the Quiet, the Desperate

We went up a volcano the other day. Mt. Pinatubo was the site for some horrific tales and lives changed forever. And we went there for a day trip. It was an awesome way to get in touch with nature, they said. It was a bargain, too.

So we went, set aside a Saturday to get in touch with something primordial, fancy cameras and fast-food in tow. It was majestic. It was humbling. We discovered and experienced those 8 hours through the very soles of our feet as we eked our way through the meandering fissure where the volcanic ash rushed years ago.

The hike demanded much, but it also rewarded plenty. I stopped at every river, ankle-deep in the cool mountain stream, staring at the height of the ravine walls. I let my eyes trace every crack, the shaded instability, the precarious balance that held up the sides of the route. We had to. The guide warned us not to stand too near, or speak too loud. It wouldn't take much to change the landscape here.

And that's why it was quiet. It had to be. This is nature. Nature's way is to wait and bide its time. The stream that flowed around my feet was probably a stream that flowed ages ago. And it had this ravine to show for it. It had been busy, cajoling the earth every day to give up a little more of itself, to succumb, topple over, and get washed away into the ocean.

This was what we found in Mt. Pinatubo. Most of our group were from Makati, who worked in Makati. The dreary place I'll be leaving soon. We ran away from that desolate place to find this new one. There's not much difference here. Each hard working soul is represented by a crag, a shifting wall here along the trail. Worn, cracked, constantly oppressed and yet still standing resolute.

This is the quiet desperation of Makati made real. What I thought as a collective emptiness wasn't empty at all. It was instead a roiling consciousness hidden among snappy suits and proper dresses. The glazed eyes were worn not by the forsaken multitudes, it was borne wearily by the bold many who chose the ordeal, who held on. And knowing your fate, the choosing of it, changes the story. The landscape has changed, it is now a story of perseverance and fortitude.

My chapter has ended for now. I am the rock face that gave out, that toppled, and whose collective parts will be carried many a league into the distance. I am forever changed by meeting this river that has run its course for centuries. The wall, having lost its excess, its weaknesses, is stronger, stable. A little closer to its real form. A few jagged pieces shy of the truth. It will continue to bear the course of the river, and will some day once again be rent asunder, and still never relent.

This is my new chapter, of courage and a different kind of tenacity. The strength to hold on to what matters, and let the rest flow away. The river rushes through me, it cools the fire that burns and sates the thirst that grows.

The Thread that Binds All Things

We are a race of small miracles. We forget that a lot. And it's because we dream of something or we love someone. By rushing headfirst, along the way burning the energy of our youth, capitalizing on the wisdom of our maturity, we learn to define our journeys from milestone to milestone, picking up meaning and fulfillment along the way, and somehow redefining, with every step, the destination. As time inevitably slips away, that is all we live for.

But we owe ourselves those empty moments: when we walk alone in the darkness, heading somewhere familiar, wondering what it all means. When we let the overwhelming lack of meaning in the world raise it's head and hiss, "Howdy?" It's all random in the end. I learned that.

Life is arbitrary, and it's also unapologetic about it. The sooner you realize this, the sooner you'll see that anything goes, really. You could really be all you want to be. Simply because, there is no other better option, everything else is pointless. There's no room for drama, for excuses. I believe we're all roaming around in a kind of maze of our own creation. We box ourselves in with where we should go, what we should do, and who we should be. It gets tiring. What matters then is what you want--and if you got there.

Pursuits are temporary enough. We dream. We love. We decide. We change our minds. As they say, everything in life is only for now. We survive by being transitory.

But don't despair. 'Til then, you'll happen upon bits and grains of happiness. It might be as simple as an unexpected lunch on a warm Sunday afternoon, or a midnight stroll along puddles and the whisper of rain, or that warm feeling whenever you join the laugh of close friends. There is a small, inconsequential beauty that pervades across all things. And though it too is random, I choose to experience it as fate.

A gentle cue to pick something out of the multitude of possibilities in my life and go for it. A signal to dive in. To hope. Just go ahead and find your answer. And if we don't get there, we'd at least have the satisfaction of knowing we died trying.

Just keep moving. And keep your eye on those small miracles.

The Red Stain

He said to me, "When relationships end, the only thing that remains is either the love or the hate." It was spoken like a promise. As if all romantic undertakings, however unique, would converge towards this dismal eventuality. We were sitting down, for coffee, or dinner, I don't particularly remember. I just remember that I turned to him, this friend of mine who got burned pretty bad in his last relationship, my eye's brimming with contempt, and told him point blank, "Wow, that's deep".

I didn't believe it. I was naive then, a passionate innocent of the worst kind. I knew with all my heart that true love never fails. If you love someone, if you truly love them, then all else will fall into place. As long as the fire burns, the wrong can be made right. There is always the opportunity to talk, and in that simple act elicit understanding, and the final acceptance and catharsis.

I drew my courage from my current relationship. There, even after all the late arguments, the long discussions, the emotional roller coaster rides, our tenacity inspired my own wonderment. "This must be love," I said to myself, "we wouldn't have lasted as long otherwise."

It was a matter of pride as well. I will not be the hand that ends our relationship. I started it, with sound mind and in good conscience, and I mean to keep it. I did, until last week.

There is only the echoing emptiness now. The gap left behind. Wait, let me reword that, the gash left behind by an ended relationship. It felt like something essential was forcibly rended from me, grasped and torn away. And what remains now, is the simplified whole of me. The me that exists when there is nothing opposite, when there is no complement. I've forgotten who that was, and the time has come to find my way back. There was no other choice.

But it cannot be denied that things are much simpler now. When your goals are only your own, freedom is assured. But what freedom is worth the price of forgetting love? I'll find out, but never forget. The blood red stain of the love that remains splattered across my being will see to that.

steeped

Jump into the fire. Everything works out somehow, life's like that. The worst that can happen is a few burns and scrapes.

Wouldn't it be great if that left you a scar? A tangible proof of your commitment. Something so important you'd risk bodily harm, now made real between sinew and scar tissue.

The Greeks had it right: the ordeal predates the glory. Heroes are hewn from strife, and good stories are rich with these. And great stories are great because there's something to learn. Or as I heard from somewhere, great stories are those that teach you something new about something you already know. We pick in the orchard of familiar lessons, seeded by stories of strife.

But those are stories, and we have our own story to worry about, dictated by the progress of our lives.

And how is your life coming along? Is it sitting in the fire, burning bright, radiating heat from the infinitesimal friction and collision of your individual passions?

I plunged myself into the boiling water, seeking something hidden, something hard to reach, something ideal. And while I search, like tempered steel borne from fire, I'm steeping underneath the water's surface.

Coffee beans work that way. Keep them in hot water and they become richer, their true essence is revealed as they bear the heat.

But like coffee, you shouldn't leave them too long simmering. A time comes when the coffee must be drunk, the success of the venture savoured. That time is soon, or maybe even now.

Ang Pinakamahabang Lunchbreak

Nakasanayan na sa amin ang kumain nang magkakasama. Pagkapatay ni manong guard ng ilaw sa hapon, tatayo, uunat ng konti, at magtatanong kung sa opisina kakain o sa labas. Relax lang. Hindi palaisipan. Ganoon madalas sa amin. Ang biglaan ang natutuloy; ang hirit, nagkakatotoo. Kaya din siguro masaya ang lunchbreak namin sa NEC. Lahat napag-uusapan. Lahat posible. Lasingang Friday sa Thursday? Sige lang! Isang bulubundukin ng french fries? Order-in na natin! Kasalan sa Davao? Tara!

Sanay na din ako sa ganun. Madali um-oo sa mga bagay na malayo pa.

Ayaw ko pala, naisip ko, noong gabing nagiimpake na ko. Sa huling gabing maaari pang tumanggi sa 4 na araw sa dulo ng Pilipinas, wala pang disenteng tulog, at may baon pang trabaho, nagimpake ako at nagtaka kung bakit ako nag-laan ng pera, nag-paalam ng leave, at nangarap ng makatakas sa buhay Maynila pansamantala. Siguro dahil um-oo ako at kelangan panindigan--at syempre, sayang ang ticket.

4 na araw din yun. Nag-whitewater-rafting, nag-lasing, nagtiwala sa tibay ng tali ng zipline, nainitan, nagpaka-sasa sa prutas, nalunod, nagpatugtog ng Lady Gaga sa dagat, nag-cartwheel sa bundok, umakyat ng puno, natakot, nangitim, sumayaw, nagpapicture sa kasal, nag-lagay ng garter, nabusog, nag-lasing uli, at oo nga pala, nagkuwentuhan din kami.

Nagkuwentuhan kami, ng mga kuwentong patanong, ng mga tanong na nagiging kuwento. Tungkol sa buhay, tungkol sa trabaho, tungkol sa isa't-isa, tungkol sa mga tulog, tungkol sa mga naiwan, tungkol sa mang-iiwan, tungkol sa iiwanan. Parang lunchbreak lang uli, naiba lang ng lokasyon, ng oras, ng nakalatag sa hapag-kainan. Pero gayun pa man, hindi pa din nagbago ang usapan: masarap, casual, walang pag-iimbot at hindi nalalayo sa katotohanan--nang madalas.

Marami sa mga bagay na napagusapan sa hapag-kainan na iyon ay hindi ko na gaanong maalala. Ang naalala ko na lamang, ay ang ugong ng electric fan, ang tahimik na tulog ni kuya sa labas, ang bungisngis na pahabol sa bawat shot, ang ngiti ng puyat pero masaya, at ang tinig ng kuwentuhang nagtatapos lamang sa pagod.

Naalala ko din na nangarap akong sana'y hindi na matapos ang masasayang gabi, hapon at umagang iyon. O, kahit magkaroon ng pagkakataon maulit muli lahat ng ito. Sa pagkakaibigan namin, sa tatlong taong nagsama at sa 4 na araw nabuhay sa Davao, parang posible pa rin naman. Lahat naman napag-uusapan. Lahat din natutupad.

right here

I haven't written anything in a while--for two distinct reasons. The first is to avoid irony: I knew that if I would be writing anything again, it would start out with "I haven't written anything in a while"--totally lame. The second is for sanity: the last 4 months have been all about the work that must be done, that was done, and I am currently doing. I knew myself well enough to know that the writing I mostly do is the spill-over of whatever it is I am currently ensconced in. And writing about work, while I'm not at work, might just be, I predict, the last thing I do before the inevitable trip to the nut house.

So I won't talk about work, at least not consciously. I'll make the extra effort to talk about everything else in my life outside work. Give it the focus it deserves, give it tonight's spotlight.

Like my commute, have I mentioned that I stare at other commuters now? I do. It's my new hobby. Whenever I'm not unconscious in the backseat of the shuttle to Makati trying my best to make up for the lost sleeping hours, I take the time to examine my seatmates. The varying measures of disinterest, the fiddling of a watch or cellphone when we near 10am, the eyes that stare out but whose attention is caught inwardly.

I study these things not because I'm trying to usurp the position of resident creepy commute guy. I study the people in the van in the hopes of gaining some insight of my own. I, who am so helplessly embroiled in the heartache that is my job would like to know if I'm alone in this relentless crusade. Am I the only guy who's sinking in the sea of corporate life? Should earning my keep day by day by day really be this hard?

I'm still wondering today. The people I see on the street don't seem too overwhelmed about their lives. They walk around not worrying when the next deadline is, or whether they got the job done right or not. They just walk. One foot in front of the other. I worry-walk. The brisk pacing I now do is indicative of the rushed mentality I bring with me to work, like a security blanket.

But it's just a job, right? I could quit my job and I won't die. I've gotten pretty far in my life and I have no regrets. I'm proud of myself actually. But then, why do I feel like shit sometimes when I step out of the office?

I just want to know if I'm the only guy struggling here in Makati. I struggled to get here and now I'm struggling to simply stay put. I am aware that I earnestly want to be here. And I'm sure most other people struggled to be where they are now, too, just because they wanted to be there, with their whole heart and sheer strength of will.

And some of us have made it. So now we put on the face of the accomplished, the strut of the succeeding, because we got exactly what we wanted and we've got only ourselves to blame.

After that fateful first interview, plying that now too familiar route from the office to the shuttle center, I discovered something walking around the hustling and bustling men and women of Makati. They bore the face of the city. And though they wore expensive ties, sharp suits, and slick dresses, the city looked pretty glum.

So do I.

on the 18th

"I think I'm gay." I said, in the homeward car filled with my family of 4, away from the fancy restaurant we celebrated my 18th birthday. It was dark outside as well as inside the car where we were all too quiet ourselves.

My mom asked again, "What?"

"I think I'm gay." with a finality that was borne more from a spirit of confession than declaration.

My sister was quiet beside me. She had curled up to sleep but now was wide awake, listening to every word. I was glad she was.

"Are you sure?" my mom rejoined, a bit of a waver in her voice.

I didn't answer immediately. I stared at the back of my dad's head and wondered if I can stare hard enough to see what he was thinking. Or at the least, make him say something.

"I think so."

Quiet again, and the lights of lamp posts whirred inside the car as we headed home. I imagined my mom sighed before she replied.

"You can't be sure now, you're just a kid. It's not an easy life, you know. It's going to complicate yours for sure. Maybe it's just a phase."

"It's just a phase." she repeated, a little softer, as if in suggestion.

"Maybe it is." I didn't want to say anything more, hoping to leave a gap of words in the air where my dad could fill it with his reply, or even his reproach, anything.

"Dad, are you ok?" My sister's hand was on my dad's shoulder. He said he was ok, and not much else.

a Sense of Direction

I remember a time when tasks where something that would be done quickly and without much thought. Inordinate jobs that required only a bit of resolve and time to complete. This was mostly in school when all the burden a student has to contend with were the expectations of his professor, which was usually ignored, and those of his parents whose daily work afforded the education and warranted some form of appraisal. Grades, for that matter, was the only issue for me. And soon, it wasn't as important either.

What became important was getting things done. The goal that I yearned for in every dark evening of toiling over physics books, and devoted study over a buggy slice of code was the encompassing feeling of completion. The well-earned emptiness that sits in the minds of those who have crossed the finish line, the catharsis.

I also enjoyed learning a thing or two about how electrons go about their unseen dance, or the sheer joy of rewriting that miscoded line. But above all these little triumphs, it is the triumph of checking out an item in my mental list and looking ahead to new challenges that fuels my constant work. The proof of progress, and the measure of movement.

I've kept to that ideal in my work. A clear list of things to accomplish. The unclear chopped into finer pieces that make more sense. Rinse-repeat with every task and never worry about the overall picture. Because in any job, we all work as a team, and doing your part well is enough if you would do at least one thing right.

Somewhere along the way, that changed. I worry now about the big picture. Work isn't something that is done for 8 hours a week and put aside for a while on weekends. Work, the accomplishment of day-to-day duties, is now not only a measure of movement. I've come to question as well the overall direction.

A friend of mine always advised, "Never work hard"; instead, "work smart". I may have become a victim of the former, like rowing a boat with no rudder, endlessly circling. Pointless movement, and wasted exertion.

Maybe that's the biggest difference between school and work. Correctness isn't as clean cut as a percentage of correct answers, but resides more in the confirmation of invested trust among colleagues, as well as fervent faith in your sense of direction.

gauging distances

It's been 3 months in the new job, 2 months since I've turned 25, and a week when I talked to Joms about my Japanese separation anxiety. Anyway I look at it, I've found the first of many crossroads in my life. One life-changing decision must be made here, in the perpetually shifting landscape I tread on. I'm going to slow down a bit and catch my breath, and gaze a bit into the distance and remember where was I heading again.

Where is everyone heading again? I hung out with some old buddies last Saturday in their mercifully air-conditioned room(though he didn't turn it on) and asked the question, "What are you dreaming about lately?" One of my friends was set. He rested his head against the bed and stared at the ceiling saying he's dreamt the same way he's been dreaming as a kid. From his bookshelf, we checked our gradeschool yearbook and confirmed it, word for word.

My other buddy had a strange twinkle in his eye and I asked him his piece. He said he didn't know with a shrug, and that they've been fussing about it, his girlfriend and him, for a while now. The yearbook, upon consultation, spouted "To be an engineer." That's kinda vague, we all agreed.

So I went on an extended process of finding where this man's compass points: "If you were about to die, how would you complete this sentence: 'I wish I had more time left to...'?", "What thing could you do that, once done, you can say you can die happily?", "What task must be completed for you to say you've had 'a fulfilling life'?"

He didn't know, and my other friend said it was alright. I couldn't help myself and said, "It's not wrong, but it's a symptom of something wrong." It was uncalled for, I realize now. People each have their own paces, in the same way they have their own paths, to take. I guess my friend was taking his time with his. He's the more solemn and patient type among us friends. I was pushing him for an answer because I wanted to find my own, hoping his decision will yield a clue about mine.

I can't help pushing myself harder. A writer I follow, Micheal McAllister, summed up my emotions perfectly:

"Most of the time I worry. I live in tomorrow... I struggle with impatience, full of ambition and thwarted by doubt. I think that I should have met all of my goals by the age of 25. And now I am 39."

I've got to act, act, act. A war-song of action plays in a loop inside my head. The music I've started picking fit the part of a movie when the main character is doing something lengthy and important, the scene where no one talks and we just see multiple shots of the protagonist in varied states of progress on the plot-defining task. The seasons shift swiftly behind him. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Happy ending.

I know I'm heading towards a happy ending, I'm just not sure which ending it should be just yet. The crossroads I've encountered before branch-out in straight lines and I'm used to sneaking a peak from the junction how well life could be down the left fork and down the right, I also peak in advance when reading 'Choose Your Own Adventure' books.

But for the first time, I can't see that far. And in these instances, I judge by picking the path that I'd regret least. This works great in situations where I don't feel like braving weather and traffic to meet friends somewhere. Or, when I need to try something for the first time. Especially applicable, when I have to do something health related.

But now I've come to doubt that measure. Regret is such a vague concept, too. It's just an awful feeling we feel when we compare how much less we have now from how much more we would've. The regret of fun missed and sleep lost are easily weighed. But when we talk about regret cultivated after years lost and relationships compromised, how do you pick?

I'm taking a different take on this one. Maybe regret is just the effort it takes to walk back to the junction. The distance and time lost by going back to the start, picking up on a new trail, and trying again.

In that case, how much effort does it take to rebuild a dream? How much work must be spent to rescue a relationship?

Lucky are the Confidants

I found some time tonight to read this pink-lit book I've been putting aside. I hoped to read it through. Perfect, since there's been a lot of sudden rain creeping about and what kind of book-lover doesn't enjoy an easy read in a storm. I had to put it down immediately to write this out, though. This was when I was struck by a recurring method the author used to explain the motivations of one character: Jackie.

Jackie is an African-american lesbian who just turned 40. Recently single, all she has left in her life is her bar, the place-to-be in ol' Provincetown, and her empty home that's been growing colder day by day. The bar was bequeathed to her by a lady named Franny upon her death, her sort of lifelong mentor and sponsor, wherein the bothering matter begins. The author drew on Franny's image and raspy voice in Jackie's imagination to provide counsel and guidance in the critical moments of the plot, a sort of plot-device from beyond the burial-plot (sorry, pun).

It was refreshing to read these exchanges. Must be great to have someone older and wiser than you to tell you what's wrong and right in the world, I wondered. It suddenly hit me that I've never had these kinds of confessions. The truth of it is, I've never had anyone older to confide in. Whenever I do have some weighty issue at hand, I usually just throw it into the melting pot of the next conversation I find myself in, with friends or acquaintances, whichever's on hand. It's usually something mundane. The last was, "What's a nice brand of umbrella to buy?" The brooding topics that usually involve a lengthy story (usually about love) are up for public critique, too. But this tendency to be open I've only lately learned to do.

Before, in moments of inquisitive bankruptcy and desperation, I imagined in my head a one-on-one session with myself. I first imagined the setting to be an empty train running/flying across the clear orange sky of sunset. Later on, it turned into a dark room with no walls and a single light above me and myself. The other me in my head stood straight, wore dapper clothes, and in the eyes of the young me, this was the imaginary equivalent of someone mature, someone who knew all the answers.

The mature version of me stood and talked little in these psychotic episodes. Instead, he communicated his wisdom physically: in the brief, sharp contact of his knees and my stomach, the jarring right-hook across my face, and the forceful kick to my sides as I tried to get up. I know it must sound really emo, and also a little masochistic, for a teenager to imagine beating himself up, but I did. It was my way of trying to get over mistakes which, at the time of my youth, were the only things that ever provoked thorough opportunities for introspection.

I guess I was a lonely kid. Parents were out nightly and since all I had were friends from highschool and gradeschool, there was no safe harbour of advice and guidance to be found nearby. I just learned to trust my gut with things. And when I fouled up, since no one was ever there to tell me I did my best, I just made an appointment with myself again, fight-club style.

My mistake is I never had the heart to tell anyone of my problems and give them the opportunity to care. But now that I'm older, I have no regrets. I feel I'm tougher after all those years of roughing it up with myself, forming emotional callouses that have protected the things I've held most dear about myself: like blatant naivete and optimism.

I can't quantitatively admit that I'm a better person for it though. But I can vouch that nothing else makes you grow mature faster than coming up with your own answers in life, and finding out the hard way if you're wrong or right.