I spent my Sabbath revering her
The sea is my church
For mine, is a serene love
quiet as a cloud
a melancholic drizzle
and it sighs with the breeze
waves curl like fingers on a guitar
A soft song for departures
and last glances, thus lingering

I have lost the will
to desire her less
so that all I could aspire to
is fidelity – a wound as a deep
as a first kiss

It is certain that
I will grow old
whispering her name

Once there was a man
who loved me like a daughter
a tragic consolation
from the woman who married another man
My resemblance beguiles him
He looks at me
he is twenty-three again then,
his heart groans
Indeed there are truths
as poignant as poems

I imagine that I inherited his tragedy
Pity, I have not the wisdom of years
only seconds which stretch to infinity
when she surrounds me
be it sea and sky and air
Is it then my fate
to love pieces of her?

My love is light so I ply
the orders of my passion
with a poem
and see to it that a Sunday
becomes as crystallized
and as unforgettable
as her

I unfortunately got on one of these bastards despite the precaution. As the bastard began to drive his way out of the airport curb, I noticed that the meter was covered by a towel – that alone was fishy. Calmly, I asked the driver to turn on the meter to which he coyly insists that I pay him 300 pesos. I asked him nicely to turn on the meter instead, which he ignored. My heart raced. Just as he was about to overtake the cab in front of us, I opened the door. He stopped abruptly otherwise his door would have collided with the rear end of the vehicle in front of him. I walked away briskly without looking back, which I later regretted since I wasn’t able to catch his plate number.

I got on another cab but this time a metered one. I was quiet throughout the ride, reeling from the absurd turn of events. Stunned.

I felt the urgent need to destress. Thankfully it was a holiday and I arranged to meet with my friend, Cristine, who was free that afternoon. I walked to our meeting place shortly after I got settled in to my hotel. That walk reminded me how much I enjoyed walking around Ermita. It evoked not just nostalgia but a great deal of familiarity. I still get surprised with myself how well I know the area and how my mind can navigate around it accordingly.

We chose to stay in a cafe overlooking Padre Faura. Tin just got back from her Europe trip and this time, she had more travel stories to share. I was pleased to see her after a couple of lovers — I tend to measure the time we last see each other by the love affairs that passed. She always had a lot of questions about my exploits as though it was curious to her how I lived my life. It’s not surprising since she’s been living with the Opus Dei for nearly four years now and I live quite an opposite life. I like that we respect each other, our differences. I like how she listens well. I like how she is very sensitive to the underlying emotions that come with my stories. I like that I learn quite a lot from her too. I especially like the fact that she lives far away enough not to get involved in that gossip-mongering circle that Davao tends to be. This is why she is my confidant. Time flew as we exchanged stories. We laughed and teased and sighed over some. Then Tin had to leave for dinner with her dorm mates. We hugged and exchanged knowing looks before we parted ways.

I spent that night in the hotel alone. I was in a state of panic for my immigration interview the next day. I slept at around 3AM. I woke up an hour and a half later. Had early breakfast and walked from the hotel to the US embassy. I panicked when I saw the slew of people there. I spent thirty minutes lined up outside, waiting for my turn just to get in. I thought I was late since I got in past my appointment time but it went smoothly. I spent nearly six hours the entire duration of that wait. A lot of waiting. I fell asleep in my chair, waiting. I took several trips to the bathroom while waiting. By the way, I love the bathroom at the embassy. The sink ran on warm water and this calmed my nerves. I don’t know why I was nervous. I could hear my mom’s voice in my head telling me not to screw things up. I watched the other applicants stand in front of the windows, which looked like eyes to the soul of another world. Across the glass was the stern gatekeeper – the consul. You instantly have an idea of what the blinds and plexiglass were for. They were for disgruntled applicants who at a moment’s provocation could turn violently on the consul. This was a very crucial and very emotional interview. Some brought a briefcase of documents, standing defensively, desperate to get through. Some took a long time to finish, like questions seemed to spiral down to oblivion. Some left with irrepressible smiles. Some walked down that long hallway to the exit with that stony face looking as though they were served a death sentence.

Then my number was called. I’ve befriended some of the Bisayas in the waiting area and they all wished me good luck as I stood up and made my way to the window. Consul leafed through my files and asked me factual questions. Not that any other question wouldn’t consist of facts, but I imagined from the onset that I would get essay questions. Questions like, “Are you ready to migrate to the US?” Now, a slight miscalculation on my part could possibly railroad my petition. Instead I was asked the following questions: how are you related to the petitioner? When do you plan to leave? What is your mailing address? The consul looked up at me in one instance as though to scrutinize a harmless creature. Everything is in order here. Your visa is approved. Please wait for your number to be called.

My number was called after five minutes and I proceeded to a window where I was asked how to correctly spell my name. My second name is a single r and single n, please. That’s all, you may leave, the lady tells me. That’s it? She looked up at me with an I-haven’t-got-all-day look and emphasized, “That’s it, miss. You may now exit.” On my way out the Bisayas waved at me and I gave them a thumbs up.

I walked out of that building with the lightest feeling in the world.

My phone was filled with several calls and messages, all asking about my interview. The first person I dialed was my mom. It’s done, Ma. I’m approved. Oh! Well then, good! I can’t recall the last time my mom smiled over the phone before that call.

It was a blur after that.

I left Manila that night coming to terms with a new reality that I now go by. Soon enough everything will be new to me: new permanent address even a new social security number. My passport was mailed to me a few days after the interview. The glossy surface was overwhelming by itself, though one line caught my eye.  It was at the top part of the visa.  It said “United States of America”.  It seemed like the sort of thing that someone with my upbringing and education would find all too daunting. I’ve read a great deal about neo-colonialism and the pitfalls of the capitalist, at times, unilateral, Christian fundamentalist and consumer-driven America.  Next to that line was my name and the number which would serve as a reference to all the information the US government had about me.  I was now case number: XXXXXXXXXXX.  THAT my friends, made all the difference.

My friend, Perry, coined the term Novemblur. I couldn’t find a more precise way to describe the month that passed.

On the other hand, I do have bits of clarity. Yet, they are scattered about like shards of glass.  I won’t bother to piece them back together.  Anyway, memories are hardly summoned in a logical form.  One can only feel.

Of Cigarettes and Goodbyes

The month began like this: I woke up in a dark empty room.  I didn’t know what time it was.  I reached for a cigarette at the bed side. I lit up one and had a drag, lying down still.  I motioned for my phone and some messages were waiting for me.  Later that day, I found myself in the living room watching some cheap Tagolog comedy with my arms around a girl I met just two days prior. She curled up at times because laughter seemed unbearable.  I smiled politely. She looked over her shoulder and motioned for a kiss.  I ran the back of my fingers on her lips and pulled her until she was facing the other way. We were quiet until gay men filed into the room, proposing to eat out. Funny.

At the restaurant she had very little to offer the conversation. She’s young, I reasoned in my head. Like three years made all the difference.  We were all laughing except for her.  I held her hand under the table to reassure her.  She squeezed back.

After dinner, we stepped out for a cigarette.  In one of the tables outside, I spotted her instantly: the first woman I ever loved.  She was sitting on her boyfriend’s lap.  When we caught each other’s eye, she got up in a jolt.  She walked over to say hello and I introduced her to my companion.  The gay men followed suit and we all exchanged pleasantries – that small group of ours and then she and her boyfriend.  It was all a blur.  I remember chuckles over banter and then her smile.  It didn’t change.  She still had that thousand killowatt smile that made me jump ship and never look back. Then we said our goodbyes.

Then, it was the 2nd of November. I remember sitting in a bus, fighting sleep. I had a book in hand but the ride was too dizzying to consume its pages.  I lingered on my phone and reminded someone that I was to fly home to Davao that night. She seemed surprised.  Why didn’t you tell me ahead?  I did.  She didn’t get the message. I thought all along that she’d grown cold and she didn’t care that I was leaving. Tears welled up when she asked me where I was.

I cancelled lunch with the girl from yesterday.  I took two trains to end up in a coffee shop along Vito Cruz.  I waited an hour before she turned up. And then she burst into the scene like a splash of bright colors on that grey day in Vito Cruz. After coffee, we had Mexican, and then milk tea at this joint her ex owns. Over Mexican, I told her that I was briefly mad at her and I explained myself.  Then, she explained herself.  Then some odd outbursts. Then we were fine and smiling and laughing. Shortly, we end up walking around the area with my gigantic red backpack and this amused her a bit, especially when I struggled to fit through a spiral staircase as we moved from one place to another. I remember a lot more walking and talking.  She was energetic and it was infectious.  I remember the lingering.  She urged me to go, worried I’d miss my flight. I succumbed.  I hugged her. Then we said our goodbyes.

At the airport I had time to kill. I said more goodbyes over the phone while I was in the smoking area.  Meanwhile, a man was eyeing me from the other table. He wanted to borrow my lighter to which I obliged.  Then I ran out of cigarettes.  He got a pack of filters from his bag, then handed it to me.  Are you sure?  Yes, please, I have many.  They taste different in Saudi Arabia.  I tasted what the fuss was about.  As I took a drag, my eyes lit up at the man and I nodded at him.  He says, “It may be the same thing, but things always taste different when you are somewhere new”.

We were on the same flight to Davao. He came home to see his wife after months of being far away.

I caught his eye as I collected my luggage. We smiled and waved at each other. It was our way of saying goodbye.

____,
how do I console
your beaten up heart?

I have love to give
But…
will you take it?

Will you let me
Take you in my arms
And rock you until
Your troubles ebb away?

Will you let me

Sing to you sweetly
The songs that you like
Remind you of your youth
Back then
when you had more
strength to love

I will tame
My urges and learn to
Wait

I will give both
Gentleness
and
Passion

I will learn
To speak beyond the words
This
language of
Caring gestures

If you are wary that
I will one day leave
My fears are ten-fold

So
tell me…

How do I console
Your beaten up heart?

Shall I keep walking
Beside you
Wherever
you please?

Shall
I keep doing
the little things?

Should
I see to it…

That you arrive at the bridge

And take it from there
As I
watch you cross
To her side of the world

To the one you love the most

I understand

That there will
Always be
A limit to your love
I understand

I understand
That I may never be
Worthy
Nor
ideal

But understand
That
I can also be
Enough

And
it is enough for me
That you know this

Even if your
Heart yearns for more

At times I squirm

When your silence
On the subject of us
Is too much to bear

When you
Withdraw your hand
Too soon
Too long

Or
grow cold
Despite the
Steady warmth
That I give

I am not
Totally unfeeling

But
I try–

I try with my mind’s resolve
To understand

Tell me, ____

How do I console
Your beaten up heart?

For your sorrow
Moves me
It is a sadness
I could never know

And that
Frightens me

So I seek out
From within you
the
beauty
‘neath your
Sorrows

The
real you

Despite
all your
Secrets
– notice how

I probe
And listen without
Passing any judgment

on
you

or
her

the
truth

is just there

between the lines,
in the details
you’ve left out

While I am gifted
with this time I have with you
all I can do
is
listen

If
you
Arrive
at the point
When you have decided
That you
Will no longer see me

It is my only wish that

For
a split second
your
heart
Pounded,
Hesitated

I am not asking
That
you let me in

All I ask
Is that you answer
When I knock
And you meet me
At the door

~
March 6, 2011

As soon as I got out this morning, I was pleasantly surprised to find out that it is Independence day. At some part of town, flags of the revolution were draped along the gates of a government building. For the occasion, it seemed ironic that the street is nearly empty. It still feels like a Sunday. The frenzy, if there was any, is hidden from my vantage point. And I liked that. The fact that I have a view of the city that conforms to my aesthetic of what a Sunday is like. A serene day. A day fit for contemplation. Despite these interjections of historical note.

I’m very sensitive about things I see. It is in this sort of encounter between my reality and senses charged with the most emotion. Images have a way of seeping in to my poetic memory. It is a memory so intense that I have to keep them private. My mind becomes a sanctum. For instance, what beauty I see becomes untouchable. They are in a dreamlike movement, yet it is immovable.

And so when, coincidentally, random things fall upon each other and begin to appear meaningful and memorable…I don’t know. Sometimes I look away from reason because at times reasons seem absurd. No, I don’t believe things happen for a reason. But when things happen, one reasons out. Assigning meaning to a random array of events. It’s a trickster.

Being human has a call to transcendence. And yet we are made of matter too, things which set limits. Limits we overlook because we are just…human.

***

I am saying something but I am not telling you what it is. There are times that vagueness explains itself best:

I’m inclined with the idea that the week starts on a Sunday. There is a calmness when one is being eased in to a new beginning. But things also end on a Sunday in a brutal fashion. The weekend is over. The week turns its back on time ad infinitum.

It is a day of beginning and end.

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Most days in Manila, I feel a strong wave of melancholy. There is always something to be sorrowful about. My daily route passes through a high end village, then through the slums and then through the busy highway outside the Sandiggan bayan. The combination is an unnerving diorama of social classism. I begin my day absolutely helpless to this inpenetrable reality.

Crawlers of old Manila are all looking for a fuck. There is always someone random who is lonely and looking for casual. It’s beautiful how two minds can meet thru loneliness. And that some need to strip themselves of all their reservation to survive the night. There can be plenty of people in a city but there are more who will still feel terribly alone. Waking up to nobody who cares is just a daily affair.

I like to walk the streets at night. Alone. Luckily, I’ve never been mugged or raped. Yes, I can be too reckless. It makes me ponder why crime doesn’t stop. Criminals will always be there in society. But victims are always at the wrong place at the wrong time because they have too much faith in the goodness of people. People are heartless. Manila teaches this in a didactic way and yet there are those who choose not to listen. Even me.

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Perhaps we like to peek into the other world and be able to see what joins or separates it from our own. Let me open this window for you.

Today is Saturday. I woke up today having the intent of leaving the house early to catch school before the enrollment cutoff. Woke up from a dream, with nebulous imagery. I can only recall that it is about a friendship with an unlikely character. Someone I know. It was a happy dream.

When I woke up, we kissed. I realized how affectionate I can be. Sometimes, I just forget everything in a cumulative way. I have to say, I’m thinking less and less of you. Your face does not superimpose in my mind when I am kissing someone else. People have different faces. Do you recall me telling you that people should be loved differently for they are each different from one another? I left out the part that they should be loved as they are.

***

I trailed off about two days ago. I fell asleep writing. It’s almost 4 o’clock now. I still have things to do in school tomorrow. I always wonder who I’ll see in school. How their faces will be when they see me. It does not interest me how we will discuss the banalities of life in the university, however, I still talk and try to appear engaging. My friend Byron told me to always have a smile on your face. It’ll start making one feel more cheered up, he says, no matter how bored, sad and angry you might be. I tend to believe him. And so I’ll try it later.

***

When I was on my way home, it began to rain hard. It was like a small outburst from the heavens. About two minutes later the rain suddenly stopped. Cosmic staccato? Funny. Just when I was quietly thinking to myself how people would manage to go home when they’re stuck in a commute. I know how that is, living very far away from the heart of the city. That used to be my life… I remember those times when I’d pack extra cloths and figure out where to sleepover the next day. Years I found it unbearable to live with my father. One night it was raining, I had planned to sleepover at Marj’s apartment. I was foolish enough to think that a few shots of rum in my body would warm me up. I get cold easily, you see. I need warmth to doze off in to the night. Marj said she understood. She’d let me sleep on her bed while she spent the wee hours playing Zeus on the computer, lording over some virtual colony. This rainy night I’m talking about: it rained hard enough that I lied there with my eyes open, feeling some droplets spit at my face through the jalousie. It was wonderful. I was chilling and gritting my teeth, but was smiling actually. The rain seemed like a companion to me that night and I welcomed her. She tells me “Life is fickle”. Weather, weather lang – as Kuya Kim would put it.

Now, I have my own bed.  It is a place very far away from my dad.  Sometimes I miss him, just to look at his face and see if I still feel absolutely nothing.  Not hate.  Not love.  Nothing.  I feel sad about it.  He used to pick me up in the rain sometimes, when he doesn’t feel lazy.  Drive all the way to wherever I am after a night of sleeping over at a friend’s house.  And he’ll ask me nothing about me.  And I would tell him nothing.  Instead, he likes to whine about my mother in these long rides, how she left us and left him to take care of “everything” and I’d sit quietly, not quite listening.  Looking out the window from the front seat of his car.  Stoically watching the rain droplets slide down the glass.

***

When I was a kid I used to draw people. I draw them quite well.  Sometimes with a cartoon-like quality.  Other times, I like to make faces out of geometric strokes.   And tell everyone – it’s a face.

My mum once forced me to join a drawing contest that had a US dollar cash prize.  I told her I would lose as I’ve seen the caliber of sketch artists who probably are well trained in to the physics of shading and blurring, and depth perception.  Whereas I was just a preteen hobbyist who happened to use a great deal of rear end notebook pages to draw the story of a fictitious character – which is not tantamount to skill.  I initially refused.  I was so embarrassed to even send an entry!  She was persistent to the point that she posed a threat that she will never support my drawing as a hobby if I don’t enter this contest. Come to think of it now, it was a really twisted and very cruel thing to say to an 11-year old.  But at that time, I thought that there was no way to go around it and that I had no choice.  Why would I want one of my favorite things taken  away from me?  And so I drew.

And that was the last time I remember drawing a great deal.

I’ve always thought of publishing my work.  But I’ve read the caliber of writers out there.  Sometimes, I’m afraid to write.  Not because of the work that is out there already.  There are stories that will write themselves, eventually, through time.  We will always leave imprints of historical memory through written work.  If I do not publish my work, the world will not be missing any great literature.  Great literature will always be there.

I’m afraid to lose the will to write.  It may sound absurd however, writing is not something I wish to do for a specific endeavor.  I wait for it to come to me like a dream.  Unexpected. Unforced.  Like a woman you woo.  You can never know when she will come.  You can never force her to come.  But you have to be prepared when she does.  You can’t chase her off and suck her dry like an enterprise.  She won’t like that.

***

I guess, I am not ready yet.  But my goal at the moment is to shape up.  I will work to deserve the craft.  To possess her and rightly so.