Nostalgia et al
Les fleurs saccagées by Marc Chagall, 1961
fire's redemption
here in the liminal space of death and life there's a fire that burns and clears the deciduous
the violent blaze of fire spreads through the ground quick quick quick ignited like kerosene
inside the smokey haze blankets the burning dipterocarps down goes the fruit with two wings spiraling down it goes
here lies the fruits born last summer and the grass tended since
spring "oh why must it all fall down why must it all burn?"
the site of it all was intoxicating, suffocating, uncontrollable tears started gushing, clouds of darkness penetrated skin deep
until one day the raindrops poured and wept and
washed all the remains and
ashes of old memories
the divine sunbeam cracked open the calloused sky and where the devil once nested screamed:
"all eternity is in the moment!"
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the passing cloud
how slow or how fast does a cloud move?
it is infinitesimally relative you could not really tell
when sun rays are strong, it pierces violently through the pool of clouds and then you get blinded
temporarily.
the clouds remain uncompromised no matter how strong the sun shines
with it's steady rise and fall,
it gets harder to breathe
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katabasis
descending almost feel like flying was how he described diving down into the depths of the ocean sucking air in a tiny tube from a steel tank
breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, and out, until the only sound you hear is your life clinging to a manmade machine, 200 bars and a 4 pound belt fastened to keep the lungs from bursting
deep depths are dangerous places for humans to be but it is when the molecules are compressing, air bubbles dissipating, organs contracting, and light fading do we find life in the eternal abyss
breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, and out. it takes about 30 minutes to live 30 meters below sea level where the groupers feed, the stars sleep, and the damsels await for your return
into the ocean the tempest lurks, and the mermaids sing songs about foolish men that never resurfaced. drowning in the arms of the sea and pulses of the current is an eternal embrace of death and life
hold your breath, hold it, hold it until asphyxiation until you see the light, until you hear the fishes sing, until you see the vibrance the exuberance of the corals and the sea fans, the explosion of the gases, the dancing of the waves, until you've reached narcosis
there is no resurfacing now all beauty has engulfed you.
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stoic's heart
the undying turmoil inflicted by uncontrollable external forces and latent internal agonies created shear stresses that built up heat inside the stoic's heart. just like the depressions, the cool wind from high mountains purified converging stressors that snowballed during continuous cyclones.
as heat excited and evaporated, confinement and condensation built giant rain clouds that refused to precipitate.
lonely, lonely, and collected rain clouds. so few have waited for the downpour of your excrement, byproduct of cycles and storms and storms.
but by all grace and irony, the stoic's heart sunshowered. the wolves wed, and the lions conceived.
in the desolate mojave desert, all melancholic radiance gently wept,
a bounty from a stoic's heart.
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vivacity, disparity, indifference
there is no time to lose, no moment to forbear
what use is a life of longevity if we stop longing for eternal vivacity? vivacity, what does it mean?
i've lost all taste, all guts, all edge to put to words…vivacity
vivacity, aliveness, a sparkle i no longer understand what it means, it has been so long since i've felt truly alive
but what does it mean to live if we are all disparate entities?
grown more isolated than ever before pretending to feel accepted, pretending to fit in small places, even in crowded places, in dark and light places
disparate entities. maybe i made that up to feel more special, or more alienated
but are we all so different or are we in constant denial of our worthlessness? thinking always about ourselves, our inexistent selves?
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2,000+ steps to loneliness
i used to have friends, loads of them easier to make friends when you're young when you have a new orange ball and new neighbors once they hear the thumping, they'd beg to be friends with you
but friends dwindle in time they come inshore at 5 then offshore at 15 or maybe we'd like to think they're our friends at 5 maybe they're just a bunch of strangers attracted to that same orange ball
it's odd to see old friends you look at them and wonder how the hell you got along and how needy you were at those times to attach to people you didn't like
and to those old friends i never saw again i'd check their profiles sometimes and wonder how the hell they reached 2,000+ friends in facebook?
how the hell do they manage that? i can hardly manage being with one
i'd sometimes think those with 2,000+ are the loneliest how much toxic self-validations they need how much empty pictures to show off some with good intentions but mostly self-serving intentions
or maybe i'm just jealous. but it can't be. over time i've developed a habit of believing that i am the only person who can truly entertain myself sounds lonesome, huh? but it's the strongest solitude i've felt
sometimes i'd still find strangers attracted to the same orange ball but unlike before when i thought of permanence i'd see these people, these 'friends' as transitory, as all else are.
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tiny blue butterflies
tiny blue butterflies inside me fluttering, flapping, pulsating itching to come out but just when they are about to, i'd whisper to them "not now.
not ever. don't ever show yourself. they are afraid of you. i am afraid of you." so just like that they are forced to stay inside until all uneasiness squander away
tiny blue butterflies inside me sometimes i wish people can see but when they get a tiny glimpse of the tiny blue butterflies they would hurriedly fall back, hurriedly withdraw from me even when they were the ones who forced the tiny blue butterflies to come out so from then on, although the sight was beautiful and true, i'd tell them to cease their fluttering
tiny blue butterflies inside me i am only alone with you at night when everyone's asleep and when everyone's adrift with their own butterflies i'd talk to them sometimes and tell them, "hey, maybe someday when the world's ready you can come out. they will never understand your beauty. or maybe they are afraid to understand beauty. they only like the sight of the surface, the familiar sights. and you are a monster to them."
friends and old lovers who caught
sightings of these tiny blue
butterflies are long gone
i've learned my lesson to never let them out to only keep them in secret places like paintings pictures poems writings and books.
La flûte enchantée by Marc Chagall, 1967
fields of veg.
“i need to renew my subscription”, he said “i got about a week until it ends” and for what? more harrowing days flipping through films? it's what keep the dogs sane these days
“i got eight hours to waste in the weekend i'll finish a season or two the end will empty me eventually i need to find a replacement soon
when it dies down i'll tune into the white fire sex comes easy just flip through black photos”
fubu one-night stand open minded people only they're all the same
seeking instant gratification in simple pleasures to one day die in a field of vegetables.
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bohemian rhapasbukg
there's an alley in the big city exclusive for 16 and up they serve coffee beer and shady deals
vinyl shops bookshops eco stores objet d'art
men on stripes women on halters white kicks sunglasses and smokes
they call themselves the cult of the 21st century
they make me sick.
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risus caninus
i held my old dog tight
she had cancer
it spread real quick throughout her
breasts, bones, lymph nodes, lungs, everywhere
her last few days were the hardest to bear
by the time she got diagnosed, it was too late
the cancer was feeding on her
all symptoms swept away all life in her beautiful eyes first the lethargy then the tumors the massive weight loss the limping the bloody urine the hard rock shit the swollen lymph nodes the thickening of mucous bathing under the rain bathing under the sun attempted suicides and finally her breaths her last few precious breaths the last few gasps are always the deepest like searching for air in cave-ins or inhaling through the regulator in deep dives the sound was guttural, rasped so husky, condensed and tired
little puffs of breath came out of her mouth
she collapsed on the parquet floor
she looked at me or into space i didn't know but there was a grin on her face or maybe facial spasm
i held her paw tight one last time i said goodnight ran into my room like the coward that i am and hoped tomorrow i wouldn't be the first to discover her cold body lying on the floor
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life is a gamble and we are the players
at our default setting, we'd secretly like to believe that we deserve what's best. we like pointing out the mistakes, the lies of other people hoping it'll make us feel good about ourselves. in truth, we tell more lies to ourselves than to anyone. the lies we tell eventually becomes harder to differentiate from truths.
intentional blindness, however, corrupts. some people go on living blindly for the rest of their lives. after all, it's easier to live with the lies we tell ourselves than to risk living with our mistakes and humiliations.
we act like we no longer notice the sneaky tendencies we fall for. or when we do notice it, it'll feel like it's too late to turn back and try to fix things because we already made a fool of ourselves.
these lies, however, build up inside us. it consumes us like sunk cost investments or investments that keep us motivated even after that thing we invested on has lost all its appeals. investments like buffet dinners, marriages, long- term relationships, religion, beliefs, jobs, and even children.
we keep lying, we keep investing ourselves to these hoping that we would get an equal exchange because we think we deserve as much as what we gave. but it doesn't work that way.
and the hard truth usually seeps in when it's too late.
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write
write bold and write true. recount the events and put them all on paper as if you are transferring all memories in blank canvas ad verbatim.
write the good and write the bad, especially the bad. don't try to make the writing look neat and pretty. do not gloss over tainted facts.
whatever lands on paper, let it be, long as it is a total reflection of all premises.
it is important that when you read what you wrote, you don't start second
guessing your stories.
it is a temptation to lie to ourselves.
we'd sometimes prefer hearing paltry fantasies because we like the made-up stories built from self-delusions.
we tend to listen to stories where the order of events have been carefully manipulated to capture an alternate reality we can manageably digest.
of course, we like to spice things up because reality at its most raw form is ugly.
so write, write real, good, and honest. write even the most gruesome facts. write like the great ones that
can harshly criticize their own works with all biases aside.
it will not be a perfect product but it will be what the people need to hear.
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kontaminadong identidad
inaamin ko na ang wikang kadalasan na ginagamit kapag nag susulat o nag iisip ako ay tulad ng isang makulay na libro, puno ng iba't ibang salita at bokabularyo na nang galing sa mga dayuhang nangakop sa atin madalang na espanyol, ingles ang pangunahin
ang dugo ko, kahit na may halo, ay 'sing lapot ng identidad ko bilang ‘sang filipino paminsa'y inaasam ko pa rin na makapag sulat at salita ng tuwid tulad nina lolo ngunit daan-daang taon na ang kumupit sa purong pagkatao ng mga kababayan ko ganoon pa man ay may paraan pa na magbago
magbago, sa panahon ngayon? napaka kontaminado na ang kahulugan ng salitang iyon hirap na mapagkaiba ang itim sa puti, ang pula sa dilaw, ang katotokahan sa kasinungalingan, ang baba sa itaas, pagmamalasakit sa pagnanasa ng sakit moralidad natin ay para bang hiram na rin
ngunit, napasama nga ba ang kapalaran ng bayan natin o na tulad lang ba ito sa kontaminadong wika natin na nadagdagan ng kulay ngunit nabawasan ng kaunting damdamin? gayun pa man ay sarili pa ring atin may halo ngunit may kaibhan, may mantsa ngunit may pagkakakilanlan
ang na tipon na unos at hirap na napagdaanan ay bakas ng ating pangalan ang pag halo ng kulay sa ating dugo at wika ay di dapat hadlang sa layunin nating maipagpatuloy ang kumupas na pangarap ng ating mga ninuno na nagsilbi bilang mga munting pruweba
sa dati nating buong identidad na nabiyak
tulad ng libo-libong isla ni inang bayan
Le Cirque bleu by Marc Chagall, 1950
after the first rain
on the corrugated bridge we sat, awaiting the end of another long and drab season. the hot summer days are finally almost over, albeit this year, the cheerful summer vibe never transpired.
but after the first rain came the calmest sky and sea.
this time, rubie sat with us, blending in her soft lamentations with the wails of the still yet pungent waters. she was expressing her deepest frustrations about the unfortunate happenings of the day.
not that what she was saying didn't matter, but her repeated soliloquy mixed more beautifully with the technicolored dusk. her words and emotions faded with the setting sun.
as all else vanished with the calm skies and seas, there came millions of twinkling tiny stars, bursting infinitely on the veil of the new moon. first came venus and jupiter. then, the big dipper and the small dipper and orion.
we laid there.
"shooting star!", i yelled. "there's another one!" "and another one gliding slowly across the sky", said rubie. "that's not a shooting star, rubs!", keana exclaimed. "that's a firefly!" "wow, all bugs and critters are out tonight, huh? even the fishermen know there are plenty of fishes out and about."
i sat up and checked the waters. lo and behold, even the still waters reflected millions of sparkling stars! many tiny bioluminescent dinoflagellates dazzled and celebrated on the sea surface.
oh, how truly magnificent! oh, how beautiful the night was, the night after the first rain.
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bridge over troubled water
the forest is our backyard. beyond
that is the ocean.
minutes before sunset, we’d sit by the makeshift
bamboo sea bridge -- egress to a vacuum
where neither past nor future existed, where
pretense and fantasy were unfamiliar.
enamored by the ebb and flow of the sea,
we sat there motionless and permeable to all
things that surrounded us, absorbing space,
time, light, and all those inside this mad mad world.
i’d give my friend short glances to
reassure myself that i wasn’t going crazy.
but she was no longer there. i was no
longer there. we were no longer humans.
we were nameless vital forces unconstricted
by nature. we were static trees in jungles watching
clouds traverse before our eyes. we were sailboats
swept violently by strong winds and currents. we
were bats and eagles gliding through thin air.
we were all that was dissipating with the sunset like that
fading fine line on the horizon separating sea and sky.
dusk attempted consuming our skins and bones and
all our earthly remnants. soon as moonlight
struck our eyes, we were sucked back to
the vortex of existence.
i was to remember only the air filling my lungs,
the sighs of daybreak, the calmness of the sea, the
sunset that was there a minute ago or so, and
the many more that he will never see with me.
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cold stallions
it was 3pm and we were sweating balls.
in front of the hatchery, an old man with scoliosis relaxes on his hammock inside his sari-sari store. he telepathically invited us to buy what was left of his stallions.
keana muttered, “i’m craving beer.”
i was too.
we walked over the store. keana counted our few cash left from last week’s withdrawal. i stared blankly at the old ladies playing cards and mahjong behind tatay’s sari-sari store, taking in gsms bitterly on shot glasses with water as chaser.
gambling seemed like a pastime they take seriously, and life was a joke happening instantaneously.
how beautiful they all looked! stained and proud of old age. skins and breasts sagged inside floral dasters. they wore their wrinkled skins like golden armors, like tree rings -- thickened and calloused overgrowths of forgotten scars of past. laughter lines permeating joys of youth permanently marked on sour faces.
i stared hypnotized. stared and wondered, why? why aren’t they getting more attention? why? why aren’t they catcalled? hooted? flirted? because they no longer reek of sex and ovulation? because their tits and asses lost all firmness and perkiness? because they smelled like death?
if i don’t die from multiple organ failure by 70, i thought, i want to be just like them.
i wanted their unfailing carelessness and sense of humor that mocks 15-minute high intensity training and healthy living. i wanted their floral dasters, sagging breasts, wrinkles, melasma, stench of decay, and organs. yes, their organs tolerant to and unbeaten by excessive smoking and alcohol.
oh, how i’d sit and gamble away life with them just for a second or so, but i was so thirsty. i was so damn thirsty.
keana handed three hundred pesos to tatay.
i watched the old man serve cold beer and felt its bitterness dripping down the back of my dry throat.
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men. oh, men.
chris.
i was 5 and he was 10. he’d piss on walls. i’d piss on bowls. i’d watch him urinate standing up.
for a time, i thought, i could aim my piss as good as he does. but i never learned how. i didn’t have that thing dangling between legs. i have, what mom called, a peanut tucked in between two petals -- my girly bits, my pussy, my cunt.
chris’ plaything looked odd. i was afraid my peanut would grow as big as his when i hit puberty. i’d check on my peanut on my bedroom mirror just to be sure it remains the same size. i was relieved it stayed the same size. it’d be a burden to carry that dangling thing around. it looked sad and awkward. back then, i felt that that thing was good for one thing and one thing only: pissing upright on walls.
rene.
rene was a high school sweetheart. he came from that elite exclusive all-boys school next to ours. he had that ‘playboy’ reputation. he was an athlete. he looked good. he played judo and had toned muscles and abs at 13. he used to watch me play basketball with friends on fridays. he said i was cute, so he asked for my number. i didn’t like him, but because i knew the attention that i was getting was making my big-boobed best friend, claudia, jealous, i gave my number anyway.
after a month or so, he became my boyfriend. i still didn’t like him, but he taught me a lot of stuff. he taught me about masturbation. he said he and his friends does it often. apparently, that dangling thing hardens when guys get excited. i asked him how.
“i think about you then my body starts getting warm then the blood starts pumping. you should try thinking about me naked. let’s see what happens”, he said.
so i shut my eyes and imagined his naked, warm, ripped teenage body on me. my peanut tingled. after a minute or so, it was hard and wet.
“mine works just like yours”, i replied.
juanito.
juan, sweet juan. i hope i did you proud. my english has improved 10 times thanks to you. these days i can already differentiate the word queef from quiff (ex. yesterday, i saw a quiff queef.), i know now to avoid twattlers and flakes who like to schmooze to fish at kooks and peaches, and you were right, hyenas do have big cunts and some straight dogs do like gobbying and frotting.
but enough about my slang. i really just miss chill days at home watching death note and bleach with you and j. you are the only mexican i know who made an asian like anime, sriracha, and catan. you are the only mexican i know who does not know how to cook chicken nor stir fry vegetables. you are the only mexican i know who didn't celebrate cinco de mayo. you are the only mexican i know who preferred cabs over buses and snakes over frogs. but then again, i don't know a lot about mexicans like you.
juan, sweet juan. do you remember getting kicked out of that bar we went to at khaosan? you probably didn't, but i think you really did forget to pay the barkeep for that bathroom pass. how 'bout the night of songkran? you probably also didn't because you drank too much. anyway, we were boxing, and you hit me too hard it bruised the next day. also, you said some sweet stuff that were hard to forget. if i was drunk too, then i must've laughed at you. but what i really meant to say was, thank you and i will really miss you.
adam.
he’s charming. always charming. in fact, i hate to write something about him because he always thinks everything’s about him. but he was something.
he was always moving, always uneasy, always running away. from whom? from himself, probably? but you’ve come a long way, huh, adam?
“i was a poor boy from a no-good family. always couchsurfed and drove around america in my $300 jeep. now i’m corporate adam. i work at silicon valley where people sit in cubicles and get paid 150,000 bucks a year to do nothing. least i have health insurance and i can finally pay off loans. but it gets weird here. my workmates are inactive. the managers pay them gift cards for using workout apps.
when i save more cash, i’d quit this job and look for snakes”, he’d rant.
oh, adam. silly adam who loves california but dislikes the rest of america.
you are something. you’re hella something.
nate.
nate was jesus. nate was god. nate was that outdoor-loving-type canadian.
he taught me everything i needed to know about cold-blooded reptiles. he was my first wildlife mentor. we’d track on burnt forests and he’d swish and swoosh and maneuver quickly on broken branches and tall grasses. we’d cut our skins from all the hash slinging, slashing, and woodcutting of lianas. he’d take me off track, but he’d manage to find his way back. we’d find the tortoises fast and we’d be back home before everyone else.
on his last day, we played cards against humanity. he didn’t like playing with me. i might have said something about becoming a blueberry. he said, “stop breaking all the rules. you can’t say this. you can’t say that…”
but nate was still jesus. nate was still god.
last time i talked to nate he told me he got scammed in india. said some indians wanted him to smuggle jewelries into canada. said he got puked on twice by some random person in india.
but nate was still jesus. nate was still god.
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manila, manila, i keep coming back to manila
a ten-lane road plus incompetent uv and jeepney drivers plus tired commuters equals manila, ready for disaster. but you'd still get its charms. our commutes and drives are full of surprises.
you ever been in a flying jeepney? their speedometer's usually faulty but you know they're going beyond 140.
our driver's are great at multi- tasking. with their left foot pressing firmly onto the clutch and the right on the break and gas pedal; one hand on the wheel and the other handing out change to passengers behind while cussing at motorcycle drivers maneuvering recklessly.
and there you are sitting with only a butt cheek away from falling, holding mercilessly to the steel bar, praying to god a passenger from your column leaves. wondering, how is that woman still enjoying this? how is her head still sticking out of the window, grinning as she inhales and feels the carbon monoxide-concentrated air?
you ever rode an old, crammed bus? some of which are ambitiously designed. they usually have frilled or pleated, cheap, neon chinese curtains and flaky, faux leather seats and tiny, cheap plastic chandeliers with old pinecone-scented fresheners dangling.
these buses are always jam packed but they'd still be moving speedily. skins and faces wherever you turn. you'd be lucky if you stand next to men wearing loose jerseys with their sweaty, hairy pits exposed and inches away from your apathetic face.
sometimes i wonder how there's still room for those conductors to walk or how those men selling nuts can still maneuver through the crowd or how there's still room for that man to preach?
manila is so charming, isn't it? it's so funny, isn't it?
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mrt
i watched the metro transition from one station to the next. from high rise stations to underground passages to bottleneck stations.
i like the transitions from light to dark tunnels. like caving in dark and narrow passages, reminding me of tinges of echoes from the past. you know, like blurry visions, 20/200 visions, fragments of memories you accidentally remembered, realizations you regretted
like that one time i got stuck in a room with my best friend and her boyfriend. they looked at me like i was an alien, inexistent sitting across and watching their piercing eyes look at each other, piercing eyes that are gnawing to take each other's clothes and shoes and panties off and rip each other's bodies off and fuck and fuck and scream and moan. piercing eyes that suggested, "if only she wasn't there"
or that distant memory of me with exes talking to whores whom i'd later on find out were the same whores they're sneaking around with, humping behind closed doors realizing, i knew they're going to do it i knew, but i didn't care
or even good memories that turned
yellow like teeth stains from all those
years belching and smoking.
like that fine day at the beach where
for the first time in many years
everything was ok, everything was carefree,
everything was perfect
but life's got a way to mess up good memories. i held on to them thinking they'd keep me sane, but really they're what's keeping me insane.
like remembering how far-off in
life i've been, thinking, wow
i was a genius when i was younger
always getting public attention and
congratulations until it sinks in,
"what happened? why did it take me all
these years to grasp how inadequate i am?"
damn narrow tunnels of metro stations. looking at fading light from a distant. only the light's the memory and i was the metro transit moving farther and farther away from the dissolving light.
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to carole, with love.
the first time i met carole, i knew i was going to love her forever.
i met her at the festival in the chateau garden.
on a hot thursday afternoon, she bought me salted caramel crepes à la mode. she smiled and said, “french make the best desserts, no?”
when we got to her house, she toured me around her kitchen. she served a cup of fresh kenyan coffee with warm brioche and the best damn homemade and handpicked sweet and tart gariguette strawberry jam i’ve tasted in my whole life.
we snacked on camembert, bleu, gruyere, and roquefort on freshly baked baguettes and drank white honey wine and cabernet sauvignon on their patio at dusk.
for dinner, she mixed mache and roquettes to make a simple garden salad. she served it with baked herbed noirmoutier potatoes and steamed la morue cod. she pulled out a bottle of pinot noir and gracefully toasted, “cin-cin!”
the next day, clarisse and i headed out for our usual long drive around france’s countryside. before leaving the house, carole reminded clarisse to bring home a box of kouign-amann and pain au chocolat.
we got home at 16:00 and smelled the coffee brewing in the kitchen. carole kissed clarisse and i and reminded us that she made dark chocolate mousse.
“take your cup of coffee outside and help yourself to some pastries”, she said.
we sunbathed on the patio, listened to bénabar, and enjoyed our cup of coffee and pastries.
carole checked on us and said, “french make the best desserts, no?”
she spoiled me. that woman spoiled me. but yes, french make the best desserts.
Le Dimanche by Marc Chagall, 1954
on the road
on the road to france in june when the air was dry and the temperature suffocating but the view was as thrilling as the morning sky
i rode the bus from catalunya to navarre around the pyrenees to cross country borders where the first stop was at toulouse and the people behind rolled grass to share
a man roughly at his mid-30s sat beside me german, i thought. he tried to talk to me but i was too tired to listen. besides, he smelled like beer intoxicated he was, banging his head to the beat of his music
funny how in between borders you'd meet different people some talked to me in spanish, some in french, some in english, some in german and some even japanese talking and trying to be chummy with an asian girl insisting i'd understand all languages
at bordeaux we got off a while to drink and piss and smoke a little and check out the renaissance and gothic architectures of cathedrals, chateau, and old streets where people drank and dined al fresco, typical in europe
nearing our stop at nantes, i saw clarisse waiting oh how time changed people, she looked so french, i thought. so we hugged and kissed and got in her tiny citroen. we drove and drove miles and miles shared endless stories and laughter
on the road to paris we rode different transpo and saw different people. there were hitchhikers, protesters, yellow jackets, pickpockets, homeless people.
there are always stories on the road and on the metro like in gare de lyon, a fat homeless man on the platform jacking off, more german tourists passing out, suicides on tracks
there are always stories on metro stations stealing, running, rushing, cussing, musicians and performers hustling, clarisse and i talking, a cup of americano in the morning, rushing, talking, brisk walking, multi-tasking, typical parisians always rushing
nearing our flat at noisy-le-grand, a man in his 20s sat about 6 rows in front. he looked eurasian, tall, handsome, strong-built. he looked at me with his inviting eyes and smiled from a distance until he got off at the next stop. i thought, i should've followed him
there are always stories at metro stations, and long drives, and long walks i highly advice people to take long cuts and long hours.
remember these days, remember as much faces take it from someone who almost passed
out in a metro station
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the green fairy
"live fast, die young, that's how we roll" was how he'd always describe his formidable way of life. drinking heavily from bar to bar in a long street in paris where expats and locals come together for one night to forget busy life.
first stop, we went light. drank some rosé, white wine, and beer. "it's still too early. let's wait till 22:00 before we move to chupitos", she said. we chat and chilled and ate a little, checked out bartenders and customers passing by. when we had enough, we split the bill and headed to hell.
"the el chupitos never failed me", he said arrogantly as we walked the narrow streets. "i'd always go with workmates on fridays. my boss would always lose the games, and he'd pay for all our drinks. i never got drunk."
at the of age 16 i remember the first time i finished a bottle of whiskey without feeling the slightest urge to throw up. i was proud of myself then. i thought, i could conquer anything. but this asian tolerance’, as what they called it, diminishes in time.
at el chupitos, anything's possible. bar fights, bar sex, sex on the beach, terminator, the apocalypse, ecstasy, screaming orgasm, blackout, whatever the name of your shooter, it can happen. the hotter the shot, the faster it hits, the bluer the fire, the faster you'll blackout.
so we sat at the bar like convicts awaiting death row. we downed maria first. i felt her sting dissipate quick down my throat. i let out a burp-infused alcohol, cider, tonic, and the vegetable galette i ate. just like any fool, we downed vinny and boy oh boy vinny tasted so good. we downed some more marias, extasis and more sex. by the time we reached blackout i felt lightheaded.
romaine was telling us a story about the green fairy and how important it was in french counterculture during the late 80s. he said, it used to be so cheap and sold in all bars, pubs, and cafes in paris. it became a symbol for spiritual transformation and artistic reformations. it became fuels for van gogh, gauguin, monet, degas, rimbaud...a drink for the artists, poets, innovators, ahead of their time. i thought, no wonder we don't have those in the philippines.
it surprised me that i still understood what he was saying.
i didn't know how long we stayed at chupitos but i heard romaine telling us to go home.
we walked about a kilometer, i wasn't very conscious but it took about a kilometer to get to the subway. on the way home, i heard romaine and clarisse talking but i couldn't understand anything. maybe it was in french? but we were all laughing and swaying and flying and movements and colors reverberated and we walked some more and some more and i felt cold sweats and i thought i saw the flat and got up the stairs. third floor. we were all so eager to sit down and watch some movies. it was 3 in the morning but they're still raging with energy. so i bit my tongue and tried my best to stay upright but as soon as my ass hit the couch, i blacked out.
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san miguel is made in the philippines
days in barcelona felt longer than in manila. sun set at 20:30. we finished dinner at 22:00. carlos, the fat, bearded catalan chef, offered me some leftover iberico ham, grilled peppers, croquetas, pa amb tomàquet, patatas bravas, and slices of rum cakes. the leftovers were to last for two meals. i grabbed the vino blanco and headed back to my apartment -- a good 3-kilometer hike from carlos’ pub.
i made it to the apartment’s door. struggled with the skeleton keys. it took me a minute or two to break open that damned knobless door. neighbors must’ve thought i was breaking in.
fatigued and dehydrated, i collapsed on my bed and attempted to fall asleep.
heavy footsteps from the hallway suddenly awoken me.
it was my police flat mate, lizel and her 3 big german friends -- leon, luis, and martin.
the germans were invading my house. they came in with a dozen cans of 500ml pale pilsen. i almost didn’t recognize the repacked pilsens. it looked fancier and more expensive than the ones sold locally. but the minute those men opened their hops-infused mouths to greet me, i knew i was home.
leon was the first to introduce himself. he sluggishly approached me and said, “guten abend fräulein!” i smiled back to acknowledge him. leon had features of a young sacha baron. he looked like a bearded pervert with curly raven-colored hair.
luis smiled shyly and waved his hand hesitantly to greet me. luis was tall, young, and blond. his babyface looked awkward and unfit for his big body.
and martin. martin reminded me of a german version of an ex -- ripped, stocky, and blond. he was half drunk when he came in. his cheeks were flushed. he was talking loudly in german. he seemed excited to go to the rave at the discotheque near port olimpic.
lizel took leon to her room. i was left with luis and martin at the balcony. they opened the can of beers and lit their cigarettes to loosen up.
the boys and i talked for an hour or so. i asked about germany. they asked about the philippines. they said they were taking a vacation and had to flee berlin ‘cos it was too cold. i said i had to flee manila ‘cos it was too hot. they said, someday, they want to see palawan. i said, instead, go see romblon, siquijor, antique, batanes, negros, or cagayan. they said they missed steaks and sausages. i said i missed seafood.
martin opened another can of beer for me. with his raspy german accent, he said, “you should drink more.”
“i’ve been drinking since breakfast”, i said.
“you should drink more”, he insisted.
“what is it about germans and beer?”, i asked.
“well you know…americans have their bourbon, scottish their scotch, austrians their schnapps, uhhh french and their uhhh wine, spain their sangria, and uhh well germans and our uhh beer. it’s our water, our blood”, he replied.
“how’d you like pilsen?”, i asked.
“not bad for a beer made in spain”, he said.
i never talked to him again.
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creatures of the discotheque
lizel gave out tickets to the party at the discotheque. it was almost past midnight and i was tired as a log. she insisted i join her and the other german fellows. i said sure why not. it was a friday night and she was about to leave tomorrow anyway.
the discotheque was only a kilometer away from the flat. it lined along with other clubs and pubs at the long coast of barcelona. the queue to the club was very long. lizel knew the bouncers. they exchanged glances, shook hands, and kissed cheeks the way mafia brothers do. lizel’s bouncer friends let us skip the long line to the entrance. other guests looked at us sourly. i liked seeing people angry.
the entrance was narrow and dark. it descended towards a big red room filled with lots of blinking lights, disco balls, stages, bars, poles, and clouds of smokes. the club was jam packed with all kinds of them. they mingled with the frat boys, sorority girls, asian baby girls, transvestites, and strippers. but they were there. they were there. pretending to be hypnotized by the sparkling lights and club music.
i wanted to dance but lizel and the boys cornered me like i needed their protection. transvestite strippers wearing angel wings and golden leotards stepped out of small stages. bemused, the boys finally switched attention.
i took my chance and sneaked out and found an open dark space. they were there. away from the mindless crowds. some snorted coke, smoked grass, downed bottles, and hysterically laughed and laughed. they freely welcomed me.
we were all aliens in an alien land with alien identities, genders, and professions, speaking the mother tongue. and we knew. we knew.
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beautiful asian girls
it was almost eight in the evening but the sun was still high at barcelona. i sat and waited for the girls and watched the city from my apartment's spanish balcony.
it was my favorite time of the day. i watched the crowd vanish as the sun sets slowly. i watched the synchronicity of events and admired how everything unfolds in perfect harmony as the night approached.
from the balcony, i saw three skinny, long-haired asian girls walking towards the flat just as i received yaoxin's text saying that she and her friends were waiting for me downstairs.
i got up to welcome them and saw friendly and pleasant faces smiling back at me. they offered some french rose, gummy bears, and chocolates. i thought that asian guests were the best. they always have food and smiles to share. i couldn't have been happier to welcome familiar faces in my flat.
yaoxin was from china, kim was from korea, and lee was from taiwan but they were all working at berlin. kim and lee could not speak english very well so imagine my shock when they all started speaking in german to understand each other.
yaoxin said that she wanted to work in the fashion and design industry. kim was working in a restaurant and lee was a bartender. i didn't ask how they all met. maybe asians have a way to navigate each other in western countries, same as how i met all of them.
we talked and drank wine the entire evening. they told me how much they missed asian food -- the rice, noodles, vegetables, and fried food. they said they hated german food. lee said they ate lots of potatoes and sausages but at least german beer was really good. they didn't like german art. they said it was too odd for their taste. i could understand. they had a lot of toilets and literal shit in their museums influenced by the dadaists. weird germans. but at least their beer is good.
when all rose was downed and all small talks have passed, i walked them to the front door and waved goodbye.
in my apartment, in the middle of the busy streets in barcelona, i spent the night right with a chinese, taiwanese, and korean german-speaking ladies all united by our love for french rose, american candies, swiss chocolates, rice, noodles, and beer.
it was a fine evening.
Carmen by Marc Chagall, 1966
history class
Met a handsome Turkish fella with glistening abs at camp. Went straight to his flat after dance class. Didn’t hesitate because he promised he’d teach me Arabic. I liked the old languages, but I knew something shady was planned for the night because he made me wait until 10.
He was half naked when he opened the door. His pad was at the 11th floor. A man cave. Clearly, he was a fitness buff. His counter was lined with whey protein, egg trays, and supplements.
He warmed the bed and the black leather couch. He took me by the waist and led me to his couch. He stared at me with his deep wild eyes. I stared back and asked when our class will start. He started mumbling foreign words. I tried to copy but the only words he translated were fuck, dick, and cunt. I tried talking politics with him, asked him about the wars and stuff. I was in it for the language and history classes after all. But as I talked and talked the air between us grew warmer and warmer.
He pulled down his trousers and invaded my space. He gave a dry kiss. His breath tasted like alcohol. We kissed and touched. He led my hand waist down. It was decent size and hard. He bragged about his speed and stamina. But I didn’t care. I was only there for the language and history classes.
Language barrier stood between our self-interests. I felt bad for the man. I didn’t want him to think that it was because of his dick nor his ancestry.
He was in pain. He whispered he had blue balls. So I gave him a good hand rub until he fell asleep.
The morning that followed felt awkward to him. He didn’t talk much but he invited me to breakfast at a nearby Mediterranean café. He ordered protein-loaded flatbreads and some good coffee for two. He stole awkward glances. He gobbled his breakfast quick. I took my time. He signaled weird gestures and hurriedly paid our bill.
I thanked and gave him a hug goodbye.
As I was walking away, I thought I should’ve told him that it wasn’t because of his dick. I was only really in it for language and history. Why does all men think it’s about the size of their dick?
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one last fuck
as the ferry set sail, we stood upright with hundreds of people -- locals and tourists. we saw a man who looked like vladimir putin with his navy blue florals, cargo shorts, and fanny pack on. he was with his family. it made us laugh a little. there were also a bunch of chinese mainlanders squeezing their way inside. he said he hated them for their bad manners and generally bad smell and facial features i told him i didn't like them very much too. i think not a lot of people do.
nearing our stop, he told me how much he loved thailand and how much he felt so welcomed. he said he felt more like a local than a tourist. it showed. he knew his way around the country and he talked better thai than any of the foreigners at the station.
we got off at a stop near a mall where we met some friends. we ate at a japanese resaurant and told them about our free ferry ride, putin, and the chinese. we didn't stay very long. we booked our grab, said our goodbyes and thought we'd probably never see our friends again.
inside the car, he looked at me with his dazzling blue eyes. his eyes and beautiful asian features struck me. he seemed quiet. it was unusual. so i grabbed his thigh and skimmed my hand upwards. he was hard. he grinned and said, "don't do it."
we laughed together.
we got off the car quick and brisk walked towards the hotel, hurried up the stairs, and got naked. it was our last fuck so everything was intense. i got down and sucked him hard and rode him vigorously until he reached his first orgasm. the beating and the moaning went on and on throughout the night. the walls were thin, and the neighbors must've heard.
we got up earlier than expected. i never slept very well especially during my last night with him. we ate quick and headed to the pool. it was a decent size pool with a bar and sauna nearby and fertility monkeys
carved on walls. we swam and talked and
swam some more. there were other foreigners in the pool and a bunch of italian men with pink skins sunbathing.
he said, "i'm sure those guys are gay. they've been looking at me for quite a while." i thought, how could i've liked this narcissist. i laughed and rolled my eyes and asked, "how are you so sure they're not looking at me?"
he replied, "i'm just sure they're gay. you wanna go in the sauna?"
i said yes.
it was about 176 inside the sauna. the steam made us sweat fast. he looked at me again with those beautiful eyes and came closer. we kissed hard. i sat on his lap. kissed him harder and pulled his hair. he held my hand and directed it to his hard dick. i grabbed it and started stroking. he grabbed my breast and kissed my neck and my sweaty body. our bodies evaporated with the steam. we stopped for a while and looked at each other longingly and dejectedly. i told him i needed some air.
we went back to the pool. he pressed his body against mine, read all pool rules written on a big board, and whispered, "i guess we broke all the rules."
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jungle orgy
you put twenty beautiful people in a remote jungle and you'd slowly notice the transformation of each
into a wild wild beast
you go looking for wild animals in the wilderness only to find ferals running around the house craving meat, ice cream, and sex
you think heaven is a place you'd go to when you die. you're wrong. it's hidden in the jungles where people lose their minds, their morals, and all grace left
if i wasn't so loyal to adam, it would have been juan, or joe or alex, or tristan, or ed, or nate or everett, or cameron, or even anjie and jizel
i should've slept with all of them not because i was so dissatisfied with adam but because they were all so damn ruggedly beautiful like creeping lianas
you'd be surprised with the beasts that lurk in the jungle.
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threshold
people stuck together bond over
the most ridiculous things like
defrosting encrusted ice in old
refrigerators,
bleaching cabinet doors perfumed
in spoiled eggs,
tossing away rotting vegetables,
driving to the nearest yellow shop
to buy ice cream,
or
trapping rats and catching frogs and geckos used
for feeding pet vipers and cobras.
when there’s really nothing to do,
they scream,
they dance,
they sing,
they play,
they cry,
they show off,
they drink,
they smoke,
they party,
they sex,
they orgy,
but
when there’s really really nothing to do,
they leave.
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the magical songkran
it was the second day of thailand's water festival and bell's bachelorette party.
we were all excited to get out of the jungle and head to korat to enjoy a different feel of thailand.
we spent all morning preparing
our water guns and colorful clothes
but forgot how all 17 of us can fit
inside colin's black pickup truck.
we managed to fit seven people inside the car and ten big people inside the bed of the pickup.
from the station, it took about an hour and a half to get to korat. we left the station at midday. the sun was high and the big caucasians behind were as pink as ham.
max, our big welsh friend, held onto the talegate for his dear life as the truck zoomed with the wind.
from the inside, we watched our friends suffer. matt played some throwbacks in spotify while bell, rox, and i enjoyed our bottle of coke and rum and thai whiskey while we sang songs from the top of our lungs.
bell said we'd be lucky to arrive at korat sober.
it felt weird going back to the city after months spent in the jungle. civilization and people felt odd. it was strange to see fast food chains and feel the coolness of the mall's ac but it was the festival we came for.
some major streets in korat were blocked and cleared off. there were lots of street foods, big plastic water barrels, and colorful minty clay that were sold with tiny plastic pales or water guns.
the streets were lined with so many locals smiling and greeting us. as soon as we set foot at the big street, we were welcomed with pales of icy cold water splashing and hitting our faces.
the kids rubbed colored clay on our skins that smelled and felt like old spice when dampened. we ran the streets like children and avoided big hoses that thai lady boys
used to target my poor friends.
suddenly, it started raining but the celebration continued. we found a tiny public fountain where everybody bathed. the water looked murky, but we all jumped in and played in the fountain and the puddles made by the rain.
we were all drunk and euphoric. we moved from street to street and made several local friends. we sat behind random trunks of cars to get to places.
we walked the streets with whiskey, beer and adam's famous dirt-filled lao cao. his special lao cao was gross but it became my favorite drink only because it was concocted by him.
at dusk, we moved to the street's foam parties. there were lots of dancing and foam throwing and lady boys harassing.
there was this huge foam machine laid in the middle of the street. all of us went inside the suds and laughed our hearts out.
we went inside this club with lots of people, foam, and alcohol.
i remembered boxing with juan who was almost sleep walking.
i remembered seeing tristan and adam dancing half-naked. i remembered kissing bell or bell kissing me?
i remembered lots of kissing.
i remembered marrying jizel.
i remembered drowning in suds. i remembered nan losing her sunglasses.
i remembered nan making out with joe?
i remembered cameron's piercings.
i remembered the band playing.
i remembered the ass grabbing.
i remembered madison crying? i remembered all of us girls dancing.
i remembered anji funny dancing. i remembered alex macho dancing.
i remembered sitting at the back of the truck, soaking wet and feeling the cold air dry my clothes.
i remembered bell's last night being single. i remembered all their faces. i remembered i was happy.
i remembered the endless bliss drifting as the
night closed in.
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sugar daddy in kyoto
in a tiny minka somewhere in kyoto i met a beautiful japanese man that lived with jiro he'd always visit jiro at spring or winter he enjoyed the temples, the culture, the food, the sake and of course the beautiful women he said he's married to a canadian woman ironic how westerners find asians beautiful and asians well asians for me are the most beautiful just like my sugar daddy in kyoto of course i only thought of him as such he was one of the most worthy prospects i have ever met retired architect now a landscape artist he wore his long gray hair down like an old samurai always striding around barefoot in his indigo kimono chatting with me, a small, ignorant asian admiring how experienced, how intelligent, and how charming he was
men like him are rare these days men my age are so full of themselves, so dull, so bland you'd crave old men in kimonos with so many stories to tell
only in kyoto can you find old men like those who seemed to have endured long battles and slept cold nights
i'd go back to kyoto someday and spend sleepless nights with
old japanese men in indigo kimonos