It’s my life

I wrote my first poem when I was 9 years old. I remember it was about Christmas, it had four lines with meter and rhyme, and it won first prize in a poem-writing contest in my school. I wrote my first story 2 years later, in 1984 (same year the title song was released), which I submitted to the school paper in my new school. It didn’t get published, however. My poems received a warmer reception so I wrote and submitted more poems. The stories I wrote, which were fantasies with touches of horror, were kept in a box somewhere inside my study desk at home, never seen by other eyes aside from mine.

During college, because I took up Nursing, my writing declined significantly. It only picked up around my last year at university. That time I was writing these sophomoric poems about lost loves and such, with un-metered lines that rhyme. My friends ate it all up, especially the girls. Unfortunately I think I inherited my father’s tendency to hold on to things that have long since outlived their usefulness. Last year, while on holiday in Manila, I looked at the old boxes that contained my writing and cringed and laughed while reading my old poems. My God. What was I thinking? How the heck did I get the courage to submit those poems to writing workshops? I don’t think I have ever demonstrated such brashness since.

In 1995, I was accepted at the UP National Writers’ Summer Workshop. I had just passed the Nursing licensure exams, I was volunteering for an AIDS NGO, and I was trying to find my place in the world, preferably one that wouldn’t require me to work as a Nurse (hehehe!). I saw the ad in the paper, learned that the workshop’s theme was writing for children. I submitted 5 of my poems (English) that I thought was fit for kids and a story (Filipino) about a weird schoolboy who befriended his classmate who was weirder than him. 4 weeks later I got this letter informing me that I was accepted in the workshop. When I called to confirm my attendance, I was asked to choose one genre (as I was accepted in both fiction and poetry) and without thinking I chose poetry.

Before the workshop my imagination ran rampant with fantasies of becoming Philippine literature’s newest discovery–moi but during the workshop my poems took a beating. One panelist commented on the disarray of the images being described. Rio Alma, the national artist, was kinder when he said that the poems were not bad, they were just too sensual for children. I was fine. To be frank, the poems I submitted weren’t really written for children.

Nevertheless, the workshop really inspired me to write again. Months later 2 of my poems got published by The Philippines Free Press. I was ecstatic; I sent a copy of the magazine to my grandmother, who was living in the US that time. She was the one who always encouraged me to write. This new inspiration made me apply for yet another workshop. In 1996 I was again accepted in the Dumaguete Summer Writer’s Workshop, run by (Mom) Edith and (Dad) Edilberto Tiempo. Again I submitted poems and a story.

At 23, I was no longer the socially inept high school kid nor the new participant in a writers’ workshop. I mean, I had been to the UP Workshop after all. But the Dumaguete workshop was different. Held for 3 weeks in scenic Dumaguete, I was suddenly immersed in a community where dynamism, creativity, and individualism were not admonished but encouraged instead. My poems fared better than my story, which got one heck of a beating from Dad Ed. I didn’t mind the strong words. The lure of a writer’s life was more potent than the drugs that were available to us. Not to mention the strong sense of community that permeated the workshop. I have met some of my oldest good friends in the Dumaguete Workshop. We don’t see each other often now, but they are in my heart.

I went back to Manila intoxicated with that drug. In spite of the harsh reception accorded to my story, I was able to write a new story weeks after the workshop and it got published by The Evening Paper months later. The story was called “Epiphany”, which was about a gay man who was resenting his lover because of intellectual incompatibility. It was a little story: set in just one day, but many people who read it liked it because they thought it was very poignant. Isagani Cruz even chose it as one of the best short stories that came out of that specific quarter.

Looking back, I realized that in writing this particular story, I applied what was repeatedly taught us at the workshop. To write about the things you know, about the things in your life. Edmund White–one of my favorite gay writers, continues to write compelling and mesmerizing stories that are semi-autobiographical. My stories are not that frank, but most of them contain an element of my life, which are embellished in varying degrees.

In 2003, a children’s short story I wrote became a finalist in the PBBY (Philippine Board on Books for Young People) Salanga Writer’s Prize contest. My story was called “Dalawa ang Daddy ni Billy” (Billy Has Two Dads), about a boy being raised by a gay couple, one of which is the boy’s biological father. Someone I knew in the contest organizers told me that I missed the grand prize by a very slim margin, most probably because of the gay theme of my story. That time, I was attending the LIRA poetry clinic under Rio Alma (or National Artist Virgilio Almario), who also owns Adarna Books (publisher of children’s books). When he saw me at the awards show, he told me to submit my story to his publishing house, which I excitedly did. To my disappointment, I ultimately received a letter of rejection from Sir Rio’s daughter. My guess is it’s because of the gay theme, which would have really been something new in the Philippines.

My prose and fiction continued to be published in magazines in the Philippines over the years, although it slowed down a bit after 2004, when I moved to Cambodia. Having a book published someday remains a dream. I have written many things and 90% of them are in the hard drive of my computer, unpublished.

Now, 4 years later, good friend Danton Remoto informed me that “Epiphany” has been included in the 3rd edition of “Ladlad”, the anthology of Philippine gay writing that he’s been editing with J. Neil Garcia. This news pleased me immensely. I am a step closer to my dream, as it turns out. The book, whose cover is pictured below, was launched on December 1. I am dying to get a copy, but being out of the country I will have to wait longer, until I go on holiday or someone sends me a copy. I heard there’s also a children’s story in the anthology, and I have become more excited to read it. To you, dear reader, this shameless plug: PLEASE BUY THE BOOK.

Ten years after I attended my first writers’ workshop, I believe I have become a better writer. I no longer have the brashness and arrogance to claim I’m the best unpublished writer there is, but I am very hopeful that my dream of getting published will still happen someday, even if I’m old and gray.

I have many stories to tell and poems to share to the world.

I’m a bitch (?)

It had to happen sooner or, in this case, later. I mean, it took almost ten years but now, I dare ask. Have I finally embodied the qualities of my nickname?

Flashback to 1998, when J, whom I met at the Dumaguete Writers’ Summer Workshop in 1996,  christened me The Zen Bitch. At that time I was working as a book editor for an institute that teaches esoterica (Pranic Healing, specifically). I was even a trained and certified Pranic Healer. I was also a vegetarian who did Twin Hearts Meditation daily. More or less these comprised the ‘zen’ part of my ‘bitchiness’. I loved the phrase. Maybe because it was bestowed upon me in a good-natured manner (J was a damn good friend). Maybe because I delighted in being called something cool (a bitch goes a long way farther than being called nice, or kind).

So I began using ‘The Zen Bitch’ to identify myself. It appeared on my email accounts, on the poetry and fiction I was writing, on correspondences with friends (not family, at least until after a few years later), even on the job–after I ended my stint at the institute and returned to NGO work.

My friends loved it as well. For reasons I will not dare find out now.

I reveled in this (in my mind) delightful nomenclature. Finally, I thought, after years of being boring and being that proverbial fly on the wall, I now have something people can really remember about me. You see, growing up, I was the most well-behaved boy. I was a strict follower of rules. I only spoke when spoken to, I didn’t answer back rudely, I obeyed my elders, and all that s**t. This continued well into high school, well, most of high school anyway, for this was the start of my rebellion against being the best little boy in the world.

But no, I didn’t smoke or drink or get into drugs or fights, and other troubles that kids that age got into. To do that, you need friends, or at least, other people. But did I mention that I was also socially inept in high school? Yes, in the four years I was in high school, I can only count 1 person as a friend. And yet, after graduating, I never saw him again. Such is the scope of my ineptitude. My rebellion came in the form of sex. I discovered that even if many of my classmates would not even speak to me in class, they are not above accepting a discreet hand-job or blow-job in a quiet corner of the school. After that, some became sorta nicer to me but most just went back to ignoring me. I was unremarkable in high school. Well, except for that sex-thing probably.

College was an easier time for me. But through it all, I realized that oftentimes the source of my social missteps and problems were rooted in my reticence. I was far too quiet for my own good. I liked to keep things within me: joy, misery, frustrations, anger. No wonder I’d been hyper-acidic since I was 12 years old. To change things, I decided that from that time on, I would try my best to express myself. No more repression for this latent gay guy. To me, being called The Zen Bitch was the culmination of my efforts to change my life.

And so, The Zen Bitch is born, totally ignoring the negative connotations of the word . To me being  The Zen Bitch meant being empowered enough to express myself, no matter what the consequences are.

Lately, however, things have given me pause. Am I becoming (or worse, have I become) a bitch in the true sense of the word? Not in the physical sense (I have yet to turn into a woman or a female dog) but in character. Have I taken my crusade of self-expression too far? Recent events have also led me to think of ways to express myself while remaining sensitive to its possible consequences. For about some time now, whenever my friends find themselves saying things that they think offends me, they would warn each other that they should tread carefully lest they find themselves being written about in this blog. I, for one, do not think this remark is remotely funny. It reflects how little they understand the importance of having this blog for me (and probably, my sanity).

This blog is not a weapon to hurt other people. I may bitch about people and things in this blog but I do it to express myself and unburden the emotional baggages that would otherwise drive me insane. The reason might sound selfish but it is true. I have tried to explain this many times but only a handful of them really understood. I am thankful to these people.

So now, I find myself again wondering about something that I cannot answer alone. I do not care much about what other people think of me but there is also a part of me that recognizes its importance if one wants to maintain social interaction and avoid isolation. I realize, bitchy (or bitch) or not, I can only remain true to myself and just, well, f**k the rest. Does this make me a bitch? Fine. People will judge you no matter what anyway. Sadly, being judgmental is an all-too human attribute.

However, being able to rise above it is what makes us truly human beings.

-epilogue-

I took yet another on-line quiz that is related to this particular post and here’s the result. try it, dear reader, it’s fun! 

You Are 52% Bitchy

Generally, you’re an average woman, with average moods. But sometimes… well, watch out! Sometimes, you let your mean side get the better of you. And you enjoy every minute of it.

How Bitchy Are You?

Telling stories

It happened on a moonlit night. I’m not sure if the moon was full or not; what I remember is the pale darkness that permeated the craggy trees and the tall grass in the vacant lot at the back of our house. Summer was ending. During the day clumps of dark clouds mixed with the feathery clouds as they seemed to amble in the clear blue sky. The start of the new school year looms, but that night it was the farthest thing in my mind.

I was afraid, see. I wasn’t alone in the vacant lot. He was with me. We had been playing through most of the afternoon. We never spoke to each other before this day. I went to a public school in the city, enrolled in a special program where we took advanced classes. He went to a Catholic school in town. He’s older, but I’m a year ahead of him in class. Other than that, he’s more advanced than me. Taller and stronger, his voice has even begun to deepen like my father’s voice. My father and his father are friends, working together in an oil company in Saudi Arabia. So there’s some kind of expectation that he and I will be friends also but we’re not. Mother says never mind. You’ll find friends your age.

But today we’d been playing. Mother visited my sick uncle in the neighboring town right after lunch. I insisted on staying home because I didn’t like being around sick people. Besides, I was still recovering from my small operation the previous month. After an hour or so of television I stepped out of the house and went to the neighborhood store to buy some cold soda and candies, if my money allowed it. He was standing in front of the store, bouncing an old basketball. We traded small nods and I went inside to get my Sarsi and Nips. My money wasn’t enough for a bag of Nips, but enough for a few pieces of Goya.  

Sipping Sarsi from a plastic pouch–I didn’t wish to make a deposit for the bottle, I found the sidewalk empty when I emerged from the store. He was leaning against the gate of the fence that covered our house, cradling the basketball with his left hand and hip. “D’ya wanna play?” The invitation was almost alien, so I asked him why. “My friends didn’t show up,” he explained.

“I don’t play basketball, but I have these racing cars–”

He frowned, “You still play with toy cars?”

“These cars are different! It has a real motor, and you can drive it by remote control. I built them myself.”

Perhaps deciding that I am not a complete wuss, he went inside with me.

Basketball was forgotten when he saw my radio-controlled race cars. We raced the cars in the garage and the small garden, me mindful of trampling on mother’s roses. He was probably relieved that I was not the wuss that he expected while I was just glad of the company. I felt a little foolish working on the cars with no one to race them with except with our driver sometimes. Before sunset mother arrived from her visit and looked a little surprised when she saw him. Nevertheless, she prepared some snacks for us: sandwiches, chips, and fruit juice, which we ate and drank at the back garden.

He was the one who noticed the gap in the wall. He asked who lived behind our house and I said I had no idea. He peeked and told me that the lot was vacant. We also realized that we could fit into the gap. “D’ya wanna cross?” He was smiling mischievously. After a quick glance to our back door, I followed him to the other side.

There was a fallen tree and we sat on the trunk. From where we sat, the sky was enormous. And getting dark. We agreed this was a good spot to play. Then he asked me about my small operation. “Were you scared?” Not too much, I replied. He said we went to the same doctor, but he proudly said he’d gone four years ago. I didn’t tell him that four years ago he was my age.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Not anymore. It looks funny, though.”

“Really?”

“Mother says it looks normal. I don’t know…”

“You showed that to your mother?”

“Father’s not here,” I explained.

“Lemme see it.”

“Why?”

“Let’s find out if your mother’s right.”

I showed it to him.

“It’s fine,” he concluded.

“How do you know?”

“It looks like mine. See?”

Suddenly I was looking at his open shorts. By the scant light I saw it, laying in the pouch of his briefs, slightly bent. It looked like mine, yes, only bigger.

“You wanna touch it?”

“No.”

He smiled and reached inside my shorts and briefs and held me. I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. His hands felt warm. I began feeling warm also. He was looking at me when he pulled my shorts lower, exposing it further. I felt afraid when it grew and became hard. This kind of thing only happened to me in the morning. His hands were bigger than mine, his fingers able to cup me entirely. His hand went up and down. My knees buckled when he put it in his mouth.

I was scared because I didn’t know what he was doing to me. Because it felt good, and at the same time, it felt that I was doing something bad. The sounds his mouth made against my skin scared me. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see him on his knees, his hands on my hips.

A strong pulling sensation opened my eyes. I felt I was going to pee. I let out a small scream as I think I peed, only the sensation was much different. Much pleasurable. I saw him spit out what looked like a wad of phlegm into the grass. I put my clothes in order. He stood over me, covering me with his shadow. He hugged me. I could feel him getting hard against my chest but I didn’t do anything. Couldn’t.

In the end I returned the hug. He pulled me up and hugged me again. Tight, as if I was this fragile thing that could break if he let me go. We should go back, I suggested. He laughed. I tensed.

As we made our way back into our backyard I heard mother calling us in for dinner. He declined the invitation to have dinner with us, sounding like a polite boy in front of mother. I walked him out. Do you have a bike, he asked.

“Yes.”

“We should go biking sometime.”

“Okay.” 

As he stepped out of the gate he planted a small swift kiss on my cheek. He was smiling, like it was the most natural thing to do. I watched his shadow on the street for a long time before closing the door.

from an untitled longer work; phnom penh, 2007; copyright Michael P. De Guzman 

I’d die without you

or hell in five stages

I had gone to bed at 11.30PM, feeling quite ready to sleep, after having taken a warm shower. But I couldn’t fall asleep. Tried thumbing through a magazine but I ended up reading the whole magazine instead. I got up and decided to watch a single episode of season 4 of The 4400 but I watched 3 episodes and I still wasn’t a bit drowsy. So now I find myself in front of the computer at 3.30 in the morning, listening to PM Dawn, and trying to write the post that had been gestating in my mind for the last 8 hours or so. it doesn’t make any sense. these feelings.

denial

Honesty is something  I try to practice in all aspects of my life. Honesty to others, and to my self. God knows how I eluded it in the past, behaving the way I did then. But things that happened to me in the past months have led me to believe that there are certain crucial truths that I am not admitting. Truths that threaten to impact greatly on the life that I have made in this foreign country. Is it time to come clean finally? Take some responsibility?

anger

Not really anger, or wrath. More like frustration: this seething feeling that won’t go away. There are many things that I want to change but I cannot. And many things that I want to remain a certain way but they do not. Other people who deserve to be happy but are not. While the less-deserving people remain happy over the fat of the land. Friendships that one nurture and cultivate like the most delicate plants, that bloom only with malodorous flowers and rotten fruits.

bargaining

So take every little piece of my heart–as the song goes. Take every little piece of my soul. Death is nothing compared to this stagnation. This apathy that pushes and pulls me in many directions all at once. My weathered heart is a dark-feathered bird whose wings flutter furiously against its stifling gilded cage. Feathers tinged with blood float through the air. Take them and use them to line your pillows. Let strife lull you to the deepest kind of sleep.

depression

The night is dark. The moon is old. And so close to death. I want to sleep on the cold earth, buried in dried leaves, my heels making small circles in the dirt. Beetles and centipedes crawl over my skin, their little toes tapping some gentle rhythm I feel inside my belly. Fireflies sparkle in the gloom, silently observing me. I want to sleep under the gaze of stars but I can’t. The wind blows through my hollow parts, whistling on its way out, the sound keeping me awake.

acceptance

I am not a good friend. I am an unfaithful lover. I am a lousy worker. I am nothing like the person I pretend to be. I am stupid. I am everything my enemies say that I am. I’m a fraud. It is 4.15 in the morning and I am still awake, my heart heavy with burdens placed long ago by my self and recently by others. Piano notes tinkle in my ears. The sound gives me hope. I can take apart all that I am and come together a new man. Misery has almost killed me many times before. But without it, I will surely die.

surely, the ramblings of a mad man

Or just some sleep-deprived bitchy fag. 

One day I’ll fly away

I was in Chiang Mai from November 25 to December 1 to attend a training organized by the Asian Harm Reduction Network. This is the second training that I had attended for the year, a satisfactory number. One of the disadvantages of working independently is you’ll have to take charge of your professional development. You need to find and pay for trainings that employers usually provide to or facilitate for full-time employees. I left Phnom Penh on Sunday morning, which was the last day of the Bun Om Tuk (Water Festival). I had been totally clueless about this year’s festival, even  if I lived very close to the riverside, that I wasn’t aware of the unfortunate incident that claimed 6 lives. If I weren’t blog-hopping, I wouldn’t have read known about that story.

In spite of the delayed flight, I arrived in Chiang Mai at around 3PM. The hotel was just a block away from Chiang Mai’s famed Night Bazaar. But my first plan was to find the nearest mall, buy a replacement for my worn Nike, and watch a movie–3 things I couldn’t do in Cambodia. I tried to catch some sleep after unpacking and I woke up around 5.30PM. After a quick hot shower, I put on a shirt, walking shorts and sneakers and went out of the hotel at 6PM. Within 3 minutes I was shivering from the cold night air. I had been confident of my bodily insulation but the cold got the better of me. So I decided to go back to the hotel to put on some jeans. I also wore a light jacket, just in case.

I waited for a taxi for 10 minutes but none came, even if the hotel staff assisted me. So I decided to walk towards the Night Bazaar where I hoped to find a tuktuk, at least. But after about 15 minutes of waiting and walking, I couldn’t find a single tuktuk. I saw that many of the roads had been blocked and there was an extraordinary amount of people walking towards my opposite direction. I realized then that the receptionist at the hotel told me that it was the last day of the Loy Krathong Festival. And Chiang Mai is one of 2 places in Thailand where its celebration is famous (the other place is in Ayutthaya).

So I went with the flow and not long after I found myself on a street lit by lanterns. I saw an old house that seemed lit for the occasion. People were converging here and I followed. The entrance to the grounds were filled with stalls that sold food and drinks. The aromas of the food aroused my appetite–I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since the plane ride. The gravel pathway led me to the bank of the Ping River. A brightly lit dock made of bamboo was constructed so that people can descend the bamboo steps to send the krathong (a small raft made of banana tree trunk, decorated with folded banana leaves, flowers, incense sticks, candles, and a piece of coin) floating on the river. I noted the similarity between this and the Diwali Festival in India where Hindus send floating lanterns on the Ganges River. When I went down the steps I saw a brightly lit bridge in the distance.

Looking farther, it seemed that the stars had descended on the river and landed on its waters, the gentle currents sweeping them away. It is said that when this festival was adapted by the Buddhists, the act of floating away the candle raft became the symbol of letting go of one’s grudges, hatred, and dirty deeds, so that one can start afresh, with a clean slate, so to speak. The Thai believe that floating a krathong will bring good luck. Apart from the krathong, people were also floating things into the air.

Lanterns of varying sizes were being lit and when enough air had accumulated in the dome of the lantern, they send it floating to the air like small hot air balloons. I was getting into the spirit of things so I bought myself a medium-sized lantern (about 30 inches in height) for 50 Baht and brought it to the guy at the dock who was assisting people. He lit the small lamp on the base of the lantern and within 2 minutes my lantern was joining the other lanterns in the sky. It was a breath-taking sight–along with the fireworks that seemed like flowers made of light that bloomed then faded. To me, recalling the symbolism behind the gesture made the sight more awesome. I felt strangely unburdened. Like I could fly away like that too. This is probably why I failed to take a photo of my lantern. The lantern pictured belonged to a group of tourists.

I left the river bank and headed for the brightly lit bridge (Nawarat bridge, as I discovered later). I snaked my way into blocked roads, walking with people, catching snippets of Tagalog and Cebuano intermittently from some of the people, and soon I ended up at the foot of Nawarat Bridge. A big parade was on its way, with huge floats where cute guys and girls in traditional Thai garb sat and waved to the people. Looking at too much eye candy reminded me that I was hungry. While watching the parade, I bought 4 pieces of small folded pancakes with half a hotdog inserted–something like a skillet-cooked waffle, setting me back 5 Baht. Then for another 5 Baht I bought a bag of sweet papaya cubes. I was still hungry. 

There was a plaza close to the foot of the bridge. I saw there was also a night bazaar going on there, with a band performing on a stage nearby. The place looked like something from a Filipino fiesta set up on the grounds of the parish church. But in here the parish church is some government building, I think. Half of the stalls in this place sold food, I happily discovered. After an initial surveillance, I bought a hefty serving of noodles with vegetables (10 Baht), a piece of spicy fried chicken (5 Baht), and 4 pieces of meatballs on a stick smothered with sweet-chili sauce (5 Baht). I washed this down with a big tumbler of iced lemon tea (5 Baht) while listening to the musical performance on stage. That was one of the best one dollar (US) meal I’ve ever had, to tell the truth.

I went back to the hotel a happy man, even if my initial plan was foiled. The pleasure brought  by witnessing and taking part in Loy Krathong is more than any trip to the mall can offer. I decided to sleep with my drapes open because I wanted the sight of the lanterns slowly ascending the night sky to be the last thing I saw before I drifted off to sleep. That night I dreamed of embers and fireflies lighting up the cold night, swirling into the sky and into outer space.

–epilogue–

I was able to go to a mall (Central Airport Plaza), purchase a pair of much-needed sneakers (a Reebok this time), and watch a movie (Robert Zemeckis’ Beowulf) after the second day of the workshop. I enjoyed the mall, the sneakers, and the movie immensely, by the way. Like I said, my quaint Cambodia does not have these three things, for how long, I am not sure. The workshop went well; I learned many things. I was happy to see an old friend (Yuen Mei, pictured with moi) and made new ones as well.