Manila in the Dark

Darkness in Manila was always my safety. I had so many things to hide during my youth. My poverty-ridden clothes and sunken face due to irregular meals, my constant failures in exams because I could not learn anything on an empty stomach and a parade of distractions in the sardine-can like the boarding house where I stayed because I could not afford a decent dorm. I still can’t believe I graduated from the top university of Manila despite all that. I can only attribute whatever I gained in life through the full blessings of God because my life is nothing short of miraculous.

The only difference between today and nearly 40 years ago was that I am much older and the old spot I used to occupy is now barricaded by fences installed by construction companies reclaiming parts of the bay to build casinos and hotels and theme parks. This saddens me because in due time, the landscape of Manila Bay will totally be transformed and any reminder of the old version will be thrown to oblivion with no one recalling how it was.

The Bay is similar to my life. Blessed but cursed at the same time. Manila Bay had been coveted by many superpowers in the world - it had been ‘discovered’ by Spain, nearly occupied by Britain, taken over by the US, flattened by the Japanese-American war, and now, China is rearing its dragon head, setting its sights upon this beautiful city. The bay remained isolated, waiting for another catastrophe to happen. Now it is being transformed into something that it is not.

I am similarly designed like Manila Bay. I was born, raised, fought my way to a better life but to succeed I had to be single-minded, solitary, because everything else in the world is a distraction that I can’t afford to give in to. When I was young I was so scared of failure because to fail would spell disaster for the people I promised to help. I didn’t venture much outside of work for fear I might get sick or meet with an accident. I did not form close relationships. I was basically transformed by the dictates of my time’s economy. I lived and worked to serve and I always hoped for the day when all the responsibilities will finally be over. Or at least I was financially secure. I am blessed to have both outcomes in my life.

Just like Manila Bay, I served a purpose when I was needed, and the way I see it now, Manila Bay’s purpose in history was to serve as a backdrop for superpowers to project their might - whether through the Spanish-American War or the Japanese Occupation, the city and its bay was the perfect stage to announce to the world their victory or ascendency. And China is probably dying to show its own power. It started claiming islands that belonged to the Philippines geographically and historically.

I found a tiny opening in the fence and furtively eased my body through it so I could sit on the seawall. It was dark and nobody would see me here. I raised my head to stare at the moon which luckily was full tonight. This solitude allowed me to invoke my past and as I said, without the stories I have written beside this bay when I was young, I would have nothing to talk about. That is the good thing about writing, it provides that important tool to resurrect what has long been dead in one’s memory. Regrettably, I hardly see anyone like me who enjoys the beauty of solitude here nowadays. Solitude is not always romantic or melodramatic or a vessel to float in nostalgia. Sometimes solitude is the best way to access the clarity of one’s brain. Sitting alone here, I am able to recall the many sights and sounds and images I saw and conjured a long time ago.

I carry with me the Filipino narrative, it is a narrative that is exclusively mine and every Filipino’s. It is embedded in the fibers and axons of my brain. I started as a Filipino when I was not even known as Filipino. I could have been a maharlika or aliping saguiguilid or namamahay. I could have been a warrior or babaylan. I could have been an Aeta. I was also known as Indio, a term imposed on me by the Spanish as opposed to the original Filipinos who were Spanish natives living in this Asian country or as opposed to the Peninsulares and the mestizos or as opposed to Sangleys or the Chinos.

Eventually I claimed the name Filipino, a consolidation of everyone (Indio and otherwise) under one description. Everyone is Filipino now, no matter what their blood mixture or social class or state of mind is. So long as they have been a part of the soil and culture. It makes everybody equal and nobody is surprised by that. There are still a few who maintain their separateness - some tribes of remote islands, some Muslims and other regional ethnic groups. But they are mostly a fraction of the whole.

That is the reason I came back here to this part of Manila. I have switched my nationality to American keeping my one foot on the birth country while planting the other on the adopted. That makes me incomplete. I am nourished through many umbilical cords. One is attached to Spain, the other to America. I dream of visiting Latin countries in search of the culture that once thrived in my native land, before it got canceled by the US. Some local Filipinos also try to drink from their umbilical cords attached to America.

It is hard to erase in one’s cultural memory the relationship I had with Spain and America, especially when that memory has been as long as 350 years. Even now, I always dream of traveling in Mexico, celebrating the celebrations I shared with them. From the Day of the Dead to Christmas to Spanish cenaculo, to the Catholic traditions. The best part is our familiarity with each other, the Latinos and I. I live in an enclave surrounded by Latino immigrants and for some reason, I feel at home just by listening to their music, the way they gather and laugh at the end of the day. They are the closest I can find to my home outside of home. The saddest thing is my alienation with my Asian neighbors Japan and China. There are still remnants of old stories embedded in my brain about Japanese atrocities in World War 2 despite their total change and my distant love for their culture of which I can never be at home to. And now the Chinese, instead of building their friendship around Asia, are relying heavily on bullying tactics to subjugate and claim what is not theirs. They seem to look at their neighbors with disdain, and when I see how they water-cannon Filipino fishermen on the fishermen’s fishing turf for centuries, only because they can, it makes my blood boil. For a Christian, that is the last thing you want to do to your neighbor. They can do whatever they want, but love and neighborliness, they cannot have from me. It is probably their Confucian teachings that make them do that.

I look at the images of Spain and I see their wide poblaciones and plazas which reminds me constantly of the towns and Manila I grew up in. In the same manner I encounter old buildings in the US that have uncanny resemblance to the old buildings of Manila. Of course they were designed by the sane people. And then there were the Filipino oral traditions of Spanish times and the Commonwealth era. The colonization of the Philippines created both positive and negative impacts. And I would be lying, mainly to myself, if I would deny the feeling of superiority by ex-colonizer against my inferiority as a colony. I wouldn't be surprised if I meet discrimination in the land of the master now and then. The Filipinos themselves are full of discrimination against each other albeit using different criteria.

But the sadness of my being Filipino stems from my inability to mentally consider that I am equal to them who colonized me. Even now, I seem to appeal to their acceptance, their generosity, that I can never match their intelligence and accomplishments. I still feel the joy of having them around because it triggers that old Filipino feeling of having a superior being making all things good for me. I sing and dance and parade in beauty pageants to entertain them. I have this curse that I cannot outsmart them, or beat them in sports, I am their perennial consumer to what they create thinking I cannot create like they do. I am the top user of social media and Internet and before that I was the top texter. I create every digital content possible and feel smart being the user, not the provider of their platforms. I am their zombie.

Zombies Of Heroics and Histrionics(undated)

Sometimes I get so dramatic with my articles only because (I'd like to think) only a few read me. That's why I prefer not to 'link' or join any grouping of bloggers on the internet (not that I belong to any particular mindset, mind you)- my isolation frees me from censoring my writing. I also base my writing on the countries that read me. And I always draw from my life as a Pinoy in composing my sentences here and there. I am still surprised at the number of hits on my site but then, I don't know, I'd like to think no one reads me except myself. Which means, why shouldn't I just confine my writing in notebooks inside my drawers? But then, at the same time, I'd like to imagine people reading me, because we as humans are actors on a stage, always imagining an audience. Oh well, as long as nobody writes me back and tells me I'm breaking the law by writing what I write I'd continue. Besides, blogging is self-publishing without censorship and editing. I find it very pure and liberating. So Beatnik. And I love that.

I've been writing lately about the recent crisis in the Philippines.

Ramon and I had lunch today and he said, "The country is so surreal it becomes a zombie movie." He said this as he raised his eyes from reading Morikami's Wind Up Bird Chronicle. He's now half-way through the novel, reading it steadfastly and fast while sucking the straw from his chilled chocolate mocha. He continued:



There was a time when a barrio existed in the Pacific populated by people who used to be so alive until one day, multitudes of fish swarmed the coast to their delight. The fish themselves jumped into their fishing nets and bit their hooks even without the baits. The people concluded the fish were a gift of God and they feasted right there and then, eating fish left and right, day and night, and many many more days after that. And then, they all turned into zombies. Well, not all of them really.

Many from foreign lands have focused their eyes on these barrio people whose peculiarity was so puzzling. How can people so easily be turned brain-dead when they were so alive and so intelligent before?

It turned out it was not the fish that turned them into zombies, it was themselves. The fish were just a decoy. Later on, the foreign observers discovered how they turned into zombies: The first ruler of the land removed their freedoms and they were forced to learn only things the ruler wanted them to learn. No one could question the ruler's decisions lest he wanted to die. For twenty years the people moved according to prescribed and programmed movements, like robots. They were fed with lies and grand ideals emanating from the ruler. These people became blind followers, marching wherever they were told to go. They had to always be quiet and not bad-mouth the ruling class. Until one day, a zombie accidentally woke up and started to question the ruler. The ruler hastily shot him. But it was a wrong shot, it was the flick that unzombied the zombies. In one particular year their hypnotist ruler vanished and they were back into being alive and intelligent again.

But it was short-lived because it was their misfortune not to know how to act with independent, functioning minds. For twenty years their minds were locked-up. For the past twenty years they looked up to one ruler.

For the next twenty years they kept on searching for a single ruler.

The poor zombies claimed independence but deep inside they were looking for someone to tell them what to do, how to act, what to think, what not to think. This unfortunately, is a trait of zombies that was easily manipulated. They lost perspective. They did not know how to distinguish heroism from heroics, they could not tell the difference between real sense and histrionics. So that, when the zombies heard a screaming sound: Fight! Let's all gather together! Lets kill the Devil, they all gathered thinking that by reliving their first release from zombie-ness they could be unzombied again. True they were unzombied but they had to go through it again and again, like some form of therapy (everytime there is a new ruler) to unzombie themselves. And so many zombies of heroics and histrionics took advantage of this: Even the college drop-outs who could not pass Trigonometry became philosophers in newspapers so long as they re-kindled the fire of the "First Unzombie-ness". So they went on and on, thinking because they were ready they must truly be heroes in Zombieland. The other zombies gathered together in the name of different things, like Zombies of Morality (You fuck you're a sinner- I fuck I'm a Saint); Zombies of the Prayer (I pray for you asshole because You cannot pray for yourself); Zombies of the Senate and Congress (You don't give us what we want, we investigate you); Zombies of Business ( You protect my ass I give you money); Zombies of Jueteng (You protect my ass, I give you Balato); Zombies of Literature(You give me Award, I give you Award); Zombies of Mutual Admiration Society (You do good...and so do you...oh no you do good really...but you do good too...really...etcetera for eternity); Zombies of Entertainment Industry(Ha?); Zombies OFW (How much is the dollar rate now? When I go home, I'll show 'em...); Zombies of Youth (When I grow up I want to be an American Idol, otherwise, I want to be a member of the Zombies of -----); and so on and so forth.

But on the 20th anniversary of "The First Unzombie”, the most powerful of the Zombies gathered together to plot a coup. They invited all the Zombies of whatever persuasion they could gather and discussed how to topple the new ruler. All of them need to be unzombied again, they said, they just can feel it. Their power as The Heroes of Zombie-ness is wavering, fracturing, and all the Zombies no longer see 'the light'. These powerful Zombies are no longer capable of appointing the new ruler and the ruler they got now doesn't want to give them what they want. They gathered as a prelude to Unzombie-ness. And this time, they'd do it with such force.

But, the ruler they want to topple is a Zombie who is smarter than them. And the other Zombies in this Zombie-land are now awakening. And the other Zombies who went abroad to work saw the true light. And the many Zombies of lowland and hinterlands are just becoming humans again, alive and thinking. It took them twenty years but by golly - how smart they became. How intelligent.

On the day the Zombies of Power and Ruling Class called on all the Zombies to protect the Spirit of Unzombie-ness, some zombies shrugged them off, others went on playing sports, others went on business as usual, others made fun of them, others looked at them and found them unattractive, others played mah-jong, others went shopping, others went blogging, others watched the world wrestling championship match.

The Zombies are about to write volumes and volumes of explanation for this, volumes and volumes of threats and counter-threats, volumes and volumes of analysis of what happened to the Zombieland ....

But they too, are slowly waking up.


-- the zombie does what everybody's doing. In a stampede, everybody kicks and shoves at the same time to the deaths of the weak --
2024-05-11 07:54:23
shortstories

The Very Thought of You

(circa 1998, needs revisions)

My eyes gaze around the apartment. To my left is my window facing a lake, to my right is a sofa merging with lines of fiction books that I accumulated in my seven years of living in America. The books end at the door; the door has a brass knob, the knob is gripped by a hand, the hand is extended to an arm, the arm is attached to a head that reveals a handsome face : dark brown hair, green eyes; I hear the voice of my two year roommate Matt, he is crying.
"I can't go on like this Daniel. For two years, I have compromised and let you have your way. When you asked me to wait because of your many responsibilities, I waited. But there is an end to waiting especially when excuses are stretched into lies. I adore you Daniel. If there is one person I want to befriend, it is always you. But our togetherness is chewing me! It slices me and I can't stand the pain. I am always left with unanswered questions. What will our future be? When I invite you to my friends' parties, you tell me you have more important things to do; when I bring you to the movies, you yawn and fall asleep; when I make love to you... Daniel, what is wrong? Why should I always initiate it? Why can't you drop your fucking inhibitions? Why can't you enjoy life for a while? I know you love me and I am not ugly. I've had a string of romances to boast of. Do you want to feel my superior, prove to yourself you will never succumb to an American? Daniel, I will leave you now. And it breaks my heart to go."
I fix my eyes at him, wondering who he is. Who is he really? I've lived with him in the past two years, shared the same room, slept, woke, showered, went out with him. But who is he? I close my eyes, when will this stop? Why can't I open up? Why can't I scream and say I love you. Why can't I, in my anger, throw the books and plates, or beat him up, or turn this table over, scatter these chairs, throw the telephone against the glass window? I want to do those... Why can't I be brave enough to accept this man whom I love as much as he does me? Why am I afraid? Of what? I fought my way in America, moved from place to place, men and women alike desired me. I've already gained their respect. I work hard as a nurse. I am famous for going beyond the call of duty. It is not a show. Yet, after seven years, I seem to be a stranger to everyone. Even to Matt, the man speaking and crying in front of me now, the one whom I lived with for two fucking years. This man, just like the others, leave me angry, rejected, failed.
Matt turns the knob, opens the door and before leaving says: "Fuck you Daniel." He bangs the door.
I remain immobile, unable to say a word. What shall I say? What shall I say? Should I run after him and ask for forgiveness? Forgiveness for what? Ah, these questions. I stand up in the hollow emptiness of my apartment. The things of Matt, which I'm used to by now, are all gone. I face the lake.
If you were here Bryan, you would laugh at all these and give me the answers. Oh Bryan, where are you? How can I explain to them that I love only you and I never give up on my love? No one can be compared to you...
I sit down and let my tears flow, tears that no one else saw except Bryan.
There are certain images and sights that stay in one's memories, lingering thoughts that cast a shadow on things which were once bright and vivid. Under that shadow, one sees places, people, movements or hear voices chosen selectively. Sometimes, a bright flare twinkles on something, triggering a total recollection like a running movie, played over and over again and every time it does, it acquires a new angle, a new plot, a new emotion.
With the departure of Matt, my memory drifts to a lovely summer fourteen years ago in UP Diliman. This university, to me is distant now, it appears like a movie, I see spots I can no longer name, like an Impressionist painting - two dimensional. Its sounds are reduced to whispers - without meaning, without intent. But these things remain clear: I was sitting on the steps of AS 101 building, mesmerized by a garden, a vast terrain of green, of acacias and narras, well trimmed bougainvilleas and suntans. This garden echoed the muffled footsteps of students whose heads were always bent, carrying brief cases when knapsacks were the fad. I was new and nervous. One of the fraternity boys of Omega kept harassing me into joining his group, I remember his words quite clearly: "No one survives this university without a fraternity, unless you're a fag, in which case, you can join the screaming queens of Tambayan. Look, you are new in UP - muscular, tall, and, I heard you're on a scholarship. You'll be a valuable asset to Omega."
I kept refusing, I repeated to him the by-laws of my scholarship. A fraternity during the eighties had the image of a gang, a scholar had no time for gangster-ism. Once I rebuffed Omega, Beta took over using the same recruitment techniques. After Beta, it was Kappa. The pressure mounted on me so much I was reduced to a solitary, scared entity on the steps of AS 101 building.
T' was the time you noticed me Bryan. You walked to me. I was ready to run away suspecting you as another son of a bitch from another fraternity who would invite, cajole, harass and threaten me into joining.
"Your fly is open," you said with a mocking sneer in your face. I looked down and blushed with embarrassment. I frantically zipped my pants. You were right. As if trying to explain my stupidity, I blurted out. "If these frat boys would just stop making my life miserable, I won't be caught this way."
I said this while you were climbing the steps. Suddenly, you turned around and stared at me. Our eyes locked for a short while. I saw you as a man of Filipino Spanish ancestry, a mestizo, tall, beefy in a Crispa T-shirt, in Levi's stretch jeans which were fashionable then. I will never forget your face - the squared jaw with masseters that pulsated with your heart beats; the elegance of your aristocratic posture, solemn eyes, thick and well defined eyebrows and thin mustache above red lips that appeared to smile. You held a flute in your hand, a briefcase in the other. I recognized you as the AS flutist who always occupied the shade in front of the Registrar's office, surrounded by a crowd of students for whom you played funny and up-dated tunes. I used to think of you as a show-off.
"Who is making your life miserable?" You asked.
"The frat boys," I declined to explicate further. You had the looks of a chancellor of one fraternity and I did not want any friction with anyone. I immediately left. I dismissed the encounter as quickly as I landed on the ground.
You came into mind again in the afternoon as you sprung from behind me, wrapped your arm around my neck and spoke loud, "Hey pal, how's your hang-over?" Addressing the frat boys lurking around me, you added. "This man is mine. He is the wildest boy in town." What a fine way of dismissing them. I was initially stupefied but later, I became thankful to you for saving me. No one bothered me after that. We instantly became pals, or at least, associates in the eyes of the many. But our friendship bloomed into something different, deep yet neither hot nor cold. Was it sick? Was it a child's play? Was it an escape?
Who is this man, I asked myself then.
You moved among students with ease, girls pinched each others, ogling and giggling in watching you as you walked from your car, to the university corridors and hallways, up to your classroom. You got away with so many things. You had a unique way of hiding your secrets.
Far from being the good-boy-next-door, you defied all norms and conventionalities. You swore no allegiance to any fraternity although each considered you its honorary member. You appeared to be the epitome of the elite, the classiest of all classy persons, but during our friendship, you showed me the forbidden places where the downtrodden lived, which no respectable UP student dared to tread. You occupied the best places in the latest discos and bars of Manila, yet, you taught me how to gobble the balut and lugaw offered in the ramshackle stands along the sidewalks of Quiapo. You were full of contradictions, Bryan.
The magnitude of your confidence equaled the magnitude of my shyness. In ROTC, you belonged to the elite Fighter squad. I was delegated to the lowly privates of battalion Delta. I was the squad leader, reluctantly, because I was the tallest and I had no choice. One Saturday, our battalion commander left the field to answer a phone call, and in haste, ordered me to take over. He ordered me to put the battalion at ease. All I needed was give a very simple command. Move my head from left to right while shouting Handa rap! My voice faltered midway - from bass Handa to a silent rap. The battalion burst into laughter. I stood despairing, all by myself in front, searching for someone to rescue me. I was near tears though I pretended to be tough. I saw you Bryan, standing from the shaky crowd, looking at me, as embarrassed as I was. You too seemed helpless to help me. After our formation was dismantled, I ran to the bathroom before anyone else. I wanted to hide until everyone was gone. You followed me. Once inside I began to cuss at myself. You pulled me by my neck and squeezed my breast until it hurt. You kissed me in the mouth. When we heard footsteps coming, we pushed each other away. You whispered, "I'll see you later." You walked out as briskly as you walked in, leaving me with a different sensation. Your split-second gesture would be played in my mind over and over again.
The following Monday, as our paths crossed, you handed me the book Noli Me Tangere. In the library, I found a note tucked inside its cover telling me to meet you in Cubao at seven that evening. I raised my head and found you sitting on the opposite corner of the large room, pretending to read, your legs were propped up on the table. You looked at me with teasing eyes.
Yes, I went to Cubao. The tropical heat of Manila was at its peak, I walked among malls and buildings : National, COD, Farmers', Ali Mall. Cars started spilling out of parking lots, the traffic became heavy. When I did not see you by eight o'clock, I suspected a prank. I hurried to take a ride back to the dormitory. I waited in front of a stall that was selling chicken and fish entrails and burned corn cubs for a jeepney that plied the route Cubao-Philcoa. Your car pulled over in front of me. "Hop in," you beckoned. I felt a mixed curiosity and excitement, a feeling I would no longer be able to capture again. Your sexually charged, secretive invitation was new to me. I knew since high-school I had feelings toward men but I did not act on it. Your kiss was my first, and after it, I wanted more. You offered me too much risk which lured and seduced me more. You were full of sureness, a frightening confidence, as someone who was used to this type of meetings - you led the way, you initiated things. When I was inside your car and stared at your face, I fell under your spell.
Inside the car, you tickled my ear and stroked my thigh, it made me crazy. We drove all the way to Luneta and parked the car in front of Grandstand, close to Manila Bay. We took a stroll. A couple approached us with whom you spoke with ease and familiarity. You gave them eight hundred pesos. Which made me wonder what you all were up to. We followed them to a shack not far from the CCP reclamation area. Inside the shack, my eyes widened in disbelief. The couple took off their clothes and made love in front of us. It was sick by any measure but it was such a lovely sickness - and fair. Two people gave pleasure to one another and were paid for it.
The only difference was our eyes that watched.
When it was over and we were walking back to the Grandstand, I could not help but question you.
"Don't give me that look," you said defensively. "What is wrong with what we did?"
Something was wrong, I was sure of that, but at our young age, I could not exactly word it. Immorality was spelt at the back of my mind, I was an accomplice. When you voiced your reason, it was totally out of this world. For the first time, I saw your life's contradictions.
The soft breeze coming from Manila Bay seemed to accompany the heat of your voice. "I gave this people a justification for their existence. Did you see the pride in their eyes when they received the sum? They did not resort to mendicancy and I was not an alms-giver. They bartered with us by revealing their intimacy, their doings in the privacy of their room. What occurred between the four of us was business, and despite the smell of evil and sin, it was mutually beneficial."
I walked alongside you with my head bowed, feeling ashamed, not because of what I've witnessed, not because of your reasoning, it was because of the libido rising in me. I wanted sex. Badly. Yet, I could not utter it.
You parked the car at the back of Congress and under a tree surrounded by bushes, we made love. I'd never forget that.
Looking back, I'm inclined to conclude that as kids, we both found a game. Pleasurable as long as we played it hidden from the eyes of the world.
We repeated this forbidden love in most unexpected places. And in every encounter, my love was renewed, my attachment to you got deeper. When no one looked, you signaled me to see you again. We would find ourselves in Quezon City Memorial, in Philcoa, in the hidden gardens of UP where many a virginity got lost and lives were curtailed.
And then, there was Manila Bay sunset, we balanced our feet on top of the rocks and sat contentedly while the sun descended in full gold. I will never forget your face rendered orange as you stared at me, you were silent but your eyes spoke, laughed, and loved.
On Friday nights, we gulped San Miguel in Music Box and took the zombies of Tia Maria.
You had an attachment to strange and risky situations. If we found ourselves alone, in the Cafeteria, Tambayan, Shopping Center, or bathrooms, you'd always grab me and kiss me and caress me and I loved it. The nature of hiding and the risk of being found made everything so beautiful.
Beneath our manly walks, inside military fatigues, or casual clothes, carrying briefcases, watching women or in my case, pretending to watch and admire women, it puzzled me how you could make love to both men and women. How many calling cards and napkins with telephone numbers were dropped in your pockets by women whom you pursued and made love with? As passionately as you made love with me. I ignored it, though I wondered if other men did that to you, but I, being good in pretensions managed to hide my jealousy.
Because I had another life, a life of running and swimming, a life embattled with misery. I swam and ran almost everyday, until people praised my legs and speed, until I placed third in the Manila Marathon. I indulged in those sports to forget the poverty of my family. You could tell through my worn, hand- me- down clothes, you could tell from my soles full of holes. My mother was sick then, and instead of asking for my allowance to supplement my scholarship, I'd sell a few paperbacks in Recto to come up with money for food and then I'd run, and then I'd swim. Until my body would fatigue and surrender to the bliss of sleep. In the end, you caught me with tears in my eyes, I confessed my poverty. I feared that my humiliation would drive you away and prepared myself for that eventuality. Your friendship became more intense instead, and you started regaling me with the extra money I needed.
I never told you Bryan how I hated you helping me out - for I felt like a hustler, a whore - an eternally indebted inferior of yours. By taking the money you offered I was basically selling myself to you. I did not falter in letting you do to me what you've wanted to do and I followed wherever you bid me go.
You defined me as your sidekick, which really meant slavery. It was the only slavery I loved and cared for. As your sidekick, I began to see you, poke the very insides of your thoughts. You brought me to places I never saw before.
Your philosophy had changed, took so many directions. You showed me the homeless Manila street children, both of us would follow them, but would do nothing when tourists picked them up. The sight of their tragedy, filled you with remorse and under that spirit, you'd tackle me, wrestle me, tear my shirt, beat me up and make love to me - releasing your anger through me.
I, your perennial inferior, would enjoy it all, as we both committed our bodies to the language of love and lust. I would watch sweat form on your forehead, as the waves of your shiny hair would get entangled with my perspiration, and as your eyes, ferocious eyes, would openly watch my face. I'd lock my eyes with yours, observe with lust your pulsating jaw muscles, listen to the nasal wheezing tempo of your breath, and upon reaching your peak, I'd let you embrace me like a pillow, smack and bite my lips as you release your cry. Of agony and ecstasy.
Sometimes you'd lead me along the corridors of PGH, where your grandfather used to practice Medicine. We'd wander along, listening to the cries of mothers wailing for their dying children or fathers who begged doctors to extend their lives. I would see you standing there, beside those rooms, your face angry, saying no word to me. Afterwards, you'd ask me inside your car and put you in my mouth - yes, I was more than willing to oblige.
I asked you once why you let me be part of your horniness, you've got women. You answered me with a face as puzzled as mine - we both had no answers. We were kids exploring the avenues of desire in a web of the unexplainable. You were a bisexual - a term unknown in our circle at that time - laughingly, we theorized it as a disorder of insatiable sex appetite on anything that had a sex organ.
Terms passed and I fell in love with you more and more. Especially on the night when we were together the last time. The extent of your personality- disordered or not- was fully revealed. That was the night I learned all about your secrets, your weapons. You led a double life like my self. A life in Bacolod, from a family of noted wealth associated with the Marcoses and a rebel's life in UP associated with the Communists. I remember the other two men in the group that met with us in Mt Arayat. They were as young as we were, full of ideas and ideologies, whose parents like ours didn't know the exclusive and dangerous game we were venturing into. We came together to form our separate world. You brought me and your flute, leading the group in making decisions that were were critical and risky. You wanted to coordinate leftist students with the NPAs in anticipation of the Philippine government demise brought in by the death of Senator Aquino and fall of Marcos.
In the bosom of Mt Arayat, I felt grateful to you for letting me peek into your world, or many worlds which you kept as far apart as possible. Or, was I the thread that strung your worlds together? The totality of your being...You were always angry Bryan, that I could tell. And guilty, that I could feel. At one point, while we ate the half grilled chicken we cooked, you took only a small bite, you stared at the black space that enveloped the mountain. I asked what you were thinking. You wrapped your arm around mine, stroke it gently when the other two guys were not looking, as if in doing this, you relieved your pains. You whispered, "I am ashamed of my father - how can he keep his friendship with the Marcoses while the whole country is being torn apart, while the population is starving to death?" As you looked at me, who was eating the chicken hungrily, your eyes swelled with tears. You could not bear my starved existence yet you wanted me beside you. Like a reminder of the magnitude of your wealth and the magnitude of my poverty.
Ah, that night. A night I wanted to last forever. It was divine and natural. Our movements were as if choreographed by the gods on earth. It was a night when the moon and stars took their delight on us.
We excused ourselves and left the tent to hike and climb the peak of Arayat. It was dark and lovely. The landscape of the mountain was dotted by nipa huts lighted by kerosene lamps. The Aetas owned the huts. We paused to watch their naked children spread the leather skins of carabaos atop hot coals, where they laid down warmly in their sleeps. They bowed their heads upon seeing us. What pleasure it was - walking alongside you, hearing the echoes of wind that smashed against the mountain walls and peak, the murmurs of leaves, the chirps of crickets, the sudden scampering of forest animals. I jumped in freight at the rattling of a snake , flight of disturbed bats, bright eyes of an owl , shaking of a salamander. My skin felt the warmth of steam arising out of boiling mud. We took our clothes off and jumped in the tepid water of a hot spring.
Upon a rock, hidden beneath giant ferns, banana and bamboo and papaya trees, surrounded by wild orchids perked on tree trunks, we made love.
Until we noticed two eyes watching us. We panicked in shame and retreated. The eyes belonged to an old Aeta, on his way home after scavenging the forest of dried fire woods. We apologized. That old Aeta, barely four feet tall, giggled, revealing his chipped teeth, reddened by betel nuts. He spoke words which I would cherish forever.
"What are you apologizing for?" He asked between giggles.
We explained that it was indecent for two men to make love.
He looked at us with puzzlement, wondering probably what we meant by indecency. His face adapted a serious countenance, like an old sage. Through his words, it dawned on us that the laws of the mountains were different from those of the plains.
For he did not care. In the mountains, he said , they have only three concerns - fire to cook and keep warm, salt to preserve the hunts, a shelter to keep elements away. What is wrong between two men making love? He was used to seeing a rooster ran after another rooster in heat, a wild boar on top of another of the same sex, female snakes wrapping each other . What makes man different from the other creatures of earth?
We both sighed with relief. True relief. In that very instant, we saw a different world, different existence, different nature, different civilization.
We watched him walk away from us, but before he vanished, I remember you running after him, offering your Crispa T- shirt. It would keep him warm at least for the night. He bowed and giggled and left with it.
We took our leave. You walked ahead of me, in your usual Levi's without a shirt. I fixed my eyes on you, I wanted to pull you back and tell you to stop and stay with me, in there, forever. Forever. But you felt so free that night, you raised your head up to the sky, as if conversing with the moon. Your skin glowed, your hair shone in wetness, your lips acquired a smile, it was a real smile. We walked together hand in hand. For the last time.
I don't know the exact day or exact moment when we last met. You pulled out your wallet and handed me a hundred bill ( giving me money became a habit to you even when I did not need it anymore). In addition to this, you pulled a five peso bill and tore it to halves, an imitation of the series North and South, where two West Point cadets tore a dollar bill promising to meet someday to make it whole again. That was before the Civil War, before they became enemies. We laughed at the silliness of it.
We stood at the fourth floor of AS 101 building. I should have been more keenly aware then. I should have asked. Why despite our laughter, sadness was written on your face. Why you seemed undecided in turning your back from me. Why you seemed tired. I don't want to recall the other details of that day between us, I am full of regrets until this day. The only things I want to remember were your eyes, your beautiful face, your elegant walk, your hair waving with the soft blows of summer winds. I want to remember the garden of UP - the greens, the flowers, the muffled footsteps of students. I want to remember myself holding on the metal rail, looking at the majestic edifice of the library, and the Oblation - figure of a naked man with outstretched arms toward the sky as if receiving liberty and happiness from God.
I did not see you again.
Your family in Bacolod had circulated news that you got a woman pregnant. Later on, they said you were sent to London to study. But the rumors of the underground did not escape my ears. One night, it was whispered, you and your rebel group were caught in the mountains of Quezon and were summarily executed. Your family, to protect its Marcos association and its aristocratic name betrayed you by disowning your name, your very existence. After that, I did not want to hear anything about you anymore. I tried to preserve myself and sanity by running away. I pursued a Nursing degree and worked with the street children. I traveled from island to island and met with as many Filipinos as I could meet. I took a plane to America and worked from state to state. In LA, I made love with a Greek and a Bulgarian. In New York, I made love with an Italian and Puerto Rican. In Midwest, I made love with a Yankee and a Redneck. In Washington DC, I made love with an African- American. In San Francisco, I made love with a Chinese American.
In Orlando, I lived with Matt for two years and now, he, like the rest has left me. They would never understand me. I would never be able to give them what they wanted.
They'd never understand why I can't make love while the lights are on, why I close the blinds tightly, afraid of any unwanted sound. Why I still close my eyes in the dark. Why in the middle of love making, I suddenly turn cold, un-responding. I stopped making love since months ago, the main reason why Matt has left me. I'd rather not commit myself on bed when every time I do it, I see my lover sitting on the side of my bed holding my hands and murmuring - Is it me? Am I not good? You don't want me, eh? Common, tell me what you want? You probably need a woman. Are you bi? Are you gay?
I cannot come up with words to explain. You see Bryan, fourteen years ago, you gave me the true gift of love. It was a gift I kept hidden and refused to share. It is like half of the five peso bill you gave me, kept inside my wallet hoping one day you'd return to make it whole again.
Oh how I tried to bury you in my past, but how can I? Even if I do, certain sights and sounds refuse to forget you. At nights, I keep my room dark; I lock my door and windows . I pull down all curtains and blinds. I close my eyes to drive away the shadow of the synthetic wall flowers in my apartment, made in Singapore. I turn my head away from the coffee table made of polished wood from China. I hear the sound of air-conditioning made in the US. When making love, I am always reminded and disgusted with automatic things: where the air can be modulated with the turning of a thermostat regulator. You alone Bryan made all things natural to me.
How can I forget you? For fourteen years, in my nights, the rays of the moon have managed to penetrate my room through cracks and slits and holes I've forgotten to cover. Its beam slices through and drops on my floor or ceiling or wall. That is all I need to remember you. If it is not the moon, it is the gentle rains tapping on the roof or the window, or the croaking of frogs, the howling of a dog, the sudden flapping of a bird, the crying of night animals crawling in city streets, deprived of a home in the jungle. Any of these would resurrect you in my mind. Somehow, I forget myself or anyone laying beside me and fly away in the bosom of your memory - that picture of our last night together - where you stood under the starry sky, amidst the steam of boiling mud, your hair shining in its wetness, your skin glow under the forest, your lips parted into a smile. It is you, Bryan who I ran away from, yet it is you who I chase after... the very thought of you
2022-11-07 01:36:52
shortstories