You’ll see

Dear one,

On my birthday last month you gave me one of the most unique gifts ever. The essay was wonderfully written–and you say it was an entry from your journal that you wrote years ago? Remarkable. I can only aspire to that level of writing in the little-seen blog that I’m keeping. The language was, or course, flawless and it gave me immense pleasure while reading it.

Reading your account of our story was refreshing enough–because you rarely opened up in the brief period that we went out. From our late-night chats over Yahoo Messenger, to the exchange of calls and text messages, up to our first date–which you so-aptly called ‘calamitous’, your essay made me aware of how differently I remembered these events in our history. I can only marvel at the great power of perception over our feelings.

However, reading it also gave rise to a few questions. The first of which was the one I asked you last night. Why did you share this with me? Why now? I asked you if you wanted to talk about it and I was a bit surprised (and let down, I have to admit) when you shrugged your shoulders indifferently and said no. And when you added that you gave it to me just because you wanted to share a record of a moment when you were being very honest with yourself, I felt an unpleasant taste in my mouth. One that couldn’t be washed off by any mediocre explanation.

Because, to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to know the reason–or reasons, why you just upped and disappeared. I mean, after not seeing you for a long time, not anymore. And up to now, I still don’t. When I first saw you again at the conference, I acted in a civil manner towards you because that was the proper thing to do. I had no other reason, or designs. After that, when we would regularly bump into each other in various events and we would exchange pleasantries, I began to entertain the remote possibility that we could be friends.

And so, here we are.

While a part of me is sincerely glad to have witnessed this, umn, revelation… another part of me cannot seem to stop from seething with protest. Reacting to the non-chalance that you demonstrated when I asked you the reason for this disclosure, I feel like you have used me yet again so you can just feel better about yourself.

I guess this is the risk that one faces when he wants to come clean. I can imagine that you wrangled for a long time before finally garnering up the courage to cull this piece from your old journal, print it on some fancy, high-quality crisp paper, wrap it in an elegant envelop, and giving it to me as a birthday present.

I think that any form of disclosure, whether of one’s sexual orientation to parents or an indiscretion to a lover, is never easy. Unburdening one’s self usually comes at a price. Unfortunately in this case, it came at my expense.

Closures, meanwhile, are another, equally–if not more, complicated matter. Because people have different ways of ending things. Some like to do it with a bang: a fight, a shouting march, and angry departures. While others let things fade away like forgotten photographs, substituting absence for explanation, implications for notifications. Still others would rather hear it straight for the horse’s mouth, wary from reading between the lines and making assumptions.

My dear, if you have taken the time to know me when we were together, you would have known and understood that I fall in the third category. That I end things that way because that’s the same way I like it to be done to me. When you left me the way you did, I felt terrible pain. One that was only dulled by time and lately, soothed by the possibility of friendship. But pondering on your words and actions, I realize that nothing has changed.

You will always need me, perhaps, to put some meaning in your life. Because of this, you will always use me, whether you are aware of that fact or not. And, by doing this, you will always hurt me. Again and again. And at some point it has to stop. Because you have to learn to look beyond yourself and your desires; how others are affected by your intense drive to meet these needs.

I always try not to burn bridges; but for you I might have to make an exception. When you are finally alone with your thoughts (drink in hand–I imagine), know that in spite of everything that has happened…

I wish you well.

Paper bag

I was a fifth-grader when I got my first taste of publication. A poem I wrote, which won in the district level of a poem-writing contest, was published by our school organ, Ang Tinig (The Voice). This would go on until high school, when I became the literary editor (and later, Associate Editor) of The Paulinian Times, our school paper. At university I didn’t get involved with student publication, though I didn’t stop writing what-I-thought-of-as-poetry.

In 1995, weeks after the U.P. National Summer Writers’ Workshop, a couple of my poems got published in the Philippine Free Press. I published my first short story over year later (in The Evening Paper), months after attending the Dumaguete National Summer Writers’ Workshop. From 1995 to 2001 I would send my poems and stories to various magazines and publications. I got my published almost always, but of course, I also endured rejections. Work deterred me from continuing the routine of submitting my written work and now, many years later, I am feeling the itch again.

This happened recently.

Me (4 weeks ago):

Dear (CEO/Publisher),

Thank you for taking the time to read this humble letter. I am hoping to hear from you or your good office.

CEO/Publisher (4 hours after my email was sent to him):

Hi —,

Send me 2 stories to evaluate and I will get back to you in about two weeks from when I receive them.

Me (frantic):

Chose the 4 ‘best’ stories in the said collection. Asked friends and what-not to read these effusions and to select 2 that they liked most. Entire process took over two weeks. When 2 stories emerged with the most number of votes, only one was subsequently chosen for submission. The second story was chosen via an ‘executive decision’.

Chosen stories were submitted September 15, at 2PM.

Dear Sir,

I will look forward to hearing your feedback in the weeks to come.

CEO/Publisher (8 hours after my email submission):

Hi —,

Read your stories. You know how to write. Too bad they’re not my type of stories. I find them too inward–nothing happens outside, lots of angst inside. Also too slow and plodding. Walang dating.

Sorry, don’t think I can sell your stories. Try another publisher.

So there.

This was probably the fastest rejection I got in my very short literary career. In fairness to the esteemed publisher, I really appreciate his prompt responses (first, to my inquiry then to my submission), outcome notwithstanding. Some can argue that he probably didn’t read the whole thing, or that he was probably too quick to judge the stories, etc. But I won’t. I mean, even if it were true, he was just exercising his prerogative(s).

I’m not going to ask for a second chance to submit other stories. I’d probably need a couple of seconds to lick my wounds, so to speak, but I’m okay with it. Frankly, I’m amazed at how well I am handling this rejection. Maybe because this is not the first (literary) rejection that I got; and I know that it won’t be the last as well.

The itch is still here, like recurrent crabs… Okay, bad analogy… But you get the point, right? I believe my book is going to happen in its own, good, and appointed time.

You’ll see.

Let’s get this party started

Back in my old flat, I used to entertain friends with dinner, drinks, some karaoke singing and friendly games of Uno! or mahjong. These dinner parties often lasted to the wee hours of the morning. Since moving to this new flat and returning from Manila, I tried to resume this activity, with varying degrees of success. The fact that I’m living with somebody makes this task easier somehow. I was glad to discover that my room-mate likes to host these type of gathering as well.

I organized the first dinner during the first week of my return from Manila. Vic was away on a trip that time. I cooked for the first time a new version of adobo that I learned from my mother while in Manila. I paired this with Kapampangan Chicken Asado, which I can cook with my eyes closed. For the second dinner, Vic was already back. We had planned a pasta dinner, where Vic would prepare salad and garlic bread while I would prepare two sauces for the pasta. I, however, ran out of time and ended up making just the bolognaise, not the alfredo. But still, our friends had a good meal.

This time, we decided to have a Korean dinner because Vic wanted to try the Korean beef stew mix he bought in Manila. I originally wanted to prepare Korean Chicken Stew, something that I often cook, but Raymond promised to bring grilled chicken so I decided to make some panchan (side dishes). I made pickled cucumbers, seasoned baby bok choy, and seasoned bean sprouts.

I intended to take photos of the food because they looked good when we served them but we were all too hungry to do it. When all of our friends arrived, we noticed we were an even eight. After eating, I took photos of each pair–some of whom are really ‘couples’ and some are, well… simply just not.

Let’s start with couple number 1, wearing coordinated shirts and smiles:

Then here comes couple number 2, with their coordinated buff bodies (but with differing amounts of hair–joke only, R!):

Followed by couple number 3, who vehemently deny that they planned to coordinate their outfits for the night:

And, finally, (odd) couple number 4, whose only claim to being coordinated is the collar on their shirts:

The post-dinner chat was very interesting, even if we didn’t have alcohol to ‘lubricate’ our decorum and sense of modesty (?). We drank green tea and coffee like the proper ladies that we are. I mean, if not for the absence of prayers, bible lessons (and women), this dinner would’ve been easily mistaken for a Couples for Christ meeting. We were certainly gossiping.

Before the party wrapped up, we took the requisite group photo. Judging from our poses, it is quite obvious that we had our favorite soap opera characters in mind while this was being shot. Do you agree?

On a night like this

Jeanette Winterson, in her novel Written on the Body, said it best: “Why is the measure of love loss?” This delicious line can further give birth to an almost-endless series of permutations to feed every famished heart. Why is the measure of pleasure pain? Joy, misery? Acceptance, solitude? The possibilities can be overwhelming. Like sadness.I am thinking of three people as I am typing this in this quiet evening. The rain, which has soaked the narrow path that leads to my flat, has slowed considerably that the sound of raindrops falling on the neighbors’ roofs can be barely heard.

The first person is someone I’ve known for more than twelve years now. We met at a time when I’d just gotten out of a stifling relationship while he was wrestling with his emerging sexuality. Looking back, I think we were doomed from the start. That time, I had an almost business-like approach in my relationships–unable to think without a purpose, to act without a plan, to feel without guarantees, while he had absolutely nothing to offer, being a newcomer in same-sex relationships. Our only common denominator appeared to be the fact that we were both lonely during that time. Perhaps, we naively thought, we’d be enough for each other. Even for just a while.

Less than two years later, after a break-up and reconciliation, we finally decided to end the relationship on a rainy July evening. I didn’t cry so much. It seemed that I’d been crying for the most part of our relationship that when the end finally came, my well of tears had dried up. Yet, out of this broken relationship, friendship bloomed. We became closer than we were before, when we were lovers. Continents stand between us now, along with the lives that we have built separately. We rarely communicate, but in the instances that we do, we do it as if our previous conversation happened only the day, or week, before.

Only a few kilometers separate me from the second person I’m thinking of, but the rift I sense inside is much wider than that. He might as well be on another planet. When I met him four years ago, he was entangled in a relationship that he felt was going nowhere, hanging on the words of a transient lover who hadn’t contacted him in months. Meanwhile, I was a new arrival in his country, taking in all that I could of this new environment. I wasn’t particularly looking for love, and he said he wasn’t too. To me his beauty was intoxicating–wan at the start, gaining dimension once you looked at him long enough, his eyes were at once innocent and flirtatious, while his smile and disposition seemed to betray a deeper sadness and pain.

These contradictions fascinated me and I sought to know him well. I basked in our closeness and soon love sneaked up on me like a thief. I thought I knew him. But, as it turns out now, I really don’t. He is like a lump of clay that changes under the hand of the potter. And while this unpredictability is amusing at the start, I was soon plagued by fatigue that rendered me immobile against the mind-games that he leveled upon me. Yukio Mishima wrote, “What makes a man cruel is the consciousness that he is loved.” This sums up my fate in his hands.

A breeze sends the curtains billowing briefly. I look past the window and try to decipher a pattern among the lit windows on the other buildings. I wonder what the third person I’m thinking of is doing right now. Perhaps, his own tool in hand, giving form and beauty to other people’s ideas. Mutual friends brought him into my sphere, a shy and unassuming young man whose manner of speaking seemed equally imploring and nonchalant. Having seen him only a few times, I am mostly intrigued as to how he really is, without the masks, so to speak. My attraction is like a germ that sits in the pit of my belly, incubating. To what extent, I don’t know. I don’t want to find out.

How could I? And why? What do I hope to accomplish if I bring him–and me, into this morbid tournament of emotions? Do I dare pollute him with my own rancor? I think of him, his supposed wife, his secret friendships, and his own demons to tame. I am drawn to him like iron fillings to a magnet. I hope this doesn’t become too hopeless. Silence engulfs my wrangling. The night devours my words. The shadows thicken. The soft wind carries the faint scent of night-blooms.

I stop typing as sleep beckons.

I’m coming out

During my first year in high school, as I was thrust into this bigger world of bigger boys and girls who seemed to smell fear from great distances, the school library became a refuge; a sanctuary where I could be safe from prying eyes and enjoy escaping to other worlds through reading.

I didn’t really grow up reading books for children. One of the first things I learned to read was the comics section of newspapers and eventually, the ubiquitous komiks. I have an aunt, who was really just 6 years older than me, who liked to read komiks a lot, especially the ones with horror stories. I read these stories with great pleasure. The closest to children’s books that I read were the Choose-your-own-adventure Book Series and some Hardy Boys books, which I borrowed from a neighbor.

So it was in these many trips to our school library that I got familiar with books for children. At that age, however, I viewed myself as too ‘advanced’ to be reading children’s books so I just browsed through the books to enjoy the colorful illustrations. This was how I discovered Maurice Sendak. I saw a cover of a horned, furry creature sitting amid what-looked-like tropical trees.

I didn’t bother with the text of Where The Wild Things Are. The illustrations were lush, sometimes grotesque, just the way I liked it. I looked for other titles by Mr. Sendak but found just one, which showed a boy playing in the kitchen at night, naked.

How shocking, I thought, to show a naked boy in a book supposedly for children. But the more I looked at the pictures, the more I saw the innocence, and the joy of the character. But like the first book, I didn’t bother reading the text of In The Night Kitchen. Now I wish I did.

A few days ago, while googling for stories I can post on the e-group that I’m moderating, I came across a story of an interview with Maurice Sendak, in which he non-chalantly admitted that he is, in fact, gay. The 80-year-old author sat in an interview for The New York Times to discuss a benefit that celebrated his career. When asked if there is anything he’d never before been asked, he reportedly paused before saying, “Well, that I’m gay.”

I googled Maurice Sendak and found out that even though his books gained international acclaim, these also caused controversy. His attraction to forbidden and nightmarish aspects of children’s fantasy apparently caused this. In fact, In The Night Kitchen was listed number 25 by the American Library’s Association of ‘100 Most Frequently Challenged Books’. I wonder what his books were doing in my Catholic school library.

I would have loved to read Mr. Sendak’s books, late as it may seem now. I didn’t outgrow my fascination for horror/fantasy/science fiction stories. This interest extended to films and TV series. I remember reading an article about one of my favorite genre authors, Clive Barker (who also happens to be gay). He was, if i remember correctly, elaborating on how horror and fantasy thrive on the forbidden, on the things that were relegated to the fringes of civilized society. Looking back now, Mr. Barker might as well be talking about himself (as a gay man) and the marginalized–those who defy the norms and exist under the radar, so to speak. In Maurice Sendak’s time, it most certainly included gays and lesbians.

Mr. Sendak also told the Times that he never came out to see his parents-something that he now regrets. He says he kept quiet about being gay because the idea of a gay man writing children’s books would have killed his career early on. On the heels of this interview, the gay website Out.com extended a thanks to Sendak for “deciding at 80 years young there was no point in waiting around any longer to be asked.”

Indeed. better late than never.

Note to self, file under my wish-list: I got to find this book.