Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
For comments, inquiries, corrections and feedback, contact admin: alexzita5@gmail.com
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Reflections on Retirement, Focus, and the Absurd Beauty of Purpose
I’ve been improving a lot when it comes to placing real value on my days in retirement. One of my ongoing goals is to reduce exposure to stimuli that chip away at my attention span—those short bursts of information that flood in from every direction, pulling the mind into overdrive. Much of this information, though designed to titillate, contributes little to my well-being. Instead, it forms habits engineered by the architects of social media—habits that quietly turn people into automatons, reacting rather than choosing. A billionaire is even trying to embed chips into our brains. We live in strange times.
I consider myself lucky. My youth unfolded in an era untouched by platforms, apps, and algorithmic distractions. While I don’t claim these technologies are entirely useless—they’ve given me tools for learning and expression—they’re only useful up to a certain point. They’ve allowed me to explore creativity in writing and digital content, areas that now bring me profound joy. AI, for example, has become an invaluable companion in refining my writing—saving me the hours or fees I would’ve incurred for professional editing. Creativity, more than productivity, is what I now seek. It brings me into a zone of deep focus, a quiet joy. Writing—especially as a form of meditation—has become one of my most grounding rituals.
What I resist is the mindless reflex to scroll, click, and drift into a virtual void. That pattern dilutes my presence in the real world, giving the illusion of activity but leaving me empty, like binge-watching meaningless television. Some may find satisfaction in that habit of mindlessness. I don’t. It feels like a betrayal of intention—like a painter who sets out to create but spends the whole day staring out the window devoid of drive, motivation, and inspiration. I'm no painter, but that analogy rings true. Distraction grieves the artist in me.
I’m making progress, though. I’ve started limiting distractions and replacing them with more mindful habits. Mindfulness, after all, cannot thrive on noise or overstimulation. So I turn off the television. I turn my sight away from impulsive smartphone checks. When I catch myself wasting time, I pivot—sometimes toward something creative, sometimes toward something simple and nourishing. Writing meditation is one such substitute. Learning new digital tools is another. I’ve recently found joy in setting up a new domain to replace an old one—something small but satisfying, something alive. It made me feel capable, curious again.
I know my work may not reach many people. The long, stream-of-consciousness essays I write aren’t popular in a world bent on bite-sized, algorithm-approved content. My digital projects are niche, and probably better handled by tech-savvy minds. Still, I insist on doing them. Not because they have commercial value or viral potential—but because they bring me 'zone' and 'flow'. That’s what I’m after in this chapter of life.
I think of it like this: a man climbs a mountain each day, carrying water from the river below to his garden at the summit. People mock him. "Why not plant your garden at the base of the mountain?” they ask. But at the end of his life, the man might say: “I enjoyed every step of that climb. I forgot my troubles and felt strong. I cleared my mind. And oh—the view.” That, to me, is enough.
To some, my way of life now might seem absurd. “Why waste time on things that have no value to the world?” they ask. But what is value, really? If I planted my garden where the river flows, I might have more free time—but that time would only be filled with more restlessness, more searching for the next distraction. And I am done chasing distractions. I’d rather climb, carry water, feel the sweat, enjoy the view, and tend to the garden of my mind.
Politics, business, entertainment—they all repeat themselves in cycles, much like fashion or film. A new actor in the same script. A new designer remixing the old silhouette. A new politician rehearsing familiar lines. The only real change is the face playing the role. So what if my own cycle is eccentric or unproductive by worldly standards?
In truth, life is absurd. But that absurdity dances with the Law of Nature. And the engine behind that law isn’t reason, or randomness, or even reality—it’s God. That’s what I believe.
I am merely a grain of sand, a wave that breaks and disappears, a hibiscus flower that blooms and withers in a single day. I am a bee that dies after pollinating, a leaf that lets go. That is what I am in the true scheme of things.
And that—honestly—is enough.
2025-04-23 11:15:57
popong
(Warning: sensitive content, written in my early 20s dealing with the decade 80's. Edited through AI. This is meant for mature readers.)
Chapter 3
Antonio spins a hustler's gospel for Roberto Policarpio—a grand, dizzying monologue of Manila’s nighttime underworld, all in the hopes of getting paid.
---
After teaching them everything I knew, my boys were promoted—globally. These sons of Manila ended up lighting fire on hostel beds, car backseats, cheap motels, and even under the starless skies of the world’s grandest cities. Paris, Amsterdam, London, New York... and our very own Santa Monica Boulevard. “Damn those Filipinos,” the foreigners say. “Who taught them to be such exquisite tarts?”
Their humble teacher? Still standing right here, by Manila Bay—your divine mentor in stilettos and sin. I should be offering entire *semester courses* in the Art of Hustling to the country’s top universities. With credits. Full lecture halls. Thesis defenses.
But beware—outside my circle of trained neophytes lie the closet queens and repentant sinners. The ones who show up quoting scripture, condemning Sodom, praying for the salvation of homosexuals... only to turn around five minutes later, whispering their price. I’ve seen it too many times. These “holier-than-thou” sickos are the most dangerous. Their guilt runs deep. And when their shame boils over, it’s us they blame. Some of them even carry knives. Some of them pull triggers.
And yet—shame on me—I still give in. Especially when I’m broke. This line of work? You can never keep money. The cops make sure of that. They show up at midnight, threaten to lock me up unless I “grease their dicks,” and I’m not even speaking figuratively.
I've never had a proper police record until recently. A few months back, some bastard arrested me for “indecent exposure.” Indecent, my ass—I was *mooning* him. That’s art! Then he plants weed in my pocket and starts his little drama. “Oh-ho! You’ve got drugs, my boy. You're in trouble now.”
Marijuana? That’s not even a drug in my book. So I threw a name at him—a big-shot NBI guy I serviced back in the day—and told the cop if he locked me up, I’d sing his bedtime habits in public. Can you believe it? The idiot *called* the NBI guy to check. And when he realized I wasn’t bluffing, he howled like a stray dog, tail between his legs.
I've even met queens who challenged me to a fistfight under the influence of cheap gin. I still ended up fucking one of them—for a fee—with my *actual* fist. Some people pay for the full experience, I suppose.
And in this city, Manila? I can no longer tell who's gay and who’s not. One night, an officer from the Philippine Army—yes, an actual officer—pulls up in a government vehicle with two women. He does them right there, for over an hour. And once the women leave, he leans in shyly, asking if he can try it with me next.
But the most curious creatures of all? The older ones. The confused. The ones who no longer know where their compass points. I’m almost sure Roberto here belongs in that category. These guys follow a script: first, they act scandalized when they find out what I do. Then, they criticize my lifestyle. And finally—they ask me that classic *manly* question:
“So, what about women?” Roberto asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Avoid them. Women? They think hustlers are lovers. One fuck, and they start asking what time you’ll be home. They’re fatal. Too emotional.”
He looked out at the bay. “I didn’t know we Filipinos were this free. This wild.”
“Oh, honey,” I smirked, “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. This is Manila at night—gateway to demons, illusions, and sweet masked seductions. Here, boys like you enter the masquerade, shape your disguise, live it up, and vanish when it’s over.”
He cut in, “I’m curious. What made you start doing this?”
That question again. It ticked me off. “Are you *interested* in me or what?”
“Of course,” he said. “But before I pay, I need to know your quality. Your story. Isn’t that how business works?”
At the mention of pay, my ears perked up. Babe, for the right price, I’ll make you feel Charles Dickens himself is telling you bedtime tales.
“My grandparents raised me,” I began. “God rest their souls. They took me in after my parents were murdered by the NPA. Refused to pay rebel tax. Boom—dead. That moment shattered our family.
My grandparents tried. They really did. I saw them working the rice fields, backs bent, joints screaming, just to feed me. It filled me with guilt. So I promised I’d become independent as soon as I could. Right after high school, I ran.
They never understood. I feared I’d hastened their death. But once I could fuck, I used what I had to survive. I started with Bernie—the town’s hair stylist—and from there I became the toast of the village queens. Business boomed. I was always away. Grandma would send the whole town to look for me, not knowing I was just behind our house, grinding away with a cosmetologist.”
I could see it in Roberto’s face—his fascination growing. He leaned against a coconut trunk like a wide-eyed child hearing his first fairytale.
“Don’t tell me they didn’t suspect,” he interrupted.
“Oh, they caught me. Once or twice. But they denied it to themselves. They thought I’d outgrow it. The village didn’t believe in homosexuality—it was just a ‘phase.’ So with that blind eye turned, I earned the nickname *Prince of Hustlers.* Their suspicions turned real once tourists started coming—pedophiles with cameras and money.
‘Why?’ they asked, ‘We don’t even have a tourist attraction!’
Our village was wedged between two mountains. I recruited boys, paired them with anyone who liked their brown skin and full lips. Once the boys started wearing gold chains and Levi’s, the truth was undeniable. That’s when they ran me out of town.”
“Damn,” Roberto muttered. “You could be charged with trafficking.”
I smirked. “Maybe. But the only lawyer in our town? My most loyal client.”
He laughed, genuinely this time. “Go on.”
“By then I was a full-fledged hustler and pimp. I stayed in school. Oh, the job security there! Went to church, too. Almost seduced the priest. Poor man got scared when I offered him communion of a different kind.”
I noticed Roberto shift uncomfortably. Maybe he’s religious.
Time to switch gears. This is the language of survival: tell people what they want to hear. I’m aiming for a jackpot here.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said, softening. “I’m not some two-bit whore who spreads legs at the sight of a peso. I’ve grown. I’ve got standards now. Bigger balls. And sharper tastes.”
2025-04-21 10:45:58
masquerade
Sisyphus Excuse
Reflections on Retirement, Focus, and the Absurd Beauty of Purpose
I’ve been improving a lot when it comes to placing real value on my days in retirement. One of my ongoing goals is to reduce exposure to stimuli that chip away at my attention span—those short bursts of information that flood in from every direction, pulling the mind into overdrive. Much of this information, though designed to titillate, contributes little to my well-being. Instead, it forms habits engineered by the architects of social media—habits that quietly turn people into automatons, reacting rather than choosing. A billionaire is even trying to embed chips into our brains. We live in strange times.
I consider myself lucky. My youth unfolded in an era untouched by platforms, apps, and algorithmic distractions. While I don’t claim these technologies are entirely useless—they’ve given me tools for learning and expression—they’re only useful up to a certain point. They’ve allowed me to explore creativity in writing and digital content, areas that now bring me profound joy. AI, for example, has become an invaluable companion in refining my writing—saving me the hours or fees I would’ve incurred for professional editing. Creativity, more than productivity, is what I now seek. It brings me into a zone of deep focus, a quiet joy. Writing—especially as a form of meditation—has become one of my most grounding rituals.
What I resist is the mindless reflex to scroll, click, and drift into a virtual void. That pattern dilutes my presence in the real world, giving the illusion of activity but leaving me empty, like binge-watching meaningless television. Some may find satisfaction in that habit of mindlessness. I don’t. It feels like a betrayal of intention—like a painter who sets out to create but spends the whole day staring out the window devoid of drive, motivation, and inspiration. I'm no painter, but that analogy rings true. Distraction grieves the artist in me.
I’m making progress, though. I’ve started limiting distractions and replacing them with more mindful habits. Mindfulness, after all, cannot thrive on noise or overstimulation. So I turn off the television. I turn my sight away from impulsive smartphone checks. When I catch myself wasting time, I pivot—sometimes toward something creative, sometimes toward something simple and nourishing. Writing meditation is one such substitute. Learning new digital tools is another. I’ve recently found joy in setting up a new domain to replace an old one—something small but satisfying, something alive. It made me feel capable, curious again.
I know my work may not reach many people. The long, stream-of-consciousness essays I write aren’t popular in a world bent on bite-sized, algorithm-approved content. My digital projects are niche, and probably better handled by tech-savvy minds. Still, I insist on doing them. Not because they have commercial value or viral potential—but because they bring me 'zone' and 'flow'. That’s what I’m after in this chapter of life.
I think of it like this: a man climbs a mountain each day, carrying water from the river below to his garden at the summit. People mock him. "Why not plant your garden at the base of the mountain?” they ask. But at the end of his life, the man might say: “I enjoyed every step of that climb. I forgot my troubles and felt strong. I cleared my mind. And oh—the view.” That, to me, is enough.
To some, my way of life now might seem absurd. “Why waste time on things that have no value to the world?” they ask. But what is value, really? If I planted my garden where the river flows, I might have more free time—but that time would only be filled with more restlessness, more searching for the next distraction. And I am done chasing distractions. I’d rather climb, carry water, feel the sweat, enjoy the view, and tend to the garden of my mind.
Politics, business, entertainment—they all repeat themselves in cycles, much like fashion or film. A new actor in the same script. A new designer remixing the old silhouette. A new politician rehearsing familiar lines. The only real change is the face playing the role. So what if my own cycle is eccentric or unproductive by worldly standards?
In truth, life is absurd. But that absurdity dances with the Law of Nature. And the engine behind that law isn’t reason, or randomness, or even reality—it’s God. That’s what I believe.
I am merely a grain of sand, a wave that breaks and disappears, a hibiscus flower that blooms and withers in a single day. I am a bee that dies after pollinating, a leaf that lets go. That is what I am in the true scheme of things.
And that—honestly—is enough.
2025-04-23 11:15:57
popong
Diary of a masquerade 3
(Warning: sensitive content, written in my early 20s dealing with the decade 80's. Edited through AI. This is meant for mature readers.)
Chapter 3
Antonio spins a hustler's gospel for Roberto Policarpio—a grand, dizzying monologue of Manila’s nighttime underworld, all in the hopes of getting paid.
---
After teaching them everything I knew, my boys were promoted—globally. These sons of Manila ended up lighting fire on hostel beds, car backseats, cheap motels, and even under the starless skies of the world’s grandest cities. Paris, Amsterdam, London, New York... and our very own Santa Monica Boulevard. “Damn those Filipinos,” the foreigners say. “Who taught them to be such exquisite tarts?”
Their humble teacher? Still standing right here, by Manila Bay—your divine mentor in stilettos and sin. I should be offering entire *semester courses* in the Art of Hustling to the country’s top universities. With credits. Full lecture halls. Thesis defenses.
But beware—outside my circle of trained neophytes lie the closet queens and repentant sinners. The ones who show up quoting scripture, condemning Sodom, praying for the salvation of homosexuals... only to turn around five minutes later, whispering their price. I’ve seen it too many times. These “holier-than-thou” sickos are the most dangerous. Their guilt runs deep. And when their shame boils over, it’s us they blame. Some of them even carry knives. Some of them pull triggers.
And yet—shame on me—I still give in. Especially when I’m broke. This line of work? You can never keep money. The cops make sure of that. They show up at midnight, threaten to lock me up unless I “grease their dicks,” and I’m not even speaking figuratively.
I've never had a proper police record until recently. A few months back, some bastard arrested me for “indecent exposure.” Indecent, my ass—I was *mooning* him. That’s art! Then he plants weed in my pocket and starts his little drama. “Oh-ho! You’ve got drugs, my boy. You're in trouble now.”
Marijuana? That’s not even a drug in my book. So I threw a name at him—a big-shot NBI guy I serviced back in the day—and told the cop if he locked me up, I’d sing his bedtime habits in public. Can you believe it? The idiot *called* the NBI guy to check. And when he realized I wasn’t bluffing, he howled like a stray dog, tail between his legs.
I've even met queens who challenged me to a fistfight under the influence of cheap gin. I still ended up fucking one of them—for a fee—with my *actual* fist. Some people pay for the full experience, I suppose.
And in this city, Manila? I can no longer tell who's gay and who’s not. One night, an officer from the Philippine Army—yes, an actual officer—pulls up in a government vehicle with two women. He does them right there, for over an hour. And once the women leave, he leans in shyly, asking if he can try it with me next.
But the most curious creatures of all? The older ones. The confused. The ones who no longer know where their compass points. I’m almost sure Roberto here belongs in that category. These guys follow a script: first, they act scandalized when they find out what I do. Then, they criticize my lifestyle. And finally—they ask me that classic *manly* question:
“So, what about women?” Roberto asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Avoid them. Women? They think hustlers are lovers. One fuck, and they start asking what time you’ll be home. They’re fatal. Too emotional.”
He looked out at the bay. “I didn’t know we Filipinos were this free. This wild.”
“Oh, honey,” I smirked, “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. This is Manila at night—gateway to demons, illusions, and sweet masked seductions. Here, boys like you enter the masquerade, shape your disguise, live it up, and vanish when it’s over.”
He cut in, “I’m curious. What made you start doing this?”
That question again. It ticked me off. “Are you *interested* in me or what?”
“Of course,” he said. “But before I pay, I need to know your quality. Your story. Isn’t that how business works?”
At the mention of pay, my ears perked up. Babe, for the right price, I’ll make you feel Charles Dickens himself is telling you bedtime tales.
“My grandparents raised me,” I began. “God rest their souls. They took me in after my parents were murdered by the NPA. Refused to pay rebel tax. Boom—dead. That moment shattered our family.
My grandparents tried. They really did. I saw them working the rice fields, backs bent, joints screaming, just to feed me. It filled me with guilt. So I promised I’d become independent as soon as I could. Right after high school, I ran.
They never understood. I feared I’d hastened their death. But once I could fuck, I used what I had to survive. I started with Bernie—the town’s hair stylist—and from there I became the toast of the village queens. Business boomed. I was always away. Grandma would send the whole town to look for me, not knowing I was just behind our house, grinding away with a cosmetologist.”
I could see it in Roberto’s face—his fascination growing. He leaned against a coconut trunk like a wide-eyed child hearing his first fairytale.
“Don’t tell me they didn’t suspect,” he interrupted.
“Oh, they caught me. Once or twice. But they denied it to themselves. They thought I’d outgrow it. The village didn’t believe in homosexuality—it was just a ‘phase.’ So with that blind eye turned, I earned the nickname *Prince of Hustlers.* Their suspicions turned real once tourists started coming—pedophiles with cameras and money.
‘Why?’ they asked, ‘We don’t even have a tourist attraction!’
Our village was wedged between two mountains. I recruited boys, paired them with anyone who liked their brown skin and full lips. Once the boys started wearing gold chains and Levi’s, the truth was undeniable. That’s when they ran me out of town.”
“Damn,” Roberto muttered. “You could be charged with trafficking.”
I smirked. “Maybe. But the only lawyer in our town? My most loyal client.”
He laughed, genuinely this time. “Go on.”
“By then I was a full-fledged hustler and pimp. I stayed in school. Oh, the job security there! Went to church, too. Almost seduced the priest. Poor man got scared when I offered him communion of a different kind.”
I noticed Roberto shift uncomfortably. Maybe he’s religious.
Time to switch gears. This is the language of survival: tell people what they want to hear. I’m aiming for a jackpot here.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said, softening. “I’m not some two-bit whore who spreads legs at the sight of a peso. I’ve grown. I’ve got standards now. Bigger balls. And sharper tastes.”
2025-04-21 10:45:58
masquerade
Personal Thoughts while Sampling the poetry of Nick Carbo