While they went on to surf through some g4m member’s profile, I thought some of them were outrageous. Mart was reading out loud, shoving a large piece of a leftover Krispy Kreme donut into his mouth. ‘ “Genuine tall attractive male 36, no chubs please, good sense of humour, would like to meet, civilized, matured, stable for discreet uninhibited no-commitment relationship. “ who do they think they are, these creeps?”

I sniggered that these guys should have a sense of humour to be too mean to fork out enough to say in genuine words that ‘No Chubs please’. G4M turned out to be very entertaining. You can actually read the members’ profiles advertising themselves like contestants on Blind Date.

One profile says, ‘I’m handsome, I’m very passionate. I’m a gymbuff and I’m looking for a very special guy. He’ll take pleasure in having a good body.’ The nerve. And there wasn’t any face picture, all self-taken shots of his groin and chiseled torso. Later, I learned that in g4m lingo, they’re called ‘hipon’. Savor the body, and treat the head like trash. Harsh.

Another profile was, ‘Hi, I’m WildDad. I’m tall, I’m Makati-bred with black hair, dark eyes, long black lashes and a lean, wild body….”’ Mart read out in a stupid voice. They were cajoling me to message him. And I asked why. Jake went all coy then. Turned out whole Singleton Depression weekend thing had catapulted him into responding one of the g4m messages. Mart and I had accusing stares at Jake. And Jake was defensively telling us that he’s not going out with any of the guys. He was more of convincing himself than us.

I got back home to hear my celfone’s message tone. From an unlisted number. ‘Hello, Francis, this is WildDad…’

My bloody friends must have given my g4m profile and number. I was horrified by the sense of danger implied by a total stranger having my phone number, I did not respond but merely read his second message that said he will be at Starbucks 6750 Ayala tomorrow night.

Then immediately I called Jake and gave him bollocking. He said we’d all go and meet WildDad. And they said, I should go out and date. They were convincing me that it wouldn’t hurt to be wasted just a bit. They’ve known me to be the Mr. Decency and all that. So plan is, we are all going tomorrow night. Ho hum. Maybe Jake and Mart are right. I have just to move on, not keep thinking Mark. Worry about lashes, though. How long exactly? Fantasies of WildDad’s lean, wild, devil body slightly spoilt by image of WildDad blinking under the weight of lengthy lashes like Walt Disney Bambi.

I got to Starbucks with Jake and Mart in tow to sit at other table and keep eye on self. No sign of WildDad. Only man on own was horrible old creep in plaid shirt and sunglasses , who kept staring at me. Where was WildDad? I gave the creep filthy look. Eventually, the creep was staring so much and decided to move. I started to get up then nearly jumped out of skin. The creep was holding up a red rose. I stared at him aghast as he removed his ridiculous pair of sunglasses, smirking, to reveal a Barbara Cartland-like pair of false eyelashes. The creep was WildDad. I rushed out in horror followed by Jake and Mart, collapsing in giggles.

We were utter bitches. Mean. But hey, that was false advertisement from WildDad. And besides, I wasn’t really up for meeting up. My friends made me to meet WildDad. If it were me, I would’ve lifted weights instead of dating. We walked back to Jake’s condominium. Ordered a very sinful pizza and spent Saturday night watching the complete second season of Prisonbreak.

Francis

Loonie's (rom)Antics

“DEAR FRANCIS,” Marvin had written. “Mahal kita. Mahal kita. I love you. Di ko alam kung ano ang sasabihin sa’yo o kung bakit ko ito sinasabi sa’yo, pero ang alam ko I have to tell you this. Something is making me. Mahal kita Francis. Di ako sira-ulo, pero di kita masisisi if you think I am. I loved you the minute I saw you coming up the oval as you ran around. Nalunod ako sa’yong ngiti, when you looked back at me with those big dewy eyes. I loved the way you stood still. Iniisip ko yun araw-araw, a hundred times, lagi ko yun naiisip, exactly how your hands would feel like pressing against my back and how it would be holding you, ang iyong malaman na katawan. I can’t seem to think of anything outside that minute when we were standing together by your front door when Dennis and I visited you. I just love you. I love you plain and simple. I love you.”

That was a letter I got from Marvin. Well, he was a fool. He was a nut case, tetched in the head – bonkers, balmy. Not because he’d gone silly with love – love was unaccountable, he knew that much just from looking around, just from being alive. No, he was a loony because he’d gone and written it and slipped the letter into my gym bag. He knew that I was committed with someone and he sent me a letter full of garbage.

What in sweet Jesus’ name had come over him. He was a mature man, 34 years old, for God’s sake, reasonably steady in his habits, reasonably normal. Well, except for those three previous relationships, that indissoluble number three. And except for the offbeat hours he kept, and his somewhat eccentric job.

Anyway, it was too late. He’d done something dark and dangerous, writing a letter like that. He’d committed a rash act he hoped he’d never have to account for, but knew he would. Jesus. Buying that stationery and then filling it up with his blustering frenzy, letting it have its way, then actually sealing it, for God’s sake, his tongue traveling along its glued edges. He recalls the gummy taste now with a fresh wave of sorrow, and how he had afterward slipped it – irretrievable – into my gym bag. Farewell. So be it. Godspeed. Launched like a message in a bottle. Like a bomb.

Was I overreacting to Marvin’s romANTICs? Oh yeah. I was. Because Dennis, his boyfriend, WAS my bestfriend. Francis

"It's Complicated"

June 6, 2008

10:47 PM

Urgh! I was in my Nike Yoga sweatsuit two freaking days ago when i stormed out of a confrontation with an ex boyfriend. It was like walking naked towards the carpark of my Guru Indira's ashram and challenging all the cosmic energies that the ashram houses since the Beckhams' frustrating teleportation to the land of the Cruises. I was shaming my inner covenant to find order in the middle of chaos. Manong Rudy, my family's driver was nowhere to be found! And ex-bf was tailing in no more than 18 counts of single-double-double-single grapevine aero steps. I was hopeless for a refuge. And then the bulb lit, and i was saved (in countless times) by my dependable knight named Ronald McDonald.

Anyway, the guru teaches me to be in control of all the energies surrounding my being. And that includes, rancor, anger,bliss,indifference and orgasm (believe me)! But all these fail to fruition when there's just so much little voices hovering me that speak of aghast and hopelessness to make my ex-bf go away. Now, i couldn't even get to mention his freakin' name. Enter my BFF Ronald McDonald, and it only takes three Hash Browns and a Float to regain my serenity. Hehehehe.

Calmly, i began to think of True Religion jeans and Topman. A new pair of Cole canvasses was disturbing guru's teaching of unworldly possession. And i just realised that worldly possessions are essential for my well-being. Shameless 'me'. I am high maintenance. I could hear the sermon during my bible prayer meeting that these things can willingly join me in my closet which is called casket when i die. And i took a big gulp of my Float, and brain frrrreeeeeeeezzzzzzzzzzeeee!

Now back to serenity. Have you ever experienced that there's so much events happening all at the same time and these events are from your past and are of similar descriptions?

Case 1- Carl, after like 4 months of not talking, came out of the blue and wants me back in his life. He became more persistent when i told him that his officemate Bryan2 is 'courting' me and attached with the courtship are the sleazy indecent proposals. And as i was writing this, Bryan2 just called and asked me casually, if we could have sex later. Talking of dogs! Carl was fuming mad of Bryan2, and was asking me to choose between him and Bryan2. Carl hatched a plan involving me. That in the coming week, i will visit Sitel in Eastwood (that's where they both work), and meet them both. Carl was planning that. And i didn't understand what was that for. As of this minute, Carl and I aren't talking again. He was mad when i didn't watch Sex and the City with him. And i chose to get freaky with Mark. Carl's last words were and i qoute, '....enjoy,if ur plans is 2 make me jealous, u won.cge nyt..'

Case 2- Dave, after like 7 months of not seeing each other, caught up with me in a mall. I was buying Strepsils, and surprise.. when i turned , he was standing just a step from me. I was having sore throat and colds, and it was the last situation i would've wanted him to see me. Anyway, we exchanged quick hellos and i was telling i was running for some errands at the groceries. Dave and I WERE 'bedmates'. He's the good guy and I was the bad guy during our 2 days relationship. I chickened out, and said that it was better for us to remain 'bedmates' instead of having a real deal commitment laden relationship. And guess what he texted right after the meeting, to qoute him '...Srap p rin u. Nahorny 2loy aq knina. Hehe. Mz q na ung pgf**k sau..' The nerve.

Case 3- After that accidental meeting with Dave, i went to the groceries, and guess who i saw. Jerry and Mike (gay couple) and their 6 year old kid. Wait. Stop. No one bore the child. They adopted him. Anyway, it was one of the most awkward moments in my life history. But not because i was having colds, but because i dated these two guys last year behind each other's back. I met them during a business conference last year. I didn't know at that time that they were a couple. I dated Jerry. And i dated Mike. And in one of the weird twist of events, i somehow found out that they were almost splitting up everything literally because of me. Mike accused Jerry of infidelity. And Jerry didn't know that Mike was infidel also. And both of them accused me of infidelity. It was a dizzying merry go round. It's not that i am washing my hands clean, but i did not know that they were a couple. What i knew was, i did like both of them, and was figuring should i decide to get in a relationship, who between Jerry and Mike was 'the One.' What happened in the grocery? We all pretended we didn't know each other. Period.

Case 4- At the end of that single day, i went like what was that? I was like the devil caught in the deep blue sea. Wrong. Caught inside a fishnet in a deep dark blue sea. Rather. And then i got a message from Mark, the text was 'Muah.' And i replied, 'Baby, muah one googlelion times.' If there's a true description of that friendster status, “it's complicated”, that's about me and Mark. We both come from previous relationships that brought much pain. And we're both so testing the waters. We had long talks, figuring out what we are to each other. And it does not matter at the moment, if we're officially a couple or not. Essentially, it is the fact that we like each other, enjoy each other, and there's the willingness and hope that soon, we both will take the leap and enter into a commitment. But nothing is different from how we are to the traditional couples. Jam, our common friend, was telling us that we're a bunch of weirdos. There's actually much truth in that. But i have stopped defining what i am to Mark and Mark is to me. It is my first time to be in this set-up. I guess it's more than testing the waters.

Whew! Now i laugh as i remember my best friend Jacque's description of our tandem. She said that she's the complicated between us and i am the high lifestyle maintenance. Hahaha. But it looks like, i am both of that now. And she's changed spec from being complicated to being a high maintenance. Oh well, is that a bad thing? I've been asking myself. And i can't find the answer for now. I probably should see a shrink. And not Guru Indira nor Ronald McDonald. Till then. I'm off to the ashram, love guru might be just somewhere in the kitchen. Bye. Yep, the shrink. Not the love guru. Oh, i need another brain freeze. Whatever.

Love Smorgasbord

May 19, 2008

Certainly, things do happen and don't happen for reasons. I'm beginning to question my capacity to be in a relationship. For this year (in less than five months alone),

i almost reconciled with an ex boyfriend Jay in January, and i realised that there's nothing good that my relationship with him will bring.. why? because i'm the third party, the 'kabit', the 'wrecker' of what Jay calls a 'wrecked and wretched' union... i deserved better than that, and i quit.

after months of Carl's pursuit, i finally said Yes to him in February... we were twosome coosome, i was willing to finally give the relationship a shot, it was legitimate, our friends knew of our union, we were constantly together, unmindful of the world around us.. around gateway, within starbucks... we were carefree... and then the love poison hit me again! i said to him, it was better for us to forget each other....

a couple of days after my break up with Carl, his officemate Bryan2, in the guise of being a 'friend' with a shoulder for me to cry on, grabbed my face and tried to kiss me.. and i asked him what was that all about. And he said, that was what he has been feeling towards me all this time.... Bryan2 was too fast for me to handle... he wanted sex asap, like probably he would asked for his food in a restaurant.. i felt belittled..

and then Bryan1 came along, i admit, i did hurt him terribly... up until now he knows that i still am sorry for raising his expectation that we would end up together as couple... he was sincere.. i felt how much he loved me... i felt how pained he was when i said NO.. our friends got involved in the mess that i created... his 'tropa' was manhunting me...they were freakingly mad at me for hurting Bryan1... i did not know it until after the incident, that Bryan1 was rushed to the hospital because he had severe asthma attack triggered by my selfish act... but all's well that ends well... Bryan1 and I are such good friends na.. he has moved on and he has found someone that can give him the love and affection i couldn't give.... i have high respects for him and Carlo... i genuinely wish them lifelong love and togetherness....

A friend Jam, arranged a meet up between me and his good friend Mark. We liked each other. But there were so many unsaid things between us. I wanted to know what he was thinking, what he was going through... but he was holding back... weird it was, we couldn't get ourselves to say what we wanted to say to each other... and then pffft! He was gone. Mark disappeared. I was hurt. I was expecting. I was hoping. I was loving him.

It all gets better in time as they say.. but i couldn't wait a bit longer for pain to go away... And to help me heal, Marvin, my co-triathlete was pursuing me and another mistake, i said Yes to Marvin. He was all that is good and beautiful. The most high profile boyfriend yet. He brought me to fancy places. With him my love came with a price tag. On a lazy weekend in BGC, snapped from nowhere, he gifted me a Philip Stein watch. This is just one of the affluent ways Marvin made sure I'd find joy in. He was too perfect for me. Too scary. He introduced me to his whole family at Tierra Pura. He was exultant. He kept on saying, that each day i never fail to sweep his feet away. But you can never teach a heart to love another, when that heart is bleeding for a lovelost with some other. I broke up with Marvin. Returned all the good stuff he bought for me, and made sure these were all boxed and properly sent. Marvin was devastated. He didn't work for the whole week. I packed my bags and went home to Davao for the weekend to clear my thoughts. He followed in Davao the following day. We had another one of those long talks that end futile. I was steadfast that we cannot be together anymore. He was humbling. He was trying and doing all he could muster to win me back... Up until now, he hasn't changed.

Meanwhile, i was reconnecting with Mark. After a month of incommunicado, we bumped onto each other in a 'bar' in Manila. I had a chance to tell him how hurt i was. Again he wasn't talking much. He has always been like that. And i am never a seer. I turned my back. Walked away from him. And never looked back. I got a message from him right after that incident. He apologised for the wrongdoing and for the hurt he caused me. I was trying to be pragmatic about it. And warned him to be careful of what he would tell me. He took a step back. I guess he was thinking. And he said he regretted that he let me pass him by. He was sorry for throwing my love away. But it is so difficult to pretend that i don't want him again. He's back. We're not rushing things. We're taking it again, one step at a time. I don't know yet. I'm fearful that he would hurt me again. I'm torn between staying single muna and giving Mark another chance.

Some of the guys i mentioned above have online accounts. And i know they'd probably read this. What's my purpose? I never had the chance to say what i wanted to say to them. It was totally a rollercoaster ride. For me. For him. For them. But i never regretted having gone through those moments with them. They may have regretted knowing me, i do not know that. But then again, things happen and don't happen for reasons.

Francis

No More Peanut Butter

She’s at it again! For the nth time, she slithered herself back into the arms of a guy who’s a total dumbass in a freakingly complicated set-up (read: married guy). Anyway, my 8 hr sleep was cut short last night, because my phone was blasting, with a realtune ringtone HELP! By John Farnham. I knew, that my bestfriend was at the other end of the line, screaming incredulities and sobbing like a gilded butterfly. She’s at it AGAIN!

At the unholiest hour of 1:26AM, I was fighting temptation to doze off and head back to slumberlandia while struggling to listen to her most vicious litanies. Of course, as the ever dependable BFF, I had to be with her. I just let her. And when she’s come around, she’d ask almost always for my piece of advice. And I said,

“Isn’t everything we do in life, a way for us to be loved? Isn’t it a powerful line, ter? And we never really thought about it. But really, isn’t it true? Gus is hurting you now, like he did in the past. Bob and David similarly brought you pain many years ago too. You were hurt because you knew they were married, and yet you continued to having a purportedly legit affair with them. You held on, because that’s the way for you to be loved. It becomes a pattern now, huh? Precisely because, you found comfort in the aching yet familiar set-ups. The danger of uncertainties it brings with makes you feel invincible, until you no longer can differentiate pain from pleasure. You are scared to seek a more tangible relationship. Say, a single decent guy. Is it because you don’t know how and what it will be? And so you settle for a little less like love. You sulk and wait. And waiting can be mean. You continue to hurt. But then, you don’t know anymore what pain and joy are all about. Because, sad truth is you are already used to hurting yourself. That is camouflages your kindred spirit. You don’t care anymore if you die, ter, because you’re dead already. Your heart is cold. That’s why you keep coming back to him. You’re not free. You need this pain to feel alive. It’s pathetic.”

Dead silence. She was holding her breath, trying to find the right words to say. But wisdom isn’t friendly to a disheveled soul at past 1AM. I was surprised too, in my own words. The phone clicked, no words were spoken from her. I know my BFF. And when she’s at it again, I’d make sure coffee comes handy on my bedside table.

Wild Revelry Is So last Year

If all goes according to plan, the shiny ball will drop at midnight on New Year’s Eve in Makati Countdown to 2008, to the tooting of horns and the wild screams of the jubilant throng. As usual I’ll be there.

By “there” I mean sitting on my couch in front of the television set, wondering how long can they keep this gig going and thanking my lucky stars that I am miles clear of the blast zone, enjoying another party-free New Year’s Eve.

As Jan. 1 ripples across the country, from Manila to Davao, the masses will be singing “Auld Lang Syne” in full-throated chorus, fireworks will burst over many cities (except at my hometown Davao City), and revelers everywhere will experience a mindless surge of optimism as awful old 2007 teeters off the stage and 2008 — the new, improved model — steps forward to a burst of applause.

I will probably crack open a cold Coke Light, reflect on the many squandered opportunities of the past 12 months and then shuffle off to bed about an hour later than usual. Fabulous 2008 can get under way fine without me.

When I first moved to Makati nearly several months ago, it was different. My friends and I made the New Year’s Eve rounds, made a little noise and crawled back home in the early morning hours with the sense of a job well done. The hangovers were stupendous, but, like combat veterans, we wore them as badges of honor.

All across the city there was a definite sense of esprit de corps. We felt it while rolling underneath The Fort, just about the time that the big outdoor party on street level was breaking up. In wobbly groups of four or five the die-hards who had been standing for 12 hours and drinking for 8 moved zombielike toward the open doors of the party scene.

They presented an alarming sight. Looking like the remnants of a defeated army they propped one another up, rattled their noisemakers feebly on battered cardboard horns and turned disturbing shades of pale as the marathon of self-abuse caught up with them.

As the troop train rattled on, a dim thought would penetrate my cortex: “What they look like to me, I look like to them.” New Year’s resolution No. 1: Never do this again.
Time’s magic healing properties would negate this resolution, along with all the others. When late December rolled around, the invitations would arrive, we would accept, and the infernal cycle would resume.

The Guardian of London recently asked readers to submit their worst New Year’s Eve experiences. Their stories serve as a stark reminder of the misery that enforced jollity can bring.
One writer recalled the New Year’s Eve on which he went to relieve himself against some bushes bordering an expensive home in Sydney, Australia. Spying a large swimming pool on the grounds, he stripped down to his boxer shorts, leapt the hedge and took a dive. The home belonged to the prime minister, and a party was in progress, monitored closely by burly security men. After spending the night in jail, our hero woke up with a pounding head and nothing to wear on his three-hour walk home but a paper jumpsuit issued by the authorities.

The premise behind celebrating the New Year falters as the years go by. In your 20s, a turning calendar page brings excitement. The future looks bright, probably because there’s a lot of it left. As the decades pass, the years seem more menacing. Fleeter. And strange too. Think of it: 2008. In my youth dates like that turned up only in science-fiction novels. In 2008 there would be colonies on Mars and everyone would communicate through mental telepathy. It was not so much an actual date as a signpost indicating the distant future.

And now it’s here. This is disturbing especially to those of born in mid-century, good thing I fall short to that. It is not an occasion to cheer. One examines it thoughtfully, as Hamlet does Yorick’s skull. Preferably without having drunk four beers, two margaritas, a sidecar and a half-bottle of Spanish sparkling wine.

That’s another thing. The hangovers only get worse. Kingsley Amis once differentiated between the physical hangover (the hangover of youth) and the metaphysical hangover (the hangover of middle age and beyond). The second is far worse, Mr. Amis wrote, an “ineffable compound of depression, sadness (these two are not the same), anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure and fear for the future.” That’s the smiling face of the new year for the heedless partygoer of a certain age.

So. As 2007 draws to a close, invitations arrive. Like a summons to jury duty, I regard them with dread. And then I regret. Others will have to carry the torch of joy forward into the new year, illuminating the future for those with the strength to face it.

Bless them. I will be there, in spirit, with the hardy souls who sign up for the annual Sunday Midnight Run, a four-mile race around Makati City. I will dine, in absentia, with the mild ones who pay PhP5,000 for New Year’s Eve at Cibo (“three-course dinner with choice of entree”) in Greenbelt. But physically, as the midnight hour strikes, I will be at home.

With luck, the evening should go something like this:

7 p.m. Eat dinner.
7:30 p.m. Wash dishes.
8 p.m. Look for reruns of midnight madness in Sydney, Paris and London.
9 p.m. Tune in to Makati Countdown to 2008 coverage, deviating now and then to see if ABS-CBN is doing a Top 100 countdown of the year’s hottest celebrity moments.
11 p.m. Struggle against growing torpor.
Midnight Watch ball drop. Sigh.
12:10 a.m. Retire.

I do have my New Year’s resolution ready to go however: No party in 2008.