Silver Thoughts

I am now officially 25 years old. It's my silver anniversary. Twenty five years since I first opened my eyes to the world and cried because of the surprising experience. I would imagine the burning feeling of every impulse in overdrive as I was suddenly thrust into the unknown - the biting coldness of the antiseptic air on my skin, the cloying dampness and the metallic stench of blood overwhelming my nose and the harsh brightness of the room assaulting my eyes. I can only imagine the horror of it all.

And now I'm here. All 25 years worth of experiences writing this down as I again add another testament to my existence.

I am at a loss. I swirl my Merlot and breathe in the fruity notes of raspberry as I ponder on this blank space. Later today, I plan on hearing Mass to thank the Almighty for giving me life in all its beautiful imperfection. Above all, I will give thanks for all the friendships I have found and nourished in my life for they are the family of my heart.

I have always been a little theatrical on my birthdays but I guess this is pretty normal. We can't help but look back on our lives, sorting out memories that stand out and crying and laughing inside at all the funny mishaps we've survived. I look like a fool now as I recall fond memories of birthdays past and pause as I silently wish for the people I no longer have with me.

Birthdays, I now understand, are reminiscent to what I construe as the chaos of impulses when we are borne in this world. That's why, as babies, our instinct is to cry.

Now I feel the same. I'm deeply grateful for everything I have in my life and at the same time I feel a distinct sadness that punctures my very soul. My thought drifts to the man who passed away unexpectedly. To put it simply, I have lost when he died. And today, I am gripped with an overwhelming sense of longing for him. I miss my dad terribly even after all these years. The pain of losing someone never really leaves us; we just find ways of distracting ourselves eventually.

In a few hours my family will start waking up and I will summon my greatest smile as they wish me a Happy Birthday. No gifts and no sweet frills - only the uncomplicated greetings reserved for birthdays.

I will have a happy birthday.

'Good morning, Little Piglet,' said Eeyore. 'If it is a good morning,' he said. 'Which I doubt,' said he. 'Not that it matters,' he said.

A. A. Milne (1882 - 1956)

British writer.Typical of Eeyore's gloomy outlook.

Winnie the Pooh, "Eeyore Has a Birthday"

Microsoft ® Encarta ® 2007. © 1993-2006 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

I (We) Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

Critics have found Maya Angelou's (Marguerite Johnson) narrative in the book I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings running along two traditional themes of autobiography: the triumph over obstacles and the search for identity. The story tells about the young Maya growing up with the stigma of being abandoned by her mother, rejected by the society and subsequently her own feelings of inadequacy. It is shown that she rises above adversity by transcending the tripartite crossfire of masculine prejudice, white illogical hate and the black lack of power. This, I believe, was the main selling point of the novel.

People in all walks of life can identify themselves with the story. However removed we are from the racial prejudices in the West and the stigma these injustices bring, we Filipinos can still see parallels in our society. Early on in our lives, society has challenged us to be inventive in our ways (with food and even power shortages being part of Pinoy life) and develop coping mechanisms like our self-deprecating humor and an amazing supply of empathy bringing forth our sense of hospitality and friendliness even in times of want.

Growing up in hard-pressed areas, the majority of Pinoys also learn that it takes not just diligence to take on life but a surprising sprinkling of luck from the Stars. We are constantly surprised by suddenly successful people (read: nouveau riche) and immediately assume sinuwerte, baka nanalo sa Lotto. We have been enslaved by our horoscopes and pamahiins that we know Chinese never give out money on Mondays. Do-re-mi babies are born everywhere trusting that the gods that be have greater plans in the end, holding on to that elusive cloud of hope. We fervently follow our weekly dose of Showbiz balita, drowning ourselves in soap operas and identifying with the incurably helpless and vulnerable bida, expecting a Knight in Shining Armor (or Darna) to rescue her or a last-minute appearance of a deus ex machina to right all the wrongs in the world.

Although Maya's story did not involve any clear lucky happenstance that turned her world around, we Filipinos would know where to find it. Many of us have dedicated our lives to discovering that one lucky break. Many still would describe a life as a long journey, occasionally helped by an unexpected pedicab which just happened to have a fare to where we're going.

Looking back at our history as a people, it's no wonder we are who we are now. It's even being told that Filipinos behave this way because we have been enshrined in convents for 300 years and brought out to freedom in brothels for 30 years. Our identities are as colorful as a mix of red Spanish Latinos, white Americans, yellow Japanese and inherent brown Asians.

That's why we, as a people, transcend even the face of the tripartite crossfire of poverty, political unrest and plain social indifference. We still triumph over obstacles in the continuing search for our identity. We may not be Maya Angelou but We Know Why The Caged Bird Sings.

The neighbors have videoke.

Onto the Wild

I have been writing for several years now. My old notebooks, full of verbal sketches of everyday stuff, have been gathering dust since I discovered the Internet. And whenever I write, I imagine an audience. I have realized this a few days back.

Just recently, I came upon my fourth grade Math notebook. The cover is torn and ripped at the edges and the spring bind has long been pulled out and replaced with yellow and green yarn strung to hold the pages together. In one of the heavily creased pages I read...

(former classmate's name) grabbed me at recess today and said thank you for his Math homework. He looked at me with his puppy eyes and I swear my heart just melted. I'm making his homework for whatever subject from now on. That is, if he asks.

The truth is, I have been gay since my earliest memories. And though it doesn't bother me a bit, the thought that I had to hide my feelings in a Math notebook made me sad and angry at the same time. With the type of environment I grew up in, I guess I can call myself lucky. But what about the others?

Anyway, it was fortunate that I found that old notebook. Writing those words down, I never realized I'd one day read them at this age and find that however we think we've grown up, we never go really far from what and who we truly are. These emotions that we inadvertently feel make us human, although sadly, our society dictates us as to how we're supposed to conduct ourselves. And at breaking point, we can not just let these things burst from being bottled up inside - we don't know what we might do.

And I realized I write because of this. My Math notebook was my emotional bank - where all I felt inside I deposited in words. I don't think I had a friend back then who might have understood what I felt.

So I wrote things down. I'm glad I did. I ultimately found that I am my most important audience. By putting them in words, I sorted out my feelings, removing myself from where I'm currently at. I can look a myself and say, Angganda mo! Hehehe.

But we live in a big world. And there are people out there who feel just as confused as I am. There are people out there who enjoy the naughty little things we see each day and celebrate them.

I created this blog last year. Although I have been writing for a long time now, it never occurred to me that I can establish a network where random people can glimpse each other's lives in words. This is what I wish to accomplish. A lot of gay bloggers have been doing this for years, I guess. I have just come across some of them.

I'd like to join the community. I'm somewhere deep south, where time seems to crawl like an old woman's stride and a day is measured by the nature's sounds, but all the same, I'm a pinoy gay blogger. We are everywhere.

And so from the confines of my bucolic dreariness of a life, I set sail to the unforgiving wild.

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I'd like to give a shout out to several blogs that I have been following recently:

AJ's baklaako
Manila gay guy
Noel/Oboids - a friend from UP
ruff nurse-du-jour
MisterHubs

I'm a fan. Thank you.

Birthday Jitters

My mom told me I was born 15 minutes past 5 in the morning after a whole night of labor. In her own words, Mura ko'g mamatay (It felt like I was dying). Can you imagine where all that pain can be channeled to, right after my birth?

My name. See, my first name's JOY. Yes, J-O-Y, down in my heart, deep, deep down in my heart.

She wanted to turn the painful experience around by giving the baby a name as far removed from pain as possible. Don't say painless or anesthesia. She also wanted something beautiful. (Right! Labeling starts from birth. This is worth years of therapy had I turned out straight.)

Well, I guess my name sums up all the beauty in me, nowadays. Hehe. All the beauty in the world reserved for me has been used up on that fateful day on my name. Remember A thing of beauty, is a joy forever? That must have been where she got my name from.

I personally find it funny. Reserving all Freudian meanings, I sometimes feel like my life has been an expounding journey of my name. So what's in a name?

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I'm harboring all these thoughts as my birthday looms in the horizon. Yes. Looms, as in an imminent or menacing event that's threatening the peace in my world. I have always found birthdays overrated (excluding my 18th birthday when my UP friends surprised me with 18 candles and 18 wishes after I took my bath and was just in a towel - their very thoughtful way of telling me I can have my debut, too).

Back when I was a snotty kid, every birthday was a cause of dread. Everyone had their best celebrations after the holidays. I can still remember my classmates and I comparing notes about what we had for Christmas, telling each other tall tales about how our fireworks and bomba (the Kawayan or bamboo version of a bazooka) are more powerful and louder than the others. And when everything starts to die down, and the new toys were all set aside once again, the news of my birthday is being spread around faster than the Bubonic plague. I always panicked.

Unlike other families, our family celebrations are concentrated unintentionally every December. I have two brothers (I'm the middle child, the unica hija) and their birthdays are four days apart, the 5th and the 9th. My parents also celebrate their wedding anniversaries (they wed twice) on the 15th and the 20th. Of course, there's Christmas and New Year. You know what's next - my birthday.

Just when people feel that they somehow have overspent for the holidays and start to scrimp on things that they need to buy, my birthday comes near. This is especially true in our family. After 6 independent celebrations warranting at least a simple feast, my birthday always feels wanting.

I remember one birthday I had, I guess I was 9, one girl friend of mine offered to make me a simple Pineapple Upside-down cake. If not for that delightful gift, I wouldn't have had a birthday cake that year.

The same thing goes every year after that. When I was in college at UP, thousands of miles away from home, my mom sent me a gift check so I can get several dozens of donuts for my friends. I wanted to die!

I have always cried on my birthday. Not just because we never seemed to have enough, but even when I was already working and earning my own money, I couldn't shake out the heavy feeling I seem to carry every year.

Is it just me or is this normal?

All the small things seem to get unnaturally complicated. I remember one time when a friend forgot to greet me (I haven't thought of inviting this friend out, by the way) and we bumped into each other doing errands somewhere. My friend and I were talking and five minutes into our conversation, I felt sure he doesn't have an inkling about what a special day it was! I gave him a quick excuse and left. Several days after, I made sure he never forgets my birthday again.

I'm not normally this bratty but it seems like my birthday brings out my inner bitch. Which brings me to my birthday this year. Now that I'm back home and most of my friends have gone on their lives without me in their daily orbits, my annual emotional nadir is fast approaching. Looking deep into myself, I find that I personally do not feel overly excited about birthdays - they seem to happen at least once every year anyway, but the thought that even if I wanted to have the party of year, or my parent(s) finally decide to give ME the most lavish celebration I can think of, it remains wishful thinking.

Honestly, it's not a big deal. It's just my birthday.

I'm crying again.

Repost: Small Voice

A text message roused me from a rather deep slumber. I wanted to scream in dire frustration but I know it would cost me my bed and space in this house. I had to get up since the sun’s noon-day glare that’s barely filtered by white see-through curtain on my window shocked the sleep from my eyes. I had to squint to see where I placed my phone.

So I got up and with one hand, rubbed my eyes, and fondled my phone with the other. It was from him – Mike (not his real name). It was a simple message, just a morning greeting actually. He must’ve slept as late as I did, and deducing from his message, he woke just minutes before I did, too. Hmmm…

You see, I’m pretty much into these kinds of things - the incidental things. And these thoughts make me break out in goose bumps, make me ask a lot of questions and perhaps-es: What would it be like, the two of us together? How would he see me and me him? Would he like me?

And before I caught myself slipping into fits of depression and insecurity, I went to the bathroom for my morning ritual.

During the course of the day, Mike and I made small talk through our phones, asking mundane questions and putting trivial doubts out in the open: I’m reading something, I say, The Memoirs of a Geisha. Do you read often? I bought a nice shirt last week; it matches my elephant pants. It’s the current rage, don’t you agree? (This was created back in 2000)

It’s quite silly, I know, but what else could we talk about? He asked me, though, whether I was bisexual or plainly gay, which I never really entertained before. His question literally startled me; I never knew he’d ask something serious like this one. I didn’t know what I said, but I must’ve told him enough to satiate his doubt. He never asked me about my sexuality, again.

This trivial banter we conducted ourselves to, continued until evening. I lost count on how many text messages I have used up since then. But in that short time, I felt like we were clearing a path before us, determined to have our way smooth and carefree. Like we were going somewhere, somewhere we both know; that’s why, the place, or the destination, never really surfaced in our conversations. My stomach felt funny, like small birds fluttering inside of it, butterflies of brilliant colors hovering above the overgrown chalices of flowers on their proud buds. I was excited, and frightened at the same time. He could be it, I know. Whatever the it is suppose to mean. And he could be someone, someone I’d go home to at the end of each laborious day and I’m still thrilled to be there for him; someone I could tell my worries to, maybe even help me survive them; someone I can sleep with, not just have sex with; someone I can make love to, and who could make love to me as well. He could be someone special.

The little voice inside my head sang as if sensing the tightness of my stomach and tried to hum the quivers away. It’s okay, the little voice said; he’s okay. As I lay myself on my bed that night, thinking over all the things, the wonderful things, that happened I slowly caressed my body over the thick, warm sheets covering my skin, from toes to neck, and I closed my eyes to see him. I only see him with my eyes closed. I’m never good with daydreaming.

He stepped into my room, illuminated by the streaks of light from the moon, those that escaped from the heavy but semi sheer drapes. I saw myself, lying peacefully on the bed, both arms resting on both sides, my head slightly higher than the rest of my body, face cast with the eerie moonlight. He sat at my side, carefully smoothing the sheet over me, and tucking the upper end to the base of my neck, as if afraid I might catch cold. He sensed I’m deeply asleep so he inches his way closer and brushed his lips on my forehead. Good night, he whispered, to me, to the stale and cold air, across the window, over the gates and onto the moon. His voice was surprisingly familiar. His was like someone’s voice that I hear so often, at night, when I’m alone and about to sleep.

Ahhh, his was the little voice that puts me to sleep. Nice Mike; nice little voice.

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Reposted from www.peyups.com
Love Stories : Small Voice
Contributed by irvin (Edited by amplifier)
Sunday, September 28, 2003 @ 11:32:54 PM

Who's happy?

I am happy.

I am a living contradiction. I gravitate towards people who can appreciate simple and clean fun and at the same time able to discuss the finer points in life. I like dirty ice cream and tuna waldorf salad. I like gadgets but I dislike their exhorbitant prices. I write a lot and almost always hate what my pen and I produce. I sing songs I coulnd't possibly deliver well. I constantly bear the thought of my intellectual superiority and suffer the agonies of an otherwise average looks. I am easily discontented but I'm always able to extend patience to whoever and whatever needs it. Im sorry, I am never patient.

I hate waiting. I hate agonizing over things which practically I do every agonizing day. I hate commercials, infomercials and whatever-mercials. I hate soap operas. I hate GMA (the TV station). I hate activists, leftists and all the street urchins. I hate the weather. I hate waking up. I hate hating, it consumes me and I get tired. I hate getting tired. I hate heavy traffick. I hate buses. I hate tricycles and all its kinds. I hate motorcycles. I hate running. I hate getting tired of walking although I love walking. I hate pretentions, subterfuges. I love to hate people. I love to hate things. Im a very hateful person.

But Im happy. Go figure