ZEN Bitchin'

For two times in February 2008, a group of Filipinos here in Phnom Penh gathered to talk about the political climate in the old country and its implications on us. It was the height of the ZTE scandal, and we were fortunate to have Dinky Soliman and Father Ed dela Torre as speakers. I wrote about these gatherings HERE and HERE. Almost 16 months have passed since those gatherings. In between then and now, I have seen the building, then the waning of interest in participating in moves to oust our grubby little (I mean this literally) president. Personally speaking, I have kept myself abreast of the issues as they continued to unfold: frustrating and emotionally draining as it proved to be. I cannot speak for the other Filipinos who joined those gathering; but, with the state of affairs in the world, I’m sure people are busy trying to keep their jobs and their families afloat.

Mayor Matt Palabrica

Last night, another forum was held at Bistro Lorenzo, one of the Filipino restaurants here, and we again had Dinky as main speaker. Of course, if you’re Filipino, you’d have to be living under a rock not to know that it’s still an ‘interesting time’ in Philippine politics, what with the election looming over everyone’s minds, and that pernicious prospect convening a constituent assembly (AKA ConAss) to change the constitution, thereby extending the term of GLP (grubby little prez) I mentioned above. In attendance were more than 40 people, a mix of faces (old and new) and dispositions (ranging from the keen to the fatigued and the concerned to the just-plain-hungry-for-the-$4-buffet).

Please pardon the flippancy.

Like the last time, Dinky is here in Phnom Penh on business, but she took time to be with us. She is with a colleague, Matt Palabrica, a young-ish mayor from a town in Negros province. He was here to participate in a workshop on good governance. He briefly spoke about his town, the degree of success they had on good governance and accountability. As most elected officials, Mayor Palabrica was a charming and eloquent speaker.

Dinky with her audience

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This is not the post that I planned to write in the new home of my blog. However, when things in our lives happen, you might as well throw that plan out the window. This morning I was astonished to see a breaking story in an on-line news site: Michael Jackson is dead at 50. Earlier I also read in the same site that Farrah Fawcett was dead at 62.

I’m not a fan of Farrah Fawcett. All I know is that she was one of the original ‘Charlie’s Angels’ my uncles (who were young men then) used to watch when I was a young boy. In fact, I can remember seeing her poster in my uncles’ bedroom wall. She of the full, blonde hair, wide smile and sexy body. I think I read somewhere that the tossing of those long locks and the jiggle of you-know-what has become industry standards–influencing countless shampoo advertisements and other TV shows (Pamela Anderson, et al running on the beach in so-very-slow motion, remember?). By the time ‘Charlie’s Angels’ the movie was shown (with Drew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz, and Lucy Liu), I have long recognized the show’s (and the stars) gay-iconic status.

MJ in the 70s

I am, however, a fan of Michael Jackson. I wouldn’t be ashamed into admitting this fact (the way I am not the least embarrassed to admit that I am, until now, a Nora Aunor fan). I mean, I grew up listening to his music. My uncles (yes, the Farrah Fawcett fans) were also fans of Michael’s erstwhile boy band, The Jackson 5. Their records were all over the house. The first modern Christmas song that I enjoyed was ‘Give Love on Christmas Day’. I was one of the legions of kids who danced to ‘Thriller’. In fact, one of my (un-realized, of course) boyhood dreams was owning the red jacket Michael wore on the video of that song. During my first year in university I choreographed a dance number to ‘Another Part of Me’ for a Christmas party.

My uncles outgrew Michael Jackson even when the singer himself did not seem to ‘grow up’. It was easy to think of Michael Jackson as gay because of his high-pitched voice, dancing skills, and fashion sense that did not pass muster to the Pinoy standards of a real man. I didn’t care. For me it has always been about the music. And the dancing. And the videos.

MJ photographed by Annie Leibovitz

Through the years Michael seemed to embrace his eccentricity, further polarizing his audience. The hyperbaric chamber. The chimpanzees. The ranch called ‘Neverland’. Friendships with Diana Ross and Elizabeth Taylor. The seemingly endless surgeries. Even Lisa Marie Presley. But to me it was still about the wonderful songs he was singing, and the dances he was dancing in those fantastic music videos of his.

Then came the accusations of child molestation. I, for one, did not believe any of those. Probably because I have always seen him as kind of asexual. But this is just me. It was easy for many people to consider him a child molester. Because, I imagine, if he was indeed a child molester, it would certainly explain his idiosyncrasies. I think, for many people, being weird because you are a sex offender was better than being weird just because you can. For Michael Jackson, this was certainly a career-killer. Though acquitted, the accusations succeeded in tarnishing his image, breaking the momentum of his career, even making him a pariah in his own country.

And now this. Michael Jackson is on the verge of making a musical comeback, with an upcoming record and world tour. But his heart did not let him. He succumbed to a heart attack (according to the latest news) in his home. Honestly, I loved his last record, even if it flopped big time in the US. I had been anticipating its release, actually. I won’t be surprised if this record is released earlier than scheduled.

What I loved (It’s strange to refer to him in the past tense, but hey) most about Michael Jackson is his music. Whether he is singing about the mushiness of love, or riling about the injustices of the world, his melodies made you feel good and his lyrics made you think. His lyrics are never mundane. At their best, his lyrics are poetic. He has left the world enough songs to last a lifetime. Still, with his death, the biggest loss I’m feeling is the loss of music he would’ve continued to make if he were alive.

Trust is like a glass window pane, once it is broken, you can mend it in many ways but it will never be the same. I am speaking from experience. In my younger days I have done many things that have broken my parents’ trust. I spent the later years trying to make up for these transgressions, knowing too well that while their love for me has remained intact, I will never regain their absolute trust.

Distrust manifests itself in the littlest of ways. Words and statements can take on new meanings under a layer of distrust. These feel like little razor cuts on the skin. A glance, a nonchalant smirk, can easily bruise one’s spirit. Everything becomes tainted.

On the other hand, proving one’s trustworthiness is like pushing a boulder up a steep hill. It requires a dogged determination, unwavering faith, and mindless courage.

Other people (friends mostly) have betrayed this trust many times in the past. I am generally patient; I can put up with many things, but once this patience runs out, there’s no turning back. Forgiveness is like a delicious dish: one can finish eating it all too quickly.

This is why I believe that once trust has been irreparably broken between 2 people, they should just say good-bye and move on to other things (and people). It is completely useless to continue any relationship when there is no trust between the people involved. Trying to trust someone again after being betrayed by that person is extremely difficult, as is trying to prove one’s trustworthiness. I don’t blame people for giving up doing any of the two.

Now, if only things were indeed this simple and easy.

I’m thinking of scalpels–and cutting with surgical precision. I’m thinking of the bonds between family members, between friends, lovers, and partners. And how complicated it is to sever any of these ties.

On May 27, my friend D celebrated his 42nd birthday by going on a trip to Ho Chi Minh City (otherwise known as Saigon), a place he has never seen before. Having nothing better to do (one of the realities lived by a freelance worker), I tagged along. We planned to make this a photographic tour of the city. This turned out to be an adventure, in many unexpected ways.

First, we almost missed our bus. I waited for almost 10 minutes outside D’s house. The bus company had 2 stations, and they’re quite far apart from each other. I asked our ride to take us to the main station but D reminded me that when he picked up his sister last year, he did it at the other bus station. So we went to the other station and it was empty. We asked the staff to call the main bus station but we were told that the bus already left. The tuktuk chased the bus for about 5 kilometers before it stopped. This chase was punctuated with frantic phone calls to the driver and conductor–both of whom spoke little English.

I don’t pretend to know HCMC like the back of my hand, but I was prepared to show D the sights which are familiar to me. My plan was to spend the next day on foot: walking along Pasteur Street, where we can pass by some of the must-see sights in the city such as Ben Tanh market, the city museum, war museum, Notre Dame cathedral, the Post Office, and the Opera House, among others.

So early the next day, cameras on hand, D and I set out from our hotel. I am posting the photos in my other blog, Ways of Seeing. You can check this link to the photos. In the meantime, let me regale you (or bore you to tears) with the highlights of this interesting trip. I hope my statement that this trip was an adventure didn’t cause you, dear reader, to have lofty expectations. The adventures D and I had were not of the swash-buckling kind (swish? I’m not sure) but they were fun–at least to us.

Anyway, enough of the disclaimers. It should also be noted that our walking trip was guided by a 2-year-old map of the city.

D was most impressed by the architecture of many of the houses and buildings in Saigon. He admitted he didn’t expect to see buildings that he liked. We walked by Ben Tanh Market, which was a much-cleaner version of the Tuol Tom Pong Market here in Phnom Penh. Top on D’s agenda was to see the War Museum, upon the recommendation of his American wife. I wasn’t particularly keen on seeing it (being a believer in flower power) but I was just tagging along this trip so I was willing to give way. We had a hell of a time finding it, though. First we ended up in the City Musuem, which was fine and a bit tourist-y, to tell the truth.

Our planned route was to hit the farthest point of Pasteur Street, which would take us to Tan Dinh Cathedral, then we planned to hit the War Musuem before going to the loop that had the Notre Dame Cathedral, Post Office, and the Opera House. But as with most best-laid plans, things didn’t happen this way.

Case in point: contrary to the map, the Tan Dinh Cathedral is no longer a cathedral. It has been a market, for how long, we don’t know. The biblical connection was too apparent to ignore. From a place of worship to a place of commerce. I can still remember that parable taught to me in catechism. Fortunately, the Notre Dame Cathedral was a delight. I entered a real church again after so many years. We almost heard mass and chatted with the Vietnamese priest. I even gave (and received) a rosary as a gift. The last time this happened to me was more than 15 years ago.

Like I said, the War Museum was a challenge to find using our old map. And when we found it, I found the place grim and grisly (big surprise). There is a clear anti-American bias that permeates the place. This is not misplaced, though. The Vietnam War, up to now, is a controversial and divisive event in history. While it is true that Americans were indeed indiscriminate in cruelty to what-they-perceived as their enemies, I think that the Vietnamese were equally cruel to the Americans as well. I mean, it’s war; everybody is cruel in a war. What the museum showed me–more like validated, actually, was that in a war, nobody really wins. Or, even if one side claims victory, this victory is Phyrric, at best.

For some reason, we also missed the City Hall. The map is not entirely to blame here. Though it doesn’t appear on the map, it was in the same loop as the Opera House. I completely forgot about it, probably because I was thinking of watching a movie at Diamond Plaza (which we didn’t do also).

D and I had dinner at a restaurant facing the Opera House, where the slightly pricey food was just about the same quality as the food in the restaurant in the backpackers’ area. We had a good lunch at Jollibee, though. I missed eating there because (1) there’s nothing like it in Phnom Penh, and (2) I avoided fast food for the last year. We got back to the hotel a bit rained on, feet tired, but fulfilled nonetheless.

Like true and consummate (read: stereotypical) tourists, D and I spent the next morning at Ben Tanh Market shopping (not much) and packing for the afternoon trip to Phnom Penh. Perhaps inspired by almost-missing the bus coming, we arrived at the bus station an hour early. By Friday evening, D and I were back in our adopted city, our CF cards brimming with photos, our minds relaxed and recharged from the quick holiday, our lives enriched by the whole experience.

II

It seems I’ve waited for
Far too long that I have
Forgotten what or who
I had been waiting for;
I have distanced myself
From people that now
I can’t figure out how
To behave in this circle;
Seems I have unlearned
All the nuances that made
Me so attractive before–
All I have now, aside from
This quick wit, are my
Sharp tongue and insecure
Heart beating furiously
Inside my hollow chest
(not very charming).

Waiting seemed the best
Option then; wish I can say
The same thing now, what
With you hovering like
A fat clump of storm-cloud
In my used-to-be-barren sky;
No one has brought me
This much apprehension,
Euphoria and paranoia
In so long a time–my mind
Runs off like a fugitive
Every time I am beheld by
Your gaze, and I have no
Choice but to yield to this
Force, so like gravity.

My feelings swirl until
They’re undecipherable,
Like hieroglyphs or some
Other form of communication
Alien to my comprehension;
It seems that I have almost
Forgotten what or who I
Had been waiting for–
When I finally remember,
I hope that it isn’t too late.

Copyright Michael P. De Guzman; Manila 1998; edited Phnom Penh 2009

I

Waking up from a dream
Of walking with our hands
Clasped and kissing you
On a deserted street,
My eyes squint against
The bright rays of morning,
Wondering for a moment
What could I be doing
Thinking that I’ve fallen
In love once again.
There are no answers
To my questions, no promises
To assuage my heart, and no
Prayers to pacify my soul;
Except for, perhaps, your
Lingering presence
In my life right now.

Yet even this seems unreal.
When I’m with you I feel
As if underwater, disembodied,
Between living and a gentle
Kind of dying, swimming
In the waves of you being you.
Like an eagle I can soar
To unimaginable heights:
Ecstatic, before plunging into
Depths where no shaft of light
Ventures, the darkness almost
Naturally permanent.
My feelings are strong, there’s
No sense denying, and all
I have to do is to fashion it
In a way that won’t make me
Lose sight of what is important
Than what our future can be:

Together, or not.

Copyright Michael P. De Guzman; Manila, 1998; edited Phnom Penh 2009