diary of A Masquerade 4

Diary 4
They lured women and fags. But those weren’t my only good physical qualities. When I stared into the mirror, I saw an exotic face maturing too soon. My voice was seductive, hoarse, carrying a rough attitude. My brown skin gleamed golden, and I was never ashamed to display my nakedness in the river.

Stricken patrons who had no art, no trade, no education. My limelight and stardom extended as far as Balibago City. And believe me, I met GIs willing to part with green bucks at the mere nod of my brown dick. I developed certain habits. Clean habits.

I stopped.

What clean habits? Who am I trying to fool?

The truth is, I did it all to extremes. My gang always found isolated spots in the village where we drank until we dropped dead. Booze was rare—sadly. It didn’t come to our part of the country often. So we smuggled cases of San Miguel, gulping them down until we pissed our pants. I was the boss, and if there was one thing you provided as boss, it was the happiness of your gang. Booze and cheap shabu—those were my top priorities.

My listener followed my story intently, his curiosity razor-sharp.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted as I paused for too long. “What are you thinking now? Please, don’t stop your story. It is very… out of the ordinary.”

Out of the ordinary, my ass. Some people are just too gullible.

I went on.

Notwithstanding, a few dared to challenge my authority.

One day, a boy from outside the village ambushed me along the bamboo strip I often passed.
“Psssst,” he called.

I thought he was one of the fags.

He sprang forward—tiny little thing, that kid. He gyrated and stroked his groin.
“Romance me,” he said, insultingly.

I punched him so hard he twirled like a windmill and collapsed onto the ground, wailing like a goat.

My hands—these are my assets. Big, strong, powerful.

“Your hands belong to your father,” my grandfather used to say. “Just wait. You’ll see them grow. But I warn you—never smash a man’s skull or bones.”

They lured women and fags. But those weren’t my only good physical qualities. When I stared into the mirror, I saw an exotic face maturing too soon. My voice was seductive, hoarse, carrying a rough attitude. My brown skin gleamed golden, and I was never ashamed to display my nakedness in the river.

I took a deep breath. I’m getting bored.

How many times have I told this same damn story over the past three years? I glanced at my companion. His wide-eyed interest would force me to keep talking. I could tell.

Damn. No, I need to end this.

It’s time for the bell. Wake up. I need money.

“I warn my potential challengers ahead of time,” I continued. “I tell them—if I’m pissed off and provoked, I’ll put you in your place before you even blink. My contacts are extensive. Don’t tell me you live thousands of miles away—I can reach that far to make sure you never dare again.”

My authority manifested every day. When I walked the streets outside the village, people reacted with deference. My regular haircut was free. My wardrobe was taken care of. My pockets were always full.

Because I had talent.

I stopped abruptly. Talents? What talents?

I needed to shut my mouth before I slipped. Petty crimes? Done them all. But my mastery? Blackmail.

Every client in my area had a secret they reluctantly handed over—adulterous women, churchmen who preferred other men—ready to be exposed at the first false move.
When I made a threat, it was real.

The entire province of Pampanga became my personal prostitution ring. But deep down, I wanted to move further south—to Manila. The big stuff.

My listener looked at me as if I were about to transform into Charles Dickens.

Amen, my boy. Let it be so.

“I was disappointed when my folks told me I had to tough it out at Pampanga College to get a degree in Education. Me, an educator?” I scoffed. “Oh, boy, was I mad. One night, I disappeared. I only resurfaced at my grandfather’s funeral—followed a few days later by my grandmother’s.”

“Don’t you have any other family?” my listener cut in.

“My only brother was sent to an aunt in the South after our parents died. Never seen him since—not even during our grandparents’ burial. He sent a telegram: No money for fare to attend funeral. Hell. From that moment on, I knew he was a weakling.”

His face shifted from wide-eyed interest to something close to sadness. Now, he was ready for my final sweep.

“With my newfound freedom, I enrolled in an exclusive Manila college to study journalism—funding my education by pulling tricks. Big shots only. No one at my school knows about my night life. For the past three years, I’ve managed well. Thank you very much.”

I leaned in. “I take no less than one hundred pesos.”

He grimaced, then exhaled deeply.

“No, I’m not interested.”

And just like that, he slumped over his knees.

Shit.

All that storytelling for nothing? There went my pathetic autobiography—to the dumps. Where did I go wrong?

I wasn’t about to give up, though. In this business, if they won’t buy you, sell them.
For fifty percent commission.

“God, I’m so tired,” he whispered. “Do me a favor—stroll with me for a while.”\

I followed behind him, still hoping for at least a hundred bucks. My eyes locked on his firm legs, the way he walked—the original walk of the Nameless Adonis, copied by all young men of the Philippines.

I couldn’t disengage. Still hoping he’d buy me.

He was so light despite his exhaustion. His poise—extraordinary.

We strolled past bougainvilleas, santans, and gardenias blooming along Manila Bay. The lovely month of January. The scent of dama de noche reminded me of my lost family.
I saw my opening.

“Listen,” I said. “I know people who’d be willing to pay for YOUR services...”

We stopped in front of the Army-Navy Club, Manila’s exclusive retreat for generals.
He grabbed the metal bars of the gate, his veins throbbing as he clenched them tightly. His voice turned distant.

“Once,” he murmured, “I ate dinner here with Mikael Sarmiento. It was the best dinner I’ve ever had. But that’s all over now.”

“Who’s Mikael Sarmiento?” I asked.

He jerked from his trance, as if waking from deep sleep. That’s when I noticed—something was off.

He wasn’t breathing.

He wasn’t sweating.

And despite the tight grip of his hands, the metal bars didn’t move.

Then I caught the smallest, strangest detail—his metal wristwatch hit one of the bars. No sound.

And as we walked... his shadow wasn’t there.

“You’ll learn about him as the days go by,” he said.

What the hell did he mean by that? Only God knows.

I was beginning to doubt—not him, but myself.

Maybe it was just the booze. The shabu. The years of hallucinations.

Still, I gave up on getting money from him. “So, what’s your reason for coming to Manila Bay?”

He slowed down, relaxing.

“Eight years ago,” he said, “I lost my virginity to a young prostitute right here...”
2025-03-06 17:35:44
popong

Popong 21 - Friday Night Reflection

Random Thoughts On A Quiet Friday Night

The day passed uneventfully. I woke up, meditated, went back to sleep, and decided to skip my early morning walk, thinking I might do it after work. That didn’t happen, despite the weather being absolutely perfect. There was, however, something else that gave me a pleasant feeling— in less than a week, I will receive my first Social Security payment. It will probably be a short-lived elation, receiving money without working hard for it. Meanwhile, I continue my paid work, even if it's only two hours per day, and then move on to my second occupation—the work that isn’t paid but gives me immense pleasure. This includes reading, meditation, blogging, and as of yesterday, programming with AI.

I am also managing my emotions better. The desire to socialize with low-level homeless people is losing its appeal. I have outgrown that phase, and I’m better off spending time with people who match my intellectual capacity. I’m not referring to the upper crust, the upper class, or the sophisticated elite in my locality. I mean engaging with authors and writers whose minds surpass mine, allowing me to absorb lessons and teachings my brain craves. I recently read amazing books about AI, a topic I intend to explore in my blog when I get the chance. I’m currently reading about simplistic, almost monastic hermits who shun the world, money, fame, and power to live off the land, away from the comforts of technology and modern amenities. There is so much I can enjoy without spending my time working to earn a living. I can do as I please while being supported by my fixed income.

Yesterday, I had a realization: I am, without a doubt, a nerd—someone who clamors for intellectual pursuits I once abandoned due to the necessities of life. I worked in healthcare all my life because it was the only safe and reliable way to earn a good income to support myself and my extended family. But I sacrificed my personal intellectual interests.

---

This is precisely what I fear: this nation has placed so much value on those who accumulate wealth that it equates their financial success with intelligence and genius. People surrender their lives to these figures, hoping to improve their own, which essentially means becoming wealthy. Anyone who promises riches is adored and idolized—until the truth emerges. And the truth is this: those who have amassed great wealth did not do so because they were exceptionally intelligent; rather, they outsmarted the ignorance of the very people who admire them. In a society where sensational claims—true or not—can easily transfer money from one hand to another, we see repeated cycles of illusionary wealth creation.

Consider the false accumulation of wealth: cryptocurrency is based on its ‘imagined’ value; Tesla was hyped as the savior from fossil fuels, yet it remains far from fulfilling those early promises; same is true with SpaceX and Mars; artificial intelligence is now marketed as the next wealth generator—naturally benefiting those who are already rich. Social media entices users with the prospect of earnings, but only after recruiting more people to engage with their platforms. All these are nothing more than artificial, sensationalized ploys designed to generate excitement and awe while luring people into freely giving away their data, attention, dreams, investments, and aspirations.

Now, people are turning into zombies, their minds controlled by social media, artificial intelligence, manufactured news, spectacular theories, and false validation through likes and views. These are the games being played, and the big players are laughing all the way to the bank.

---

I continue this journal on a Saturday night. It was a perfect Saturday as well. I meditated and walked at least six miles. For lunch, I tried to eat healthily—a meal of vegetables and fish. Earlier in the day, I entered a deep mental zone, writing an exercise article with AI’s assistance. In doing so, I discovered how slow my website is when handling large videos. I realized I am better off embedding videos from YouTube or other sources because they are optimized for speed. It took me hours to upload a 100MB video to my ‘images’ directory, and it was rejected multiple times. I eventually transferred the file through FileZilla, which took forever, only for it to fail to play. In the end, I embedded the YouTube version instead.

This experience reinforced why shorter reels perform better on social platforms. Larger videos require more processing power, whereas shorter ones load faster, which explains why TikTok garners more views. The same principle applies to embedded music—it increases file size and slows down performance. These are things to consider when uploading content to different platforms.

---

Despite my reservations about the goals of social media and modern technology—which seem focused on creating addicts of the virtual world—the internet has significantly transformed my life as a retiree. Without it, I would not have access to the world as I do now. Without the internet, I might become restless, roaming around, reading newspapers, or observing people like old men did in the past. Retirees often turn to each other for companionship, as I still see in parks and other public spaces. The only reason I can manage without physical companionship is the presence of Jim, my tenant and friend. He has become like a brother to me—the only brother, in fact. Without him, I would likely seek companionship elsewhere, possibly ending up with the wrong crowd.

With the internet and social media, I can bring the world into my home. It’s similar to how older generations would sit by their windows, watching people pass by. Now, all I have to do is open my smartphone and engage with whatever or whomever I choose. Some of these remote connections even allow for interaction at the touch of a button. This provides a refreshing perspective on retirement, though I must be cautious of becoming too dependent on it.

Would my retirement be different without the internet? Most likely, but I would still survive. My days would be spent writing, reading newspapers, and visiting bookstores and libraries. I might garden more, continue my two-hour daily work, and maintain my exercise routine to manage my diabetes. The main thing missing would be the social engagement the internet provides.

Before the internet, I would visit libraries for news and research. I would frequent bookstores just to feel the presence of other intellectuals, even if we never spoke. I thrived in that environment pre-internet. I would roam bookstores and cafes, enough to meet my mobility requirements for maintaining my health. I miss those days, especially my time at Borders in Fort Lauderdale, where I found the greatest comfort. It was an exciting era of browsing shelves, magazines, and books. So, yes, I would survive retirement without the internet, and I might not be as isolated as I fear.

The internet discourages me from physically seeking intellectual nourishment—it’s all available in my room. While I am naturally inclined toward solitude, social media has reduced my desire to move around. Yet, it has granted me access to limitless knowledge and the tools to refine my craft. Before the internet, I aspired to publish well-written articles after hiring expensive editors. Now, I can self-publish via my blog. The greatest advantage? AI as my editor, turning my thoughts into polished gems.

Publishing today is vastly different from the past. Instead of endless revisions and engaging with editors who cater to business interests, I can write, edit, and publish instantly. Still, it’s a balancing act between the physical and virtual worlds. The physical world provides experiences to write about, while the virtual world refines and shares them. Writing, moving my body, reading, and engaging with AI create a partnership between these two, physical and virtual, realms.

Ultimately, I am grateful for both worlds. My physical experiences enrich my virtual contributions. The challenge is ensuring a balance between the two—engaging in the real world while harnessing the benefits of the digital one.
2025-03-06 17:19:44
popong