Joyce and I in Hyderabad, India C2007

If we were at Treehouse now

Maybe tonight when you’re done
Celebrating, after the last of post-prandial
Conversations have been exchanged,
The night will forget decorum
And reveal the profound sadness
I am keeping inside my heart,
Because you’re leaving. It is an arrow
Embedded in the flesh, much like the stories
We have shared through the years–
Tales of joy and grief, the love we gave
But didn’t always get back, as we made
Separate but parallel journeys in life.
But perhaps, more than the stories,
What we really have in common
Is this wanderlust, the need to remain
In constant motion. So this departure,
Being just one of the many,
Shouldn’t cause me trouble, but
It does and what can I do?
The fire that consumes our hearts
Is the same, lighting up the evening sky
In the city I’m also preparing to leave.
The whole world is before us, my friend,
And I miss the times we are together,
Weaving such stories of our lives.
As you make this yet another journey,
Remember to look at the sky,
Know that no matter how far off you go
I will always be within reach.

for Joyce
Phnom Penh, 2010

I didn’t expect the amount of reaction that my previous post generated, especially in Facebook, where I posted a link to this site. People seemed genuinely moved (some moved to tears, even) by the poem. To be frank, I never intended to release the poem in any way. I used to print my poems and keep them in a folder for my perusal. But after writing and editing this poem in 2001, I decided not to print it. It’s not that I didn’t like it. I just wasn’t really sure about its quality. It would be 3 years before I printed it, just weeks before I came to Cambodia.

Many people seem to like it though and instead of me speculating and trying to find an explanation, I will just thank those who did like it. I am deeply honored by the compliments. One such compliment that this poem received arrived just this afternoon. Fellow blogger Luis, a multi-awarded poet, translated this poem into Hiligaynon. I don’t speak this particular Philippine language, but I like its sound when it is read aloud. This is what I did after seeing his translation. I’m posting his version here, for your reading (or in my case, reciting) pleasure.

Pangkay-o Kudal
Ginlubad sa Hiligyanon ni Luis Batchoy
Gikan sa Mending Fences ni Mike De Guzman

Gintagbas ni tatay ang kahoy
Sa tinakos nga mga pidaso,
Ginlampusan agud mabugsok,
Matabunan ang mga siklat
Ang kudal nahimo
Nga daw ngirit sang mal-am.

Ang lagubo sang pagpulpog
Pagpasalup sa mga lansang
Nagatuslok sa kahibon sang aga,
Tulad sang pagpanimaho sang pintura
Kag thinner nga nagabunang
Sa akon dahi.

Sang matapos na sia
Ginlimpyuhan ang palibot
Sang mga tinagbasan kag higko,
Ginsilhigan nga daw sa
Madamo, nga makasiligni nga mga handurawan
Bag-o maglakat pasulod sa balay.

Sa akun pagpantaw sa palibot
Sining hardin nga kinadak-an ko,
Pila pa ka hinugna
Bag-o ko mamulalungan kung sing-ano
Katahum ining kudal
Nahuman kag nakay-o,

Maluwas, siguro
Sining nabugsok
Sa tunga namon.

In any case, I wouldn’t have been able to go with him since I had already signed up to join a group of friends to volunteer at Habitat for Humanity as construction workers for a day (which, as it turned out, half a day in our case). This particular activity is somehow connected to  PiNOYs for Change, a group that was formed with the specific purpose of providing support to Noynoy Aquino, but at that time it was not clear to me.

I woke up at 5.30AM on Sunday to make the 7Am trip to Oudong, which is about 35 kilometers from Phnom Penh. I traveled with D because he brought his 2 year-old daughter with him, commando-style (meaning: no nanny). A third of the contingent were already at the site when we arrived. About half an hour later, the last group arrived. After a quick breakfast and a short safety orientation by the construction manager, we donned the required gear (gloves & hard hat for the brick-layers, plus goggles and face masks for the brick-makers) over the suggested outfits (rubber shoes, trousers, long-sleeved shirts) and we were off to work.

I chose to work as a brick-layer because everyone knows how I love a good lay. Kidding! I had decided on this because this brought back memories of wanting Lego so much as a child but my parents never got me one. I had to find contentment in playing with another similar (but much cheaper) toy. However, even if I knew that actual brick-laying would be much different from playing with building blocks, I hadn’t anticipated how physically exhausting it would be. Blame it on months (years?) of being sedentary. I had fallen off the exercise wagon that I started last year. Dieted and cheated as my weight fluctuated like the values of the world markets. I realized, signing up for this activity was more than a volunteer act, this was also pay-back for my procrastination and vacillation.

Sweating like the proverbial pig, I would’ve quickly given up in another time but once my gloved hands gripped the hefty brick, I was filled with a sense of single-mindedness and purpose. I got quickly lost in the instructions set by the construction manager and in figuring out how to physically accomplish each step that would make a sturdy brick wall. The physical aspects of the job are immense compared to the words that describe them. There are techniques within techniques that are either done and/or learned by common sense and/or by demonstration of a more skilled individual. Of course, I wasn’t thinking any of these while on the job. I was busy and preoccupied with making sure the right kind of brick was lifted, the right amount of concrete was spread in between bricks, and that the brick aligned with the rest of the wall-in-progress, among others. Never mind the buckets of sweat that soaked my clothes, the hair gel I carefully dabbed on my hair or the perfume I had sprayed on my wrist that were evaporating in the heat, or the silent screams of my muscles that were jolted into exertion.

Two and a half hours quickly passed. When it was time to stop, that was the only time I looked at what I had accomplished. I vaguely recalled a tip I got from a writing workshop long ago. To jump-start one’s writing, write continuously for an hour, then read your work after. As I looked at the part of the wall that I worked on, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of elation. I did this. But another thought quickly followed: I hadn’t done enough. However, this did nothing to dissipate the general positive vibe that permeated each of us. We happily washed up, changed our soaked clothes, and later posed for the requisite photos with visible joy.

This feeling continued well into the picnic that we shared by the foot of the Oudong hill, away from the dust of the construction site. As we were driving back to Phnom Penh, I began receiving the messages of my tired body. Perhaps it was because the atmosphere in the car had become languid in the afternoon heat. D’s daughter was sleeping in the back seat, while he and I were sporadically conversing about the morning that passed, and our plans for the rest of the day. I managed to ignore my body’s cries nonetheless.

That night, after a bath, while preparing to go to bed, The tightness in my legs had risen to my lower back then further up my arms. I decided I was getting a massage the next day to alleviate this soreness. When I lay in my bed, I almost groaned with pleasure. I’m sure my body thanked me for not staying up late. Each move I made seemed to be punctuated with a dot, or a touch–a comma, if you please, of pain. But I welcomed it. It was a good kind of pain. I felt no surprise or wonderment that in the day meant for celebrating love, I chose to do something that will cause me physical pain.

After all, when we love, or think that we feel love, or do something out of love, we are bound to feel pain, one way or another. When we feel a pinch of longing when we see the one we cannot have, each time we ponder on our solitude, or every time we pause to examine the things we have said and done to please our objects of affection, we prove that pain is inextricably tied to love.

And yet, despite all the struggles and hardships and realizations and resolutions, whenever we are faced with an opportunity to experience love, we yield to it like it’s gravity–the one force in this earth that no one among us can resist. I know I can’t.

America Ferrera as Betty, circa season 4

Towards the end of season 1 a scene tugged at the remaining strings of my heart. In this scene, Betty (America Ferrera) was being prevailed upon by her father, sister, and nephew to forgive her colleague/friend who betrayed Betty’s trust. Frustrated, her elder sister Hilda exclaimed that Betty was too hard on her friends. Betty denied this with alacrity but when her father and nephew agreed with Hilda, she was forced to examine herself if she was indeed being too hard on her friends.

The state of my friendships has been relatively peaceful since the turmoil of the last 2 years. However, lately, I have found myself becoming irritated at some of my friends over the most mundane things. I have increasingly felt that most of the people around me seem to be able to do nothing but fail me in some way or another. This feeling did not help me at all. It, in fact, added to my distress, fueling my desire to avoid company as much as possible, for fear of being hurt or worst, frustrated.

Like Betty I had been told that I’m too hard on my friends. Unlike Betty I did not deny this. On some fundamental level, I know that this is at least partly true. I think, because it takes me a long time to be friends with somebody, I tend to completely give my trust to the few that become my friends. In addition, probably because of my insecurities, I like–no, I need to be reassured that this particular friend deserves my friendship. Because of this, I always tend to subject my friendships (and my friends) to tests and experiments.

That I am more demanding of my friends than my lovers is something I will readily admit as well. I was never a jealous lover; I cherished independence in a relationship. So much so that one former lover got so frustrated by this ‘indifference’ that he openly flirted with another guy hoping I’d get jealous or, at least mad. I didn’t, by the way. Because somehow I had it in my head that choosing a lover requires some degree of irrationality and recklessness (like loving someone in spite of one’s obvious faults) whereas choosing people to become friends requires deep, rational thought and deliberation (why would you be friends with someone who didn’t share your mind?). This is why I never attempted to be friends with my former lovers (except for one, but this is another story).

I set high standards of behavior for my friends (and implicitly, to myself as well); yes, I’ll admit this too. Because I think I know they can keep up. But have these standards become impossibly high that I have found my friends dropping like fighter planes shot down by ground-to-air missiles of indiscretions and trespasses? I am not sure. I only know now (because it was pointed out to me by another friend) that when these failures happen, I feel great sadness and distress because I know these failures are reflected as my own, as well. Egotistic, much? Yes, I think that is me.

Just last week, I got so irritated to learn that D has kept in touch with one of my non-friends, and I couldn’t resist confronting him about it. Mildly exasperated (I can only hope), he explained that his seeming friendship with my non-friend does not diminish the kind of friendship that we have. My heart swelled at the implication. D is one of the few people I consider to be a true friend in this darn country. If I had a brother, I would love him the same way I love D. But of course I made sure D didn’t notice this; I acted as if I didn’t believe the point he made. That’s when he said that similar line I heard in ‘Ugly Betty’.

V said something similar as well, echoing D’s opinion that V’s friendship with my non-friend is a non-issue. In V’s case, I am somehow resigned to the fact that when push came to shove, V would choose the non-friend over me. This is primarily because they’ve been friends for much longer than we were. Longer (and mature) friendships are difficult to wrestle. Still, V’s suggestion that I should probably ’soften’ my stance on my friends’ behaviors if only to avoid further stress brought on by frustration seems reasonable enough.

During the last weeks, I’d been avoiding E because he failed my most recent ‘test’. I wouldn’t bother you with the details anymore but in the continuum of trespasses, his failure is as mundane as it can get. This, however, did not prevent me from blowing it out of proportion (only in my head) till I was filled with chagrin. Since then I have seen him twice. And in both occasions I managed to give him my good old cold shoulder. He has apparently asked our mutual friends what he needed to do so I would speak to him. The most logical answer would have been that he addressed the only reason I got mad at him. But of course none of our friends answered him satisfactorily.

But now, in the dark silence of my room, in the coldness of dawn, I have realized that at this point, he doesn’t need to do anything. E, if you are reading this, please know that you don’t need to do anything anymore. Because the ball is already in my court, so to speak. You have attempted to speak to me, and I rebuffed you. The art of war requires me to make the next move. And whether this move will result in peace or further discord is also up to me.

Whatever consequence might follow is already my burden.

Still, there are other things that I’m also thankful for during the past holiday season: the gifts. Yes, you read it right. In spite of the general malaise that my prose has exhibited of late, when it comes to gifts (giving & receiving–but more on the receiving), I am still a big soft, fluffy monkey. Of all the gifts I received, these are the ones I like most.

What’s not to like about this gift? It’s orange, it has a cute chicken in front, and it’s a giant egg-shell! It’s adorable, and with no real purpose in life other than being beautiful (and yes, adorable). Scrump was given by another friend, who knows I sorta collect Lilo’s (Lilo from Lilo and Stitch, not LiLo the Lindsay Lohan) doll. I just put in there because of the great contrast in color.

I love books. Books as presents I love more. This book was given to me by the author himself. This self-published memoir chronicles his struggle at reconciling his sexuality with his faith. Some people might find the thickness of the book daunting, but I read it in one sitting, one cool evening. Ray writes such fluid prose, making the reading process easier. But this is not to say that it’s an unremarkable book. Some of the contents are bordering on the ’scandalous’–depending on the degree of one’s modesty (read: prudishness). As for me, there were some moments that made me blush. But all in all it is a compelling read. I promised Ray a review of his book in this blog. I will do a ‘proper review’ in the coming days.

And finally, the gift that made me tingle in excitement. Not really. I was just happy to receive it and pleasantly surprised that the guy who gave it to me remembered how I liked fashion illustration. I mean, I love the way Christian Lacroix illustrates his designs (more than the actual outfits). This is why I was ecstatic to see the exhibit at the Singapore National Museum last year. Among Filipino designer, I think Rajo Laurel does the most exquisite illustrations. They’re artistic enough to be framed, in fact. I’m not a fashion designer, but I like to draw dresses worn by models. I remember, as a boy, my mother would make me draw the dresses that she’d eventually bring to her seamstress. This book is indeed a treasure. I can practice and take up drawing again this year.

This isn’t technically a Christmas gift, but it was given to me by a good friend for my birthday last year. However, due to some unforeseen delays, I only got a hold of it in the last quarter of the year, stretching the gift’s eligibility to be considered a holiday gift. Hehehe. That’s my name, dear reader, written in the Khmer script–phonetic, but comprehensible to those who can read Khmer. Next step? I’d probably have one made in white gold as well.

I went through the motions of fixing the Christmas tree, which turned out better than I expected (though I wouldn’t admit it). I went through my friends’ plans of hosting a Christmas eve party at home, instead of a Christmas day lunch that I usually did in the past. This experience taught me that a potluck party is way better than people contributing money then having the cooking done by just a few people only.

Why? Because when the expenses exceeded the pooled money, nobody volunteered to make a second contribution to the one who handled the cooking. Moi. I however, hope that everyone had a good time. Based on the level of intoxication of people, it’s safe to say that they did have a good time. I was, in fact, so drunk that night that I only managed to help V, my room-mate, a little in tidying up after the party before sleep claimed me.

The rooftop of our flat was decorated for the party. In the end there were too much food (which we ate for the next 2 days, it seemed) but not too much whiskey, vodka & beer. There were new friends (at least to me), resurrected friends, and friends of friends who attended the party.

The Beautiful Ones

I wanted to spend new year’s eve away from Phnom Penh; I considered going to Siem Reap or Bangkok. However, V beat me to the chase when he announced that he had purchased tickets to Bangkok. I couldn’t very well leave the house unoccupied at the start of a new year (bad juju, I learned from childhood) so I had no other choice but to stay. And since the Christmas eve party was held at home, everyone assumed that the new year’s eve party was to be held in the same place again. So with the flow I again went. I, however, decided that this party would be on a much lesser scale than the previous one.

Starting with the food, we only prepared meats for grilling, a festive rice dish called bringhe, and dessert. The amount of alcohol we served was also scaled down. Even the guest list. But something strange happened. I think we had a damn better time. The party started at 8PM, with drinks and the grilled pork, chicken and sausages. Later, those who wanted rice were led to the kitchen so they could help themselves. Drinks flowed. We cam-whored increasingly as our inebriation deepened.

An hour before midnight we walked to Hun Sen Park, in front of Nagaworld Hotel Casino, to greet the new year and to watch the fireworks. We brought with us 2 bottled of wine and plastic tumblers. The drinking and cam-whoring continued. When the fireworks display was over, we returned to the house for yet more drinking, eating, and cam-whoring (not necessarily in this order) and we didn’t stop till it was way past 3AM.

Then I slept peacefully. I wasn’t as drunk as I was at Christmas, but I was a comfortably numb bunny, with a little buzz of happiness thrown in on the mix. The next morning I reviewed and laughed at the photos we took. This is the stuff you pay good money for when you run for public office and desire a squeaky clean image. Of course, I exaggerate. We were happily misbehaving in front of the camera (that’s what cam-whoring is) but we never let go of our model behaviour. Well, enough with the  attempts at witty descriptions. I will let the photos speak for themselves.

Really, I wondered, and put the thought in the back of my mind. One day a couple of weeks ago, feeling bogged down by my ennui, I called V and told him let’s make some pesto and try to sell it.

V, W, and I went to the market and bought local basil, garlic, and glass jars. We then went to the grocery to get olive oil, parmesan cheese, pine nuts and another type of basil (more purplish in color than the local) that we use in combination with the local basil. I also inspected the bottle sizes and prices of the bottled pesto in the supermarket. The bulk of the work was picking the leaves from the stems; I had stained on my fingers and nails afterwards. The next steps were fairly simple.

The first production yielded 8 bottles of pesto, with some to spare. I portioned the excess into small packets and distributed these among people we know for tasting. We sold the lot in 4 days. Motivated by the ’success’ of the first venture, we made a second batch last week. V and I bought a food weighing scale to standardize the recipe (for consistency). The second batch yielded 8 300 gram-bottles of pesto. We sell these for $6.50 a bottle. This is cheaper than the bottled Barilla Pesto in the supermarket, which is being sold at $4.60 per 180 gram-bottle.

pesto-ng-ina-mo!

And, of course, ours is guaranteed fresh, and we never scrimp on the ingredients (EVOO, parmesan cheese, and pine nuts) or use extenders. Two bottles are still available, as of this writing.

We received requests for sun-dried tomatoes, to go along with the pesto. V and I are currently experimenting on recipes, because making sun-dried tomatoes the traditional way is a challenge during the rainy season. V and I are also contemplating on making hummus in the future. We will call it ‘Hummus a la Homos’. Our pesto is called ‘Pesto-ng-ina-mo!’

Got a nice ring to it, right?

The next day, V and I went to the designated address to investigate and possibly make some cheap purchases. The place turned out to be a ’boutique guest house’ that was closing, hence the garage sale. Unfortunately, however, most of the interesting pieces of furniture seems to have been pre-sold already. What remained was either too plain or too expensive.

Still, one lamp caught my eye. It was metallic: with 10+ branches ending in tulip-shaped bulb shades. It looked like a retro piece from the 50s. It has seen its heyday, though: 2 of the bulb shades were broken and 2 of the bulbs did not work. But V and I still thought it was a steal at $5, so I bought it. In one of the bathrooms I saw a small wooden Khmer boat, with nice carvings. It was perfect at $1.50 so I got it again.

Feeling lucky, V and I ventured upstairs, but not before I vacillated between buying a set of martini glasses and a coffee press. I chose the coffee press ($6). Upstairs, I saw a square, glass-topped table that would just be perfect for the mahjong or card games we regularly play in the house. I however, balked at the price ($20). I initially recommended it to V, who’se moving into a new house. V is, however, very mindful of his expenses so he wasn’t up for it too. We decided I’d buy it but he can use it temporarily at his new house and if he likes it, he can just pay me back.

When we returned downstairs, I suddenly felt like buying the martini glasses after all. Unfortunately, 6 of the 8 pieces have been purchased already. We returned after lunch to bring the table to V’s new house but when we got there, we realized it wouldn’t fit the stairway leading to their 3rd floor apartment. So the table went back to my house.

Retail therapy has brought me a respite from my misery. I know it won’t last forever, but I am still hoping it will last longer than it is supposed to last.

Last Friday, I hosted a dinner party at home. Again, this is something I haven’t done in a long time. A friend who used to be based here came back for a visit and I thought a dinner party would be a good way to catch up with her. Along with her I invited some of our mutual friends–old and new. Working from the theme of ‘Recovering Alcoholics on Relapse’, I envisioned a night of bacchanalia that people will talk about for a long time (hehe). Virginia P and I shared the cooking duties: she did the fried chicken and okoy (vegetable fritters) and the corresponding sauces while I did the Pancit Bihon (stir-fried noodles) and Tokwa’t Baboy (Tofu and Pork). All the guests had to bring were the drinks to augment the bottles of vodka and red wine I already have. For dessert, we asked Donita E to make some Maja Blanca (a flan made of coconut milk and corn). Tiffany took charge of designing the porch to make it look more spacious than it actually is.

Learning from past experiences, I set the time of the party at 8PM to give us more time to prepare. Gwendolyn arrived just before 6PM because she had nothing better to do. By 7.30PM, we were ready. The last of the chicken and fritters had been fried, the noodles were sitting warmly in the pan while the tofu and pork were awaiting their final stir-frying. Virginia P and I took our shower–separately, of course (my house has 2 bathrooms, mind you). Guests started arriving soon after. Odette brought her MagicSing. Ray-ray brought her newly-emaciated body (having just recovered from a bout of food poisoning) and Mariposa was in her usual fag-haggy mood.

Everybody was asking me why I hadn’t started eating when they have been doing so (with great appetite, I noted). I told them I’d just wait if anybody would get sick before I’d start eating. To tell the truth, I really didn’t feel like eating (for a year) because I have gained the weight that I previously lost. This is terrible. I have regressed from my weight-loss program. I have a lot of excuses for doings so but no valid reason. But before I started saying any of these I realized that people were there to party, not to listen to my weight woes so I put on my biggest (and fattest) happy face and joined them.

Gwendolyn brought with her some happy meals and soon enough she disappeared into the kitchen to prepare them. One by one the fags followed her into the kitchen until the porch seemed to become quiet. So I went to the the kitchen and almost happy from the smell alone. The bitches totally forgot about me! Gwendolyn let me finish the happy meal she prepared and I walked back to the porch none for the worse. However, I soon became ravenous and totally ignored my earlier sentiments and started to eat. I didn’t touch the rice, though, for fear that I wouldn’t be able to drink as much if I am full.

To minimize the washing the next day, I decided on using plastic table ware and cutlery. To save further on plastic tumblers, I decided on writing the names of the guests on each tumbler so they would use only one tumbler the whole night. We were surprised to see Desiree’s name on one tumbler, one that she used in a party way back in 2007. Seeing that it was still immaculately clean, I let her use the same tumbler. She didn’t look too happy but agreed nonetheless (hehe). But of course, when it came to me I used a real glass–one that I had been using since the afternoon while I was cooking. This was a big glass, it can contain about 600ml. I mixed my vodka tonic in this glass. And for the whole night I think I had 5 glass of vodka tonic. Imagine that.

Well into the night the drinks flowed, 2 more happy meals were prepared, songs were sung on the MagicSing, and loads of laughter were shared by the guests. At times, I felt the laughter was just induced by the happy meals but more than that, I think people were really having a good time. Especially Virginia P, who seemed to be the most drunk and most happy in the night.

We wrapped up at half past 2 in the morning. Virginia P decided to sleep over as she was too drunk and happy to take the commute home. I wasn’t drunk, to tell the truth, but I was tremendously tired so I tidied up as best I could and went to bed after a quick shower. I woke up around 8AM, hearing my Yaya’s grumblings as she cleaned the remnants of our party. How astonished she must have been to find the house that morning. I slept again and didn’t get out of bed until 11AM.

Saturday evening was mostly a quiet one, with only a short interruption by a male visitor. I watched Duplicity and Watchmen on DVD, sober again.