The Angel

Probably not a good thing to finish this book while I was in a very busy coffee shop with lines snaking around where I was seated. I felt claustrophobic by the surroundings and the book I just finished reading made such a tangled mess of emotions. Somehow, I wished for a better ending, not just for the characters in this book, but for all of us, whether in the shadows, invisible, or not. If there's one fiction to read this year, it is this: Lie With Me by Philippe Besson. Translated by Molly Ringwald. (Yes, the actress from Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club.)

It is a continuous and lifelong pursuit of mine to declutter and simplify my life. So one rainy day, after many visits for coffee, I finally went to Local Edition Coffee and Tea at Perea Street in Makati and left these ten books so that others can read them. These are all novels either written by gay authors or featured gay characters. Rather than gather dust at my shelf, I decided to share them to others. I have ebook copies of these, anyway. And others may find something here to relate to or perhaps reaffirm themselves that who they are is not wrong.

I'm trying to understand why traveling on off the beaten paths don't appeal to me. Hiking on mountains to get a decent view of the sunrise; riding buses, motorcycles, and boats then walking a thousand kilometers to get to a secluded, pristine lake. They say it's all about the journey, roughing it up to be rewarded with the beauty of nature, a silent sanctuary away from the bustling crowd of the city. But I'd take a room with a view where I can step out and get lost in the crowd and find a nook where I could have a decent local meal and a good cup of coffee. I'd take a city with trains and buses that could show me around, hop on and hop off from one stop to another until I've made full circle. And, of course, air-conditioning and a decent bathroom. With buffet breakfast, if possible.

It's been eleven years since my younger brother died. He would have been 29 last September 10. So easy to say that time flies, but somehow, somehow, I never grieved fully--and so eleven years later it has the freshness of yesterday's heartbreak. In the early stages, the first few weeks and months after his death, if I wasn't angry at the world and at God, if I wasn't plotting my own demise, I buried my nose in books, either trying to understand the inescapable pain and burden or escaping into horde of fantasy books. I remember feeling how thin the line between madness and sanity at that time. At any point I would've crossed over to madness and lived gleefully unaware of this sad, mad world.

Sometime in college, I realized I was born with a reading list I will never finish. It was in elementary when I discovered the joy of reading. At that time, in the province, we didn't have a good bookstore. Wait, correct that--we didn't have a bookstore. We had a school supplies store which sell textbooks and once in a blue moon a fiction novel would find its way in the shelves of Mathematics or Panitikan. But I didn't get those because buying books were simply out of my wallet's league. I don't think I even had a wallet then, much more any money I could call my own, except the spare coins I saved when I skipped lunch. I spent a lot of time in the library, which was sort of my refuge because I had no inclination for sports--and I didn't like staying in school playing with my classmates once classes are done for the day. I was an introvert; I just didn't know what it was called then.

The first milestone I had was when I graduated in prep school. It was made more unforgettable because I sung onstage. Long before The Voice Kids  or Tawag ng Tanghalan Kids  happened, I tortured my poor classmates, their parents and guests, and my teachers with my voice. In my defense, my teachers made me do it. The succeeding milestones in my life were all that--graduations. From elementary, high school, and finally college. I say finally  because I'm glad that my formal education is over. I have no plans for further studies, except those short courses online that tap into my neglected creative side.

Is it too early for reminiscing? Sometimes, out of the blue, and in the most ordinary of times, I feel suddenly, electrifyingly alive and in the moment. Sometimes in the middle of work, a flood of memories overwhelm me and I am reminded of things that came to pass. There's no shaking it, everything that happened in my life is now part of my narrative. If I were a story, I'm in the middle of my arc. I had experienced loss from which I will never recover, a burden, like heavy weights in my pockets that could sink me anytime, a wound so deep it will not heal. I had found myself in the throes of death, clung to life despite the isolation and the long road to recovery. And I find myself asking why? If I were a story, I should be moving towards something--a resolution or an ending of some sorts that should bring closure to my life's questions. Instead, it's starting to feel like Soprano and I'm moving to nothing but an abrupt end. Or The Good Wife --a good slap in the fac...

For most of the year, I've minimized my Facebook activity. It started November 2015 when I noticed my newsfeed becoming more political than I was comfortable. I thought the politicization of Facebook would fade after the Philippine election was over. But I was wrong. After the election, if you agree with the President, you're a Dutertard. If you disagree, you're a Yellowtard. Not much of a gray area, as if politics is black and white, or in this case red and yellow. It's as if the President is either a god or the devil. And all along I thought he was human and, therefore, fallible. You can agree on certain things with him and you can disagree without being labelled a certain *tard (mustard?).

Sometimes I feel like I've been an adult all my life. All the stuff of everyday can make me forget I was ever a child and that I had a whole life behind me. There are memories, out of nowhere, that would flash in my mind and remind me that I wasn't always like this. They come randomly, wherever, and whenever--when I'm walking, when I'm working, when I'm crossing the street, getting to my ride, having a meal, drinking coffee--I'd get these flashes of memories of a different life.

On my way to work today, an old, familiar song played on the radio. It was not the original but an even slower interpretation, as if at 5AM I needed to hear lullaby. Nevertheless, the recognition pulled me back to when I used to hum it. I was so much younger then, in high school, seemingly with an entire life ahead of me. I could see myself in the attic of our house watching the sun set over the horizon, an incomprehensible melancholy washing over me.

I am out of the conversation. It's been a long time since I've been part of the normal, typical conversation. I've had a few lunches and dinners with officemates and they talk about the married life, having babies, and raising kids. They talk about tuition fees, college educations, and how children these days are so different from our generation. I play with my food and imagine the world has swallowed me whole. Especially when they remember that I'm around and then they focus on me and ask me when I'm going down the road well-travelled. Marriage, families, babies, kids, the whole package of the acceptable, responsible life.

The decision of who to vote for the presidency did not come in a snap to me. I had thought long and hard about my choice of who will lead the Philippines in the next six years. Previously, in a more public and shorter post in Facebook, I said that the coming elections for the presidency is becoming a process of elimination. That is, who remains after removing the candidates I didn't want to vote for? Looking at the candidates then, I filtered my choices, removing the ones who I think had spectacular failures as leaders in times of crisis and those who, time and again, have shown that they are above the law.

I will be traveling all my life. Not every day of my life, but travel will always be a part of my life. Whether it's a weekend trip to a nearby Southeast Asian country or a weeklong trip somewhere else, the moment I arrive from a trip, I cannot wait to think about where I will be going next. So I travel with the long-term in mind. I invest in my travels, so that sometime, somewhere in the future, I will reap some rewards from it. Like any investment, the rewards don't happen overnight. But when they do, the rewards can be anything from an upgrade to first class or free roundtrip tickets or to hotel room upgrades or free hotel nights in some of the most expensive hotels in the world. There are a lot of travel hacks in the Internet on how to travel on a budget for a specific destination. Those are useful and complementary to this one. But if, like me, traveling for you is embedded in your life, why not invest in your travel? Here's how I do it:

I had been meaning to write for a long time, but the idea kept slipping away. On some random moments, I wish I had a pen and paper and I could simply write down my thoughts before they vanish. But ultimately, I let them dissipate into thin air. My mind wanders into many different things until I find myself falling asleep. I would tell myself, I am writing, forever, constantly, perpetually writing. Just not here. This part of my life, I choose to have it muted. An embargo of what goes on in every waking moment of it.

When news exploded about the decision of the SCOTUS to lift the ban on same-sex marriage across 50 states, I watched my newsfeed explode in the same manner--of rainbows and hashtags, and of dissent and outcry on the attack on traditional marriage and the breaking down of the moral fabric of the world. I read both sides of the argument of the judges who voted for and against the lifting of the ban and I marveled at the beauty of their arguments, the rhetoric and impassioned plea to a nation as divided as the judges themselves.

I have never loved anyone as much as I have loved you. The first time we met, I was at a loss for words. You have a face that I could gaze at forever. When I found my bearing, I couldn't stop talking, couldn't stop in getting you interested with me. I told you my whole life story in a span of one evening, until they kicked us out of the coffee shop, and we stumbled into the street and went our separate ways. You kept me at arm's length when all I wanted was to be wrapped in them. So I told you things I never told anyone, the darkest parts of me, thinking that I could pull you in with my vulnerability. I laid all my cards on the table, but you pulled out an ace on me. I woke up one day and you were in love. Just not with me.

We die everyday. The moment we step out of our houses, we become sensitive to how the world will see us. We mute our colors and hide the mannerisms that could betray us. We try as hard as possible to be inconspicuous in our words and actions. We look for nuances of what makes a man straight and so we stifle our tendencies and inclinations in order to be like them. We call the men bro or dude  or whatever sounds manly in the offices that we work in.

Took the last flight on a Friday night caught between the last days of summer and the beginning of fall. Made a brief stop at Minneapolis and, while waiting, I got a text message from an unfamiliar number telling me it was you. You were there at the airport as I made my exit and we found our way at the parking lot looking for the rental. We drove for miles beneath the midnight sky, across the vast Bay Area, against the settling fog and the twinkling lights of distant buildings, until we passed the shadows of the mountains and the distance between houses became as wide as the longing in our hearts.

It is Thanksgiving in the US today. The day when many turkeys are killed and basted. Although I don't celebrate it even when I lived there, this is a good time to be grateful for where I am in life. Many times in the past couple of months, I remind myself that I am in a comfortable place now, far from the struggles I've had in the last two years. It had been a dizzying, sometimes unconscious, trip to rock bottom. And just when I thought I was finally rising from my grave, I hit a few rough patches again and I spent months without any source of income.

I didn't like him. He was an officemate that I had worked with a couple of times on late-night projects. The years passed and he moved to another country for work. I saw him in the newsfeed of my Facebook. That's how I was updated about him, because he posted regularly. But he was an acquaintance, much like all the former officemates of ours who have either remained in the old company or moved on to different ones. It was a chance encounter on a street where I was standing, a little lost and looking for a coffee shop nearby, when a car stopped by--and he stepped out. It was like I had seen a ghost. I didn't know he was back.