Moonlit Escapades* (2)

At the Mayor’s resort, dinner was waiting for us on the tip of a bridge located miles away from the shore. Our gracious host shared funny stories of his political survival as we devoured the elaborately prepared Tausug dish amid the wistful breeze of the Tawi-Tawi sea. 

After sipping the native coffee, the younger ones slipped from the group. I headed towards a spot which faces the mystical Bongao Peak. I had climbed BudBongao, as the mountain is alternately called, for several times since my arrival last year. Locals claim some mystical powers to it. On top lies the grave of a legendary Muslim prophet (so the locals say) which I had seen myself. At the top, the view overlooks the bay and the surrounding island municipalities which, as part of my immersion, I had been to as well.

Tonight, I was ecstatic to find contrasting views. This time, it was the other way around (I was now looking up at the Bongao Peak from the ocean, rather than vice versa). In addition, I was also looking from the night’s point of view. From my spot, the moon shone brightly as it hovered around Bongao Peak, almost kissing it but not quite. 

Breathless with such a view, I called out to a colleague and borrowed his Canon digital SLR. We took turns in playing around with the lenses while taking numerous attempts at the full moon. We were literally breathless so as not to affect the quality of the shots. 

Looking through the lenses while hearing a familiar song being sung by the locals made me delirious. On the shore, they were singing a Tausug song entitled Tawi-Tawi Beach. The song narrates the sad story of an American soldier and a Tausug lady who fell in love along Tawi-Tawi Beach only to be separated forever. Every night, he would wait for his lady along that strip knowing she would never be there. Then, it occurred to me how the moon and the mountain looked like unrequited lovers. For a moment, they were an inch apart to each other, but could never possibly touch.

As the song neared the sad ending, I peeked through the lenses and saw the moon inching away from Bongao Peak. They seemed to be having a quarrel only to meet once again in the millions of nights to come. The night was perfect and I had been through one of the most nostalgic experiences ever. Indeed, Tawi-Tawi never fails to amaze me. I thought that I had seen it all but I was always in for spectacular surprises. 

Tonight, my Tawi-Tawi experience told me stories that lie beneath the moon, only if we take a longer peek, be dazed at its crude death, and witness its golden rebirth, when once again, it hovers on some mystical peak to pass on its ageless story of survival, as a hundred other stories are being sung along the moonlit lovers’ shore.

*Reposted from sometime in 2006

A Sunset On Your Face

Everything was clear and vivid except your face.

Like pirates, we looted the shore of priceless things – mostly my mom’s jewels, antique statues of saints, and even a piece of toy from my childhood years.

As we strolled along the dark mud-like sands which usually characterize my provincial house’s beachfront, we saw something glittering on the ground. Upon close inspection, and to my own surprise, it was my mom’s necklace!

In an instant, all her other jewels were everywhere. Her earrings, made of ruby stones, were constantly washed, yet unmoved, by the gentle waves. Her gold watch, which she lost when I was still in high school, was lying on the other side of the shore. While some were initially concealed by the mud-like sand, others were overtly glittering as if tempting us to pick them. And so we did with our bare feet jumping from one place to another.

The sands were gradually replaced by pebbles and rocks as we neared the end of the shore. Partially hidden among them, yet fully exposed by the retreating waves, were old statues of saints which used to adorn our old house, mostly my lola's altar. One of them was a wall statue of the Holy Family, a favorite artifact which used to calm me just by looking at it. With all these, our loot bag never seemed to fill up.

Unexpectedly, my strangely familiar companion saw a plastic camera toy and handed it to me. At first, I did not know what to make of it. I tried to operate it, and with each click came 3D pictures of dinosaurs and Star Trek characters - all inside the camera. It was my favorite toy way back in grade school, I suddenly remembered! From the bafflement of the previous finds, I was now thrilled!

With these valuable finds, we sat on the edge of a cliff facing the South China Sea. The smell of the sea breeze brought back indescribable feelings of my childhood when I was still an island boy. You, likewise, did not say a word. You indulged in my ecstasy as I let myself drown in the calmness of the wind.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I told you about my fears, those that were triggered by the extremely crisp details - the mud-like texture of the sand, the dazzling colors of the jewels, the forgiving look of the saints, the scent of the late afternoon sea breeze, and the list went on - and, in contrast, by the faceless stranger sitting beside me that was you, making me fear that everything might just turn out to be a dream.

Finally, you broke your silence. You assured me that it was not a dream, that the scent was real and the colors true. I believed you.

You stood, held my hand and asked me to come with you to the other side of the island. You wanted to show me the most beautiful sunset in the world, you said. I gladly heeded, knowing I would give up everything in the world just to finally see your face in its golden tone, and so we started to run towards that place.

Then I woke up. Alone, in my bed, on the 16th floor of one of the many high-rise residential buildings that continuously alter Manila's skyline.

You lied. It was just a dream.

And reality started to engulf me.

I longed to be with my family, to pass time with them on the beachfront where sands are black and mud-soft and the sea breeze brings ecstasy.

I cried for the memories brought by the gold, the saints and the toy. For they remind me of the uncertainties and opportunities in life. Of eventually growing old.

And in that dream, I despaired of either seeing your face or the sunset on it.

Fictional Reality

Dear Clay,

It’s been 2 months since the 7-hour struggle, pinning downs, intense sex, and calm talks. Still, I am left wondering whether you are a fallen angel or a mortal sinner. In the 2nd hour of the first night we were together, your confidence could not be matched by mine. The ideals of getting-to-know-each-other stage, the wholesomeness of the courtship, the commitment-before-sex drama – I completely gave them up in the 3rd hour. In the break of dawn, I was humbled with a sense of decay –for being just like you.

There are characters from my favorite novels whom I either love or despise, from mad people who desperately need saving to heroic ones who awaken every single hope in me. There are two that I keep on reading for countless times just to be with them. There’s Clay from the novel Less Than Zero who never fails to bring me to my lowest. A rich kid who only cared about drugs, sex and failed ambitions, he is such a melancholy read. On the other extreme, there is Howard Roark from the novel The Fountainhead. My ideal, my hero, my granite rock.

This year, I was brought face to face with these two. You, Clay, showed me how you can make the world go round with all your wit, looks and material possessions. Your only difference with Clay the character is that he was destined to fail, whereas you are destined to be somebody someday in this world. You showed me how success can go hand in hand with decay. This combination makes your force even harder to reckon with than the fictional Clay.

Several weeks after, Clay, I bumped into Howard Roark one Thursday night. We found ourselves sitting beside each other at the bar area of my favorite drinking place. I was enjoying my beer and minding my own thoughts, and he appeared likewise. When we were finally introduced, I saw Howard the character in him. His chiseled face was how they described it in the book; his stories about lonely travels, like riding the first provincial bus that passes him on the street, would rival mine. His was a survivor's story. And so without agreeing, we kept on meeting in that same spot every Thursday night. We understand - we both long for exaltation.

Sometimes, I think about you, Clay and whether I was right to judge you. There are nights, too, that I think about Howard. I only wrote to you because Howard does not need to know my thoughts. As I have already mentioned, Howard and I understand each other.

You, Clay, and Howard merged fiction and reality for me. You let me experience a complete mix of emotions that only those two characters can provide - decay, madness, hope, exaltation.

In the end, I ran away from you both. The howling night just makes me remember, Clay, that we can never be more than strangers. Do not look for me in that special place, as I won’t for you or Howard. I’d rather keep you in fiction, and myself in reality.


With Great Affection,

J

Dipping Inks

For most of this year, I have simply gotten tired of writing - be it office reports, research papers, even personal organizers and post it notes. I do not know why writing suddenly became such a tiring task. I did not blog because there was nothing to write about. But looking back, this year has actually been an eventful one.

Did I unconsciously opt for the ultimate silence? Have I finally drowned and lost the madness?

I remember F.Scott Fitzgerald's famous line:

"All good writing is like swimming underwater and holding your breath."

Perhaps I should try writing without drowning myself...be it in ink, emotions, or lack thereof.

With this realization, I am changing the blog's title to SETTLING SCORES - a more neutral and reconciliatory tone - from the former title Mad Living. It will still be ala-mad living style, but it's the kind that, hopefully, always settles scores in the end.

Adios, blog!

Araw sa Gabi

Simple lang akong kiligin ngunit halos nalimutan ko na ang pakiramdam. Nandiyan ang biglang pag-upo sa harap ko habang nasa sa isang coffee shop o kaya ay sorpresang paglitaw sa bahay dala ang paborito kong pagkain. Sa halos tatlong taong walang seryosong relasyon, mas madaling ilista ang mga pangyayaring tulad nito kaysa alalahanin kung paano panandaliang huminto ang mundo dahil sa kilig.

Mas lalong hindi ko ito inasahan na mangagaling sa isang estranghero habang hawak ko ang ika-anim na bote ng Red Horse noong nakaraang gabi (o madaling araw). Pagkalabas namin ng Bed (sa Malate), dumaan kami sa O Bar bago umuwi. Wala pang ilang sandali, natagpuan kong magkausap kami ng isang estrangherong may kapangalang planeta - na ayon din sa isang mitolohiya ay nangangahulugang "araw sa gabi". At sa kalabit sa kanya ng isang tindero ng mga bulaklak, nakangiti nyang sinabing bibili siya kung tatangapin ko ito. Bilang lalaki, hindi ko naranasan o hinangap na makatanggap ng bulaklak, kahit pa mula sa mga dati kong nakarelasyon. Sa kalasingan (at sa kilig na rin, marahil) ay tinanggap ko ito habang ang pigil na ngiti ay namumuo sa aking labi.

Marahil ay nasa mapagbirong posisyon ang aking mga bituin noong mga oras na iyon. Kahit medyo pasikat na ang araw, at habang nakaupo kami ng mga kaibigan ko sa gilid ng Nakpil, ay may tinderang lumapit at nag-abot ng bulaklak sa akin. Tumanggi akong bilhin upang sabihin lamang niya na pinabibigay iyon ng mamang nakaputi sa aking likuran. Muli ay napangiti ako at sandali siyang kinausap bago umalis.

Parehong rosas, parehong pula, parehong nagpangiti ngunit di hamak na may kilig sa naunang estranghero. At kahit ngiti lamang niya ang naaalala ko, at kahit duda akong makikilala ko sya sa oras na magkasalubong kami, sapat nang naipadama nya sa akin kung paano mapangiti sa kilig.

At tulad ng lahat ng ngiti, napapagal at napapawi. Pagkagising ko kanina, nakita ko sa banyo ang dalawang rosas na magkapatong. Kung saan doon ang galing sa naunang estranghero ay imposible nang malaman. Ang tanging nasa isip ko ay kung paano siyang panandaliang naging "araw sa aking gabi", tulad ng sinasabi ng mitolohiya.

Joke's On Me

He passed me by while I was standing outside your door. He, a testament to my deepest lust for flesh. He, my accomplice in those one-night stands. And so, I dialed your number to ask who else was attending the dinner. That guy, you said. He, your cousin.

In an instant, I fled. "Walk, just walk," my mind said. It was a cold and windy walk along unfamiliar streets. I ignored your calls. But your text message made me stop and turn around. "My cousin told me about your past. It doesn't matter to me now. Please come back."

Over dinner, I could not fathom my presence among your relatives and friends. We had been together for a couple of months only and yet, I, stranger to everyone but you, was invited. I should have been elated to be with you (and your loved ones) on your birthday. I should be grateful to you for dismissing my past entanglement with your cousin.

Instead, I was furious. We both know that the joke was on me...and I bet it made you feel so damn good.

The Great Closeted...

Minstrel Man

Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter

And my throat

Is deep with song,

You do not think

I suffer after

I have held my pain

So long?


Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter,

You do not hear

My inner cry?

Because my feet

Are gay with dancing,

You do not know

I die?


- Langston Hughes, 1959

And the Rebel Ruler.

"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them. But the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world,

are the ones who do. "

--- Jack Kerouac, On the Road, 1957

Tesseract

Government Bar, Makati
around 2am, March 2005

Strangers as we were, we could not help but smile upon finding each other. This is how our beginning was planned - two people finding solace on the second floor. Looking down at the dance floor, the lights danced furiously with the music and the crowd cheered as if the best was yet to come.


Bed Club, Malate
sometime after 12m.n., several years after

Like strangers, we barely nodded upon bumping into each other.  I went on partying with my group on the dance floor while holding a glass of empty Blue Frog. Looking up, I caught a glimpse of you on the stairs leading to the second floor. You smiled, but it could have been for someone else.

I guess we will never, never know the in-betweens.

Birdhouse In Your Soul

I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul...

- Birdhouse in Your Soul, They Might Be Giants

To Those We Don't Write Poems About

Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice
the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end

of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds
of women—those you write poems about

and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction

lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast

as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don't have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power

never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely

a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,

as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed
antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long

regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don't know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light

of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing

into each other's ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses

I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out

of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years

to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate

to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn't be said.


The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy, Jeffrey McDaniel

Freeway

"People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles."

This is a line from Bret Easton Ellis' novel Less Than Zero which I am reading, once again. I first encountered it while taking a college literature course as an elective. After spending hours at Booksale the other day, I found it hidden among stacks of Mills and Boon's, old issues of National Geographic magazines, and some Atkin's diet books. Bought it for 40 bucks. Cool.

If Jack Kerouac's On the Road is an exalting read for me, Bret's debut novel is an exhausting experience. Using stream of conciousness, Less than Zero has tempted me to have a taste of decay, not only from the novel's characters, but also from things happening around me. The book shows how lives can be devoid of passion and full of hollowed dreams. For the characters, as well as for others in the real world, detachment was, and still is, a cure.

As I finish the last page, I stare blankly through the window of my 4th floor apartment and see the city lights gradually come to life. I know that later tonight my friends and I will be in some meaningless meanderings, club hopping, drinking, flirting - just living the youthful life - and beneath are still afraid to merge.

Or is it not? We all head for the freeway, after all.

Hanging About in Dreams (1)

Coinciding with the beginning of summer is our first date at Tiananmen Bar along Makati Avenue. I am observing Gerry from across the table. I seem to memorize every feature, even his smile. It is still a getting to know stage, but embers of the feelings contained in the past, in a somehow different realm, are starting to take hold of the moment. Until eventually, a heavy, swirling mass of emotions engulfs me.

I wake up with my pulses racing, surprised not only by the fact that I just dreamt of the person lying beside me, but also with the crisp details of the dream which actually happened more than a year ago.

I sit on the bed and try to get a glimpse of the dark room we are in. It is a room devoid of personality, its strangeness exposed by a flickering sheen of thin, dancing ray-like lights escaping through the window curtain. That, and the furious noise of passing cars outside the motel, add more to the nostalgia. I struggled to check my watch. It says 4:15 a.m.

Snoring lightly, Gerry’s upper body is as bare as mine. We are sharing a thin, white blanket standard of cheap motels in the metro. A pinching, poignant feeling of missing this person strikes me. For a moment, I regret waking up from that dream - one that is reminiscent of the past and of the endless potentials of the could-have-beens.

Hanging About in Dreams (2)

Worn and tired to the bones, I arrived in Manila from an out of town trip a little late that evening and was set to miss one of those Friday drinking nights with friends. I was ensconced at my place while watching a late night program on the television when a call broke my sleepiness. It was Gerry.

“Hi Jay. Are you back in Manila? I’m somewhere in Makati. Let’s go to Government and unwind.” He said, with a little urgency in his voice.

“I just got back a few hours ago from Cagayan de Oro. You know what, I found this club there much like Government.” I said.

“Really? Too bad we never discovered it during our stay there last year. So, are you coming?” He asked.

“Sure. I’m a little tired but I think I need to unwind.”

“Hurry up so you can catch the free entrance before 1am. See you in a bit.”

While in the taxi, I tried to recall the last time we met. It was about a few weeks ago where we had a few bottle of beers and talked about everything under the sun except the “us” talk, which is usually the case. I guess that is the usual thing with ex-lovers, you never get past beyond the awkward stage of talking about your past. Gerry and I broke up around the summer of last year, but still managed to see each other once in a while for a drink or two, a kind of relationship which was generally a blurred area for me.

I made it a little past one, so I paid a few hundred bucks for the entrance. Gerry was already inside, and the entire floor was crowded with guys like us. The music was a little loud and despite the dimness, I easily spotted him. We found ourselves laughing and talking like we never had something going on before. A guy standing on his right side was trying to catch his attention, so I made a joke about giving that guy a chance. I went to the wash room, and this other guy who was staring at me ever since I arrived followed me. He was nice looking and seemed decent. After a while, it got awkward talking like that inside the wash room so I said I’d see him around. Gerry was looking for me and wanted to get rid of this persistent guy. I wanted to tease him more and told him I’d just say hi to my friend on the other side of the dance floor. He immediately followed me, and was a little angry at me for doing that. More beers, and we found ourselves standing with side by side all throughout. He was kidding me if I was getting jealous of that guy, and I replied yes with much exaggeration to which we both laughed.

Kenneth, Gerry’s friend and an acquaintance of mine, approached us. For some reason which I did not bother to ask, he knew our story. He was kidding us if we’re back together to which we both reacted surprised, and even showed some expressions of aghast.

“I think you’d be happier with each other. Why did you break up, in the first place? Why don’t you two stop wandering and get serious.” Kenneth said with a meaningful smile.

I didn’t know if he was kidding or not. We were caught unaware by that statement, but started kidding each other once again, after a while.

“Isn’t it obvious?”, I said to him. “We’re giving ourselves second chance.”

Gerry seconded and we further teased Kenneth, and even held hands in front of him. More jokes and teasing, and suddenly, I noticed that such exchanges were getting a little bit meaningful. I pretended not to mind it at all.

Gerry wakes up and breaks my reminiscing of the memories of the few hours before. “It is getting colder.” , he says, and complains about me sleeping like a log while he, on the other side, has to wake up every now and then. “It must be the alcohol. I gulped down around five bottles.” , I say. I turn my back towards him. I doze off listening to our shallow breaths, the only reminder that inside this room at this very moment, we are breathing each other’s breath, only invisible, only a little less insignificant fact.

Hanging About in Dreams (3)

It is mid-summer and we are spending the holy week in Marinduque. We are playing truth and dare game along the beach with his friends. Suddenly, we are on the hot seat. “So, are you two together?”, they ask us. “You know the answer guys. Jay’s a very special person for me.”, he says while looking at me. Then the attention shifted to me. “Same here. Gerry’s the most wonderful person I’ve ever met.” Then, cheers from his friends. Somehow, they dare us to kiss. We also seal the first “I love you’s” in front of them. Summer day instantly transforms into a cold, breezy night. We are two bodies becoming one, hugging while floating above the silent, placid, moonlit sea. The view of the full moon glorifying us from the sky is breathtaking. From nowhere, strong, giant waves come rushing toward us and takes me away. The waves bring me to its depth and back to the shore, and I find myself crashing with the sharp rocks.

It is the drowning feeling which awakens me, and later magnifies to a weird feeling I cannot even describe. I breathe heavily and check my luminous watch. It’s just around 5 a.m. Gerry seems restless with his occasional shifts beside me. I think of holding him but change my mind in an instant.

I try to remember how we got in this motel. We decided to call it a night after an hour of drinking and dancing in Government. Inside his car, we still went on with our jokes on how we missed each other. I was really drunk, having gulped down four bottles of beers and a glass of vodka. He was a little drank too, but sober enough to drive. It was obvious that neither of us wanted to go home then.

“So, where are we going?” I asked him with my eyes closed, feeling a little bit dizzy.

“Let’s go to this club in Malate, Jay. The night is still young.” He said.

We headed towards Manila and found ourselves approaching the strip of bars in Malate. He pulled to a stop, and asked me, for the second time, if I wanted to go there or spend time in a quiet place.

“Anywhere, Gerry. I just don’t want to go home yet.” The drunkenness was gone now.

“Then, let’s go to a motel.” I laughed at him for telling this. But I know there’s some seriousness in his tone.

After taking an unplanned u-turn away from Malate and crisscrossing what seemed to be hundreds of streets, we found ourselves in some motel. I, myself, was surprised by the sudden courage I had. I have gotten over the one-night stands typical of the gay lifestyle, and have sworn to stand up to my belief that relationships matter first rather than sex. But that night was a different night. It was nothing short of a grandiose plan, a forced culmination of all the time wasted and forgone opportunities.

I wouldn’t simply call it sex, it was a lovemaking that we did. Lying on our back and holding each other’s hand, for a few seconds, that tingling, old feeling resurfaces. Gently, I let my hand loose, afraid of the implications it may bring. I still remember the last time we spent the night together as lovers. I never thought it would happen again. Here I am, lying beside him in a strange room, but now maintaining a certain distance, and sending signs that are only sent by foolish people, afraid but wanting of the what if’s, wanting but afraid of the if… then…’s.

A melancholic, empty chair beside the window, barely recognizable from the dark, transports my thoughts to that last night which signaled the end of summer. It is like watching my own play, but now distantly seeing myself from his eyes, feeling the same hurt, the same betrayal. I was stealthily putting on my shoes while sitting on that chair facing the bed, all the while memorizing his body, for the last time, as he was sleeping. Suddenly he woke up, and wondered why I was dressed up and about to leave.

“Where are you going? What’s the problem?”

“Nothing. I just want to go.”

“Jay, this is not the time to make jokes. Have I done anything wrong?” Gerry leaned on the headboard, scratching his eyes, his grogginess now gone.

“I think this is the end, Gerry.” I said. “Please, don’t let me explain. Just let me leave.”

Hanging About in Dreams (4)

We wake up a little past midday and nobody tries to talk about what happened, even after checking out of the motel. I insist that he just drop me off on the next corner, and we say the usual goodbyes. Walking along the strip of commercial establishments filled with hurrying hordes of people only God knows where they are heading, and bored cigarette vendors waiting for the Sun God Ra to descent along the heavily-trafficked Roxas Boulevard, the Saturday afternoon heat becomes a little scorching. Occasional gushes of wind from the nearby Manila Bay blends with the dark, polluted smoke from the passing vehicles. Still, this makes the walk a little airy and bearable. The sun is blinding and a street vendor approaches me to sell fake Calvin Klein sunglasses for fifty bucks. I light a cigarette, and take a shade in the nearby Starbucks.

Taking refuge with my newly bought sunglasses, I take a seat in the corner. The pungent taste of coffee doesn’t take the dreaminess away, memories and daydreams still spinning inside my mind. Things just happened so unexpectedly last night, and I am still dazed by how feelings of the past can sprout from small cracks of the present, only to be swept away, then relived, in a totally different kind of way, still untenable, seemingly fleeting, and surprisingly, even lurking.

To Whom the Last Beer Falls

“Can I go in for a while?” Marco asked while I was getting off his car.

I checked my watch and invited him in. It was only 10 pm. Besides, it was raining like hell. The weather was a little showery when we left Tapsi, once our favorite drinking place around the UST area. There, we had a couple of beer and laughed about everything like we never parted ways.

“You haven’t changed.” He said as soon as he got a glimpse of my messy place. “I see. You got rid of the aquarium. Where are the fishes?” He added, referring to the missing, inconspicuous aquarium on the corner he gave last year as a birthday present.

"They landed on the frying pan when my budget ran short." I jokingly said. He was used to me not giving the direct answer.

I cleared the sofa of books and and loose papers. He attempted to help me out but suddenly decided to just stand on one corner. I remembered the time when he used to fix the mess himself and, all the time, nagging about my need to organize things, more so my thoughts. A cell phone suddenly rang and brought me back to present.

“It’s yours.” Marco handed my phone from the table.

It was Ian whom I was with earlier that day. Ian is a very nice person, and if ever somebody asks me about it, it’s one of those rare moments when I’d say “I don’t know.” I mean, I just don’t see anything coming, though I certainly enjoy every moment with him. Maybe, we are just friends; Maybe, we’re just both playing it safe. Again, I don’t know.

“Dude, what’s up?” I asked after turning on the television. I walked towards the bathroom for some privacy.

“Bored. I was thinking if you’d like to have a few beers. That is, if you’re not doing something right now.” Ian’s place is just a 20-minute ride from mine.

“I’m a little drank, dude. You should have told me earlier.” I almost said. Instead, “I could still have a few bottles of beer. Let’s meet in Timog after an hour? Same place. I hope the rain stops by then.”

“Ok 11 p.m. then. See you.” He hanged up.

Back on the sofa, Marco was restlessly surfing the cable. I sat beside him and asked him to just stick to one channel. “Can’t Hardly Wait” was being played on HBO. After a while, I felt his hand reach for my back. I felt my pulse quicken but pretended to be amused with the movie as it shows fate playing around the lives of the characters. A supposedly funny sex scene in the movie caught my attention and made me laugh. He laughed, too, as he awkwardly held my hand with his. I broke from the grip and reached for the remote, commenting that I could not hear a thing the characters were saying.

“You’re already drunk.”, he said.

“No. It’s the rain.” I nonchalantly replied.

I got us more beers from the fridge beside the window. Although the rain had already stopped, faint drizzles still blurred the windowpane. I opened the windows and absorbed the fresh air. From the 4th floor, I got a whiff of the wet alleys from the neigbourhood - the kind that tells you a rain had just passed. Indeed, a damp night like this could be a revelation.

The wall clock said it was thirty minutes past ten.

“One for the road?” I turned around and handed him a can of beer.

Blink

Non-chalantly looking from a distance,

I found your eyes among the great and busy crowd
and wonder how I can think of happy endings
when we already lost the ending from the start.


I kept lingering on your eyes for a moment,

but they are like withered embers of the past gone
where we feign ignorance because we failed each other
and random, fleeting glances are all we can share.


And so the wind blows,

                           and my eyes blink to new directions.

Strangers to Ourselves

“Wither thoust go, stranger, in thy shiny car in the middle of the night?”

This is a slightly modified line from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. Strangers and midnight, they complement each other. I still vividly recall Julia Kristeva’s piece on ‘strangers’ in her piece “Strangers to Ourselves”. In that writing, the bottomline of hatred and discrimination starts with being strangers. She is talking about race, of course.

I have a different version to tell, though, and I’ll stick to that midnight allusion. Of late, nothing could have been more intense and triggering than the events and realizations surrounding this musing. This is where strangers proved to be some kind of magnet that offers possible adventures, of heartless union, of mystical escape. A flickering moment, as one song goes.

It could have been in the most perfect setting. You’d certainly catch the stare that “knows” along that deserted hotel lobby in a strange city in the middle of the night. An instant attraction, a lonely room for either of you, and the need for a strange company. That’s all it takes.

You talk as if you know each other very well. You try to withhold as much information from him despite your perception of the other party as being “trusthworthy”. You’d never go out with an indecent person, you tell yourself, but that’s enough. You are all perceiving, but all cautioning on the other side. After coffee, you’d walk back to the hotel, to either of your room, and, again, in one flickering moment, two souls become one.

The hotel phone rings back at your room. It’s from the other room which you just left. The tone is sweeter now, you notice. There’s the temptation of being more familiar with each other now. But you try to shrug it off and believe that nothing special happened. It’s a strange, but still, an ordinary night, and you have your flight early in the morning. No nothing.

Along your routinary way, you meet such strangers. Even in the most unexpected places, you’ll find yourself exchanging those knowing looks. A few talks, and suddenly, the stranger is no longer a stranger. But you know that after that flickering moment, the stranger will have to remain a stranger. You’ve learned not to cross the line.

One thing even amusing is how persons whom you have had connections with can instantly become strangers. You look straight into their eyes and all you see is a stranger. Or, they can be the ones to see the strangeness in your own eyes. Or maybe both. Unexpectedly, there’s the relief in finding it. It’s back to being strangers, once again.

Too soon, “new” strangers will cross your paths to offer countless possibilities. But then again, you can always find yourself facing the most perceiving question, neither uttered nor answerable, because you realize that you are also a stranger to yourself.

“Where do you go, stranger, in the middle of the night?”