Hello there, Spring

I take in a lungful of your blooming skies and sunny flowers, and immediately sneeze. The hay-fever you've taught my body has gotten better at clogging the senses and dulling the nasal passages. I feel disheveled with you, and disjointed within. Your warmth sparks a fresh fervor within my brittle bones, and I shamefully yearn for respite.

Since your last visit, it's been a rough time. Family has become laborious, and work troublesome. Too much of my own time and energy has gone into situations better avoided. And I'm old enough now to understand that a day is finite, that there's only so much of myself I can offer before I am exhausted. It frustrates me that years into my life, I'm still weighed down by maintaining what I have instead of chasing what I could be. Like a tree that clings to a cliff-face for so long and has forgotten how to blossom, I wonder if I've survived long enough to forget how to live.

But hey, you're here now, heralding the new blossoms which are pretty and reassuring. What is new is neither good nor bad until reframed in the context of one's life. And through inflamed and watery eyes, I gaze once more as petals fall.

Photo Credit: What is Hay Fever?
BGM: "Undercover Martyn" by Two Door Cinema Club

the hungry

It is a living thing. I starved it, when I said I would write, but didn't. No thoughts to words for years, I would only sometimes pause on this little notebook of penned titles. Titles of unwritten stories in fading ink will soon be forgotten.

But today I thought about it for the first time in what felt like forever, in the odd few minutes between drudge-work. What a relief. What unbidden release. It was starving, but not dead; withered, but surviving.

I fed it Thai music, and it stirred. I felt its hunger. It swallowed the melody, the unintelligible emotions, and the yearning. It wanted more, so I tossed it a quote: "Drink from the well of yourself and begin again." 

More, it said again. This was Bukowski's quote, from a poem. Bukowski wrote about dirty realism, and transgressive fiction.

Keep going. Wouldn't that titled story fit Bukowski's style? That story would write itself. Add a note about a Thai OST.

Good, keep it coming. And remember: "Don't try." 

Photo Credit: Mixed race man holding fork and knife at table
BGM: "แค่เพื่อนมั้ง" (Just Friend?) by Nanon Korapat

If Gravity is Falling

I figured I fell for you eventually. Like gravity's ebb, that pulls slightly with decreasing distance and increasing urgency. But I doubted at first. I was used to that kind of romance that jerks your heart--the ones in movies, the ones I get teary-eyed about.

It's been, what, 2 years now, or 3? I'll have to check our first message on the phone for the date. It doesn't come so easily to me, forgetful though I am, I think it's more to do with how un-unique the "event" was. How extremely natural I felt when I met you and chose to be with you. There was no need to celebrate such a mundane occasion as the clearing of skies or the twinkling of stars. 

This is the order of nature, I figured, and all of my existence is bounded and is bound to this. Like the ebb of the sea and the rising of the tides, this love is the ocean where, you, the moon of my desire, holds sway.

And by the way, if you've seen Boys in the Band, this is the phone call.

Photo Credit: close up of huge, green and mighty sea wave crashes on sandy beach and break at night in full moon light

BGM: "Alone Together" by Chet Baker

Non-zero Sum Life

A tap on the shoulder, "Dean-san, sorry to bother you during this busy time."

I turned from my PC monitor and found my coworker standing beside me with an ornate box of biscuits.

She offered the box, "It's my last day today, thank you for all the times you helped me out with our project."

"Thank you as well, for being patient with me and my complicated explanations," I said with an earnest smile as I reached into the box and picked out a carefully wrapped morsel.

Apologetically, she explained that she will be trying something new in another company, and I rejoined with some nostalgic comments about her hard work and contributions to our project.

She is "majime", for sure: a Japanese quality she proved time-and-time again with her attention to detail, and thorough output. She was all that, as well as a warm presence in our team in her polite and ever cheerful manner.

I will miss her. And I am also jealous.

I, too, want to find within me that wellspring of casual joy that can carry me through the endless days of deadlines and troubles. I want to knock those goals one after another with a real smile on my face. That's a good life, I think.

But nowadays, each step forward with one goal feels like 2 steps backward with another goal: finish the laundry, forget to take-out the trash; submit the revised specs, miss the project roadmap planning session; get some gym-time in, end up eating everything in the fridge.

Is life teaching me that you can't have everything? I refuse to believe it. There must be some combination of prioritization and scheduling(not to mention copious amounts of coffee) that will let me have that life well-lived. Maybe if I keep trying, each day, slowly increase my endurance, my tolerance, stretch out time, push my own limits, maybe, just maybe, I might. I've got the rest of my life to keep trying.

Just keep at it, and life can be sweet--exhausting, but sweet.

I unwrap the biscuit and take a hearty bite. I taste the rich fudge bits that complement the flakey maple crust that graze my teeth with a satisfying crunch. Another bite, also amazing, and then suddenly it's all gone

Photo credit: Biscuit
BGM: "Riu Riu Chiu" by King's College Choir, Cambridge

Order. Design. Tension. Composition. Balance. Light. And Harmony.

"It is good to see you, George. Not that I ever forgot you. You gave me so much." 

"What did I give you?"

"You taught me about concentration. At first I thought that meant just being still, but I was to understand, it meant much more. You meant to tell me to be where I was, not some place in the past or future. I worried too much about tomorrow.

What about you, are you working on something new?"

For the past few months, I've been obsessing about the perfect week--and by perfect, I don't mean the sexscapade. Instead, I imagined my 30's would feel like those weekly TV sitcoms I grew up with.

And by sitcom standards, life was an eclectic apartment, spontaneous visits from friends and family, a fit body, work that sorted itself out, and the weekly event that drove the storyline of my life gradually, inevitably forward.

It feels naive when I idealise fiction, but it was the best model I could find at the time. From my side of the TV screen, there weren't many exemplars to choose from. In real life, most people I knew had a less than picture-perfect home, or complicated friends, and that one difficult relative, or that tenacious love-handle, plus the daily dosage of blood-pressure medicine. And when it came to their jobs, everyone had their own unique miasma of work grievances.

But as if part of good storytelling, everyone eked out a living somehow despite the un-ideal. In my young mind I thought, "That must be what being an adult was about: always moving on."

Nowadays, my life hasn't been moving on as much as I'd like it to. Most mornings I wake up to the question, "Am I OK to repeat the same old yesterday until the day I die? Is this what feeling mature is like?" No, I just feel old.

The solution to this rut, I thought, was to fashion the perfect week: maintain a clean apartment, a few drinks with friends, an intimate call with family, two or three sweaty workouts, and work deftly managed.

Maybe if I get all that done, I'll feel like I'm moving again, and with luck, one morning wake up renewed.

"Stop worrying if your vision is new

Let others make that decision, they usually do

You keep moving on

Just keep moving on

Anything you do

Let it come from you

Then it will be new

Give us more to see"

Photo Credit: Musical Theatre Repertory at USC
BGM: "Move On" by Jake Gyllenhaal and Annaleigh Ashford from "Sunday in the Park with George"

gathering embers

Remember. That rising heat in your soul is rage. It is rage for doing excessively but still not having done enough. It is rage for emptying yourself out and making room for the arbitrary whim of of the people around you and the circumstances that govern them. It is rage for fulfilling it all, but not fulfilling yourself. It is rage at one's self for being selfless.

Remember. That twisting sensation that pervades your stomach is guilt. This is guilt for letting events, people and the world have their varied, obtuse, selfish ways and taking it all in stride. This is guilt for thinking that harmony begets success--no, that's supposed to be peace. This is guilt for hoping for peace when peace is meant for the dead or dying. It is guilt for bridging gaps when you should be making an impact.

Remember. That pervasive flush that crawls through your skin is discontent. This is discontent for lowering your standards for sanity's sake and instead finding yourself at the bottom. This is discontent for the irredeemable nights of toil, lost hours of heroism, and wasted instances of initiative that have all led to a place as extreme as it is undesirable. This is discontent for being content a little too soon.

Remember all these sensations. Feel the unsettling urgency to remedy this affliction, this blight upon your life. Let the sharp edges of these memories roil within you, and gash and cut against each other hotly until, like bright flintstone, crackles and sparks. Let all these thoughts and emotions come together. Then set it on fire.

And when you grow giddy with heat, and feel vibrant with flame, pour this energy out and into the world. That is passion. And passion, much like fire, does not choose its impetus nor kindling. It simply remembers itself, and burns.

staying warm

I was walking outside, on a sunny Sunday, the first of the year and at the cusp of the coming week of usual work. Like everyone else, I was all tucked and fleeced in winter layers, trying my best not to expose any bare part of me to the sharp chill air. I walked slower than usual. I was distracted. I was consciously keeping my feelings in check, feelings about the return to the rat-race tomorrow. For every outburst of worry that shot out from the dark pit of my soul: I reached for it, caught it, and carefully wrapped it in a warm bundle of optimism for the new year.

I passed some stoic parents, orbited by little packages of scarves, wool and legs. They had a far-away look in their eyes. It reminds me of that scene from western movies, you know, where the leading man, riding his trusty steed, trods away from the town he calls home. And against the backdrop of the setting sun, he turns for a last glance back. There was no worry in those eyes, and it wasn't sadness either that tinged that scene.

I think, it was the beginning of resolve that dawned upon people crossing over a threshold in their lives--one of many, probably. You see, the young are lucky since they haven't gone through enough of life yet to know how important it all is; the old are equally lucky since they've already gone through enough of life to know how pointless it all is. For the unlucky few caught in the middle, we venture forward and against the harsh, ever-present, winds of change. In our journey, we shed our innocence, our naivete, our youth, and fashion for ourselves a sturdy mantle woven from the advice of friends, the follies of yesterdays, and the keen wisdom born from a kind heart.

On this new year, instead of preparing resolutions that dwell on goals about work, love, or health, I would instead like to make a resolution regarding my temperament: that whatever this new year may bring, wherever it will take me, may I face it all with grace and sensibility. Let this single thought blanket the rest of the year.

And in that manner, we shambled, the crowd and I, in comfortable shrouds of our own making.

Photo credit: Wool Scarves by beth mercer

Creature Comforts

Tonight is a quiet night. The moon is full as I walk home from the gym, but the streets are empty. It's Golden Week in Japan, and everyone has gone somewhere special. Everyone's gone off to string the sequence of holidays into memories of the sparkling seas, or misty mountains, or disheveled bedsheets.

I've made a lot of progress in the bedroom front myself, where I've conquered a pillow-case sized bag of popcorn and pizza the size of car tires while watching "Practical Magic" and "Romy and Michelle's Highschool Reunion" with friends after a fulfilling day of buying raunchy gay paperbacks at the annual "Yarou Fest (Rascal Fest)."

Luxury must be this freedom for irresponsibility. I think the novelty will die quickly though, along with the contents of my bank account if I'm not too careful. But I've started feeling somewhat numb about it. Where before a pang of guilt would strike, now, a dull ache throbs within my heart and yearns for something more.

I step into the bookstore near my house and, for the first time since I moved into the neighborhood 2 years ago, took a look around. The latest monthly serial that included the groundbreaking gay story "Ototo no Oto (My brother's husband)" was on the shelves. There was also a "Boy's Love" section as well, a full bookshelf of it. I start to wonder why it took me so long to stop by here.

Oh. Right. I can't read any of this stuff.

The most striking twilight zone episode for me was the bespactacled man who loved to read books. The story starts with a nagging wife and troublesome acquaintances that keep interrupting his book. He bears it grumpily. While he hopes for the abrupt demise of those around him, he continues his reading, until a nuclear bomb hits. He survives somehow, and revels in his answered prayer. He rushes through empty streets and the derelict library. There's no one in the world to interrupt him, and all the time in the world available for him to relish each book here. But, alas, he stumbles, and steps on his glasses.

Japan's been like this for me. I make headway somehow in friends(3 orgs and counting!) and knowledge of culture(I hate tourists now, too), and I am still optimistic. Yet the door remains closed, and I glimpse through the gaps and cracks the absolute satisfaction that waits for those who aren't illiterate in a foreign tongue.

Tonight is a quiet night, with no foreign words to capture the beauty of the moonlit night. I, too, am quiet. But, I must admit I've grown comfortable with it. I may not fit into this strange corner of the world yet, but the nook I've fashioned for myself is not too shabby. Not shabby at all.

Photo Credit: Library by Stewart Butterfield

this existential restlessness

A few days ago, in the bright sunshine typical of post-rainstorm Tokyo, officemates huddled together on the worn wooden benches at the nearby quad after lunch. Our conversation veered here, there, and everywhere (with a few stopovers to google or wiki something), and somehow ended up with my OKCupid page.

I apparently made one a few years back and it was filled with such witticisms as "just a simple guy living a simple life." I imagine I must have made it in college, judging by how effective I was at playing casual and aloof.

Everyone had a laugh. I agree, it was funny, in that I think everyone can relate to that phase in their life when being cool and being numb meant about the same thing. With that flash of kinship, I continued explaining my, now mature, thoughts on life and happiness, pointedly. Before the eventual awkward pause, a friend thankfully commented on the heavy atmosphere and smoothly brought us back on the usual lighthearted track.

I guess I've got some steam to blow. When usually I'd be bubbly with friends, I've lately noticed I'm at a loss for words and pull back into myself and grow pensive.

I fear I may be in a rut.

Which is a shock to me, since everything in my life has been going swimmingly so far. I'm on track to getting in shape, we've just completed our annual concert to much applause, we shipped our application on schedule, I've got money in the bank, I just came back from a refreshing trip to visit my closest family and friends. Everything is great, so what am I worrying about?

I guess I don't feel excited about life lately. There's nothing challenging nor daunting in the horizon, just a long list of things that must be done, or waiting to be done, or hoping to get done. I guess this is what most would call stability, or security? I watch the fruits of my daily labor grow on the branches of my life and dutifully wait for them to ripen and fall.

It's mind-numbing. Who wants to watch trees when you can do cartwheels down the hillside? Or fool around with the neighboring shepherd boy?

But all the remaining things in my bucketlist require some preparation, a bit of leverage, a bit of planning, and with costs that are too significant to mark-off as one-time splurges (that means my credit limit can't handle it).

Which is a kind of delayed-gratification: do the overtime now so I can have piece-of-mind later? skip that order of fries now for those killer abs in summer? save up money now so I can move to an awesome apartment with a great view of the city skyline?

I live by a code of happiness--but before people brand me a nepotist, luckily my happiness includes the happiness of others--and the problem with chasing happiness is picking. I don't really know yet how to quantify whether this happiness is greater than this other one. Will hooking up with this guy, or hanging out with my volunteer friends be more enjoyable?

Where before, I was in raptures imagining the sheer pleasure I would find trying those fantastic, crazy, unheard of things I would do once I've secured my place in the world. Instead, now I don't know which is fantastic enough, sufficiently crazy, or even where to listen for these unheard of things.

Life was simpler when I just meant to be alive; now, I am trying to find what it means to live. I'm still confused but I did realize something: maybe my college thoughts on a simpler life isn't as foolish as I think and may be worth revisiting.

the March of Clouds

Most days, because of the hectic schedule, I end up taking lonesome lunches. It doesn't really bother me eating by myself, but I make it a point to find a tucked-away nook where I won't have to worry about seeing anyone else. I'm not embarrassed or anything, I just don't want to have to explain why I'm by myself, nor consider if I should join them for lunch. I just want to get this necessary routine out of the way so I can get back to the stack of work waiting for me at my desk.

And when I do this, my favorite spot is over by the windows. In our 8th floor cafeteria, the ceiling-high windows are lined with white-clean, narrow counters and a row of stools each. The counters are just wide enough to accommodate a tray of food, and allow for a commanding view of the surrounding suburban sprawl as you munch on lunch, or the glittering city skyline as you partake of dinner. It's a nice place to sit, and conveniently let's you turn your back on the crowded floor and instead watch the wide horizon.

But yesterday, after the typhoon-drenched weekend past, the afternoon view was bright with sunlight and the sky gleamed bluer than usual. The Tokyo weather portrays so well the calm beauty after the storm. The lofty clouds, so massive, somehow hang upon this calmness as they gently wade across the sky.

Or I may just be projecting my own sense of quietude. The 4 month long project just succeeded in a vital release earlier this week, and I'm recollecting the days gone by, how quickly they move from reality to memory as the present shifts into the past.

In the time of the project, I've joined a gay chorus, sang in a concert, lost weight, gone bungee-jumping, gone to Izu and Nagasaki, settled my credit card debts, regained some semblance of financial stability, been promoted, gained back some weight, gotten drunk more than usual, volunteered for LGBT parades and movie festivals, said goodbye to a few friends, shook the hands of a few new ones, kissed deeply and have made good memories.

I worry, actually, that the road of my life is milestoned by work. And in between these milestones, there is nothing but grit and the fading remains of my footprints. But it seems this isn't so, I've managed somehow to live--despite myself.

I look out the window and watch the majestic clouds again. They seem so voluminous, so awkwardly large, I wonder how they can proceed so serenely, so placidly, through the vastness of the seas, the tumult of storms, and the peaks of mountain ranges.

A good friend of mine, while we were walking home, told me how people who live in cities forget to look up at the sky, forget how big it is, and slowly lose that sense of perspective of how small we are in the grand scale of things.

I see his point now. We're all just clouds in the infinite sky. We grow dark and stormy sometimes, or get pulled from here and there by capricious winds. But we all manage to march on with our lives, across the endless blue, and always toward our horizon.

Photo credit: Passing Clouds by Dumdad

this Solvency

So I've recently achieved a major milestone in my life: financial independence. This is, in my understanding, being able to pay for all my past credit, my immediate needs, and my future wants. Most people I believe will probably say, "There's nothing special in that. You just have to live within your means." But in my case, my prime directive in life is to maximize experience; and keeping to that personal mandate means spending a lot of cash all the time.

So this marriage of my philosophy and financial security is such an amazing feat for me. An extraordinary feat--by reason of it being completely impractical--that requires an extraordinary act: which is working in another country--which I did.

And now that I've achieved this previously impossible dream, I've been left to think, "What else is there to life?"

I mean, the challenge has been met, the day won, the prize seized. What is there left to chase after?

My dear friend and officemate, Flo, quaintly explains it in this manner: goals are just steps. Once you reach a goal, it is the human tendency, no, prerogative, to move to the next. Dreams are something you imagine, do, and eventually replace.

So now that I'm here, I am satisfied. And since satisfaction is a completely different concept from happiness, I've still got a ways to go.

So I've been enriching my life, by joining clubs and groups and communities. I've participated in volunteer work, concerts, religious fellowship, drunk revery, bbqs, random little things that happen in the course of life. I've said yes to every opportunity, never said "No" to any invitation, pursued any and all possible avenues for experience, exposure and excitement with an open mind.

And after all that, I can safely say I know what I want in life. Or, to better define it, I have found the proof that asserts what I've yearned for all along.

And in a way, I think that, compared to being able to pay for your own rent, knowing what you want in life is the most empowering thing you can ever discover about yourself. I hope you find it, too. Because life is a long road, and though the trip may be fun, nothing else fills you with confidence and self-assurance than knowing that unwavering truth of where you're going. The joy may be in the journey, but if you're lucky, knowing the destination will fill you with ease and simplify everything.

I know where I'm going: a house on the edge of the sea, watching the beautiful vista as I feebly, but steadily, chase the words that could capture the magic of a sunset shimmering into dusk on the infinite horizon. 3 years in, I feel like it won't be too long 'til I get there.

illusions of grandeur

In my youth, I sought solace in my writing. It's how I ask questions. And somehow, without finding any answers, writing brings me closure; the act is enough. Because the world is much too strange a place to leave unthought of, and I question it all the time.

In the same way, I question myself all the time. But the difference now is I've found an answer.

I ask why I work so hard? Why do I stoop so low for other people? Why am I so driven in entrusted things, in requests, in instructions, in commands, propelled forward by an arrangement of friends, family and frequented fellows? And yet when it comes to personal pursuits, the hearth of my heart is chilled, the fire is stifled, and I find myself too tired to venture out the door, why?

I remember, again in my youth, that my mother would always whisper to me, "You can do anything, achieve anything." On the last night before the declamation competition, in between my sobbing and ineffective attempts to remember Carlos P. Romulo's lines, my mom would tell me I could do anything if I put my mind to it. When I got the letter of acceptance from the premier college I hoped for, and I told her. She would smile a quaint smile, and, as if I questioned the thought, answer me, "You can do anything, just work hard."

And her words over the years have settled upon my body, and seeped into soul. It is this ever-present encouragement that rings in my ears, that flares through my synapses, that pulls taught the very sinew of my muscles.

It is she that empowers me: Pride. I carry within me a surging pride in my capability, in the scope of my responsibility, in my self. I believe that I'll always pull-through somehow. But beyond belief, I realize, it is she who defines most of my motives.

For one, I am excessively humble. This is only because I find it demeaning to speak of my own accomplishments when success itself has a voice--a voice that carries. So I am intentionally humble, because I am consciously proud.

For another, I am a perfectionist. Since, to me, my work, my own creation wrought with my own hands, is an extension of who I am; it is my signature, and therefore, cannot and must not be imperfect. I've become a conscientious employee, in effect, and it has been a fruitful affliction.

I also forgive easily and rarely lose my temper. Through the lenses of my pride, I see all mistakes as flaws of character. And being of greater character, it is only right for me to be benevolent and kind. To lend out a hand, instead of using the back of my hand.

It is also the reason for my inability to say no. Since I can do anything, I am unlimited. And though this does leave a tendency for abuse and I am left exhausted, I always feel a sense of accomplishment for having fulfilled the request, and earn an ever greater respect for my own inhuman tenacity.

The last result of my pride is my brutal honesty. The manner I speak of my everyday life, the way I keep racy wallpapers on my phone, the method of how I parade my mistakes without hesitation, is mostly because I am proud to do them. I am true because I am never ashamed.

And it is this frankness that allows me to write so forcefully, I think, and now allows me to disarm her. She, my pride, wears many masks: kindness, patience, diligence, compassion, strength. And throughout my life, she's led me far and yet I've never seen her face. I see her now, and my ever-wondering has been replaced with sheer wonderment.

a possible consensus

We agreed to catch some drinks, on the last night of his first work week. "I can congratulate you on your first week," I cordially replied. I checked with our common friend prior, and confirmed he was the date of this big Chinese bloke back at the party where we met. So, he's taken, I thought, and consigned myself to making another gay friend.  A cute one, to be sure, but taken all the same.

But as the news sunk in, I was surprised about how excited I got. So excited was I, that I ended up mentioning the meet to a friend or two at work, who, I can imagine, hardly care about my romantic misadventures. But, yes, the anticipation was genuine, I'd say.

Much to my dismay though, I ended up sharing him with his friends that night, back in another dark bar in the middle of Shinjuku's "livelier" district, and most of the conversation went through one ear and out another as I quietly nodded at what sounded like interesting points being made. Never mind that most of it was entirely lost on me and my barely functioning Japanese comprehension skills.

At least I met the friends, I thought, good friends of his back when he used to haunt the streets of ni-chome looking for a good time, no doubt. He looks like someone who knows how to have a good time, and that's how he probably met these guys: a raucous bunch of men who seems to have seen it all, and aren't afraid to be frank and lewd about it. They were great. That night was great. I mean, I learned something important that night.

The alcohol helped my vocabulary somehow, and I got heavily into the conversation.  At one point, I asked two of his friends in plum-wine slurred Japanese "Aren't you two together?" The two looked at each other, laughed, and indicated my misunderstanding. I pushed on, "But you're wearing the same armband?" Nike Fuel, they said, and explained they both work at Nike. "Ah, is that so. And how about you, where's your boyfriend tonight?" I turned towards my buddy for the night.

I saw it, a strange look briefly crossed his face, and he gave me a bemused smile. It was like I asked something so obvious, so clearly apparent, that I embarrassed myself and him for pointing it out. Everyone else was quiet, too, as if they were waiting for me to realize something. And it clicked, "Hey dumb-ass, you're his date tonight!"

But it was late, and I had to go catch the last train leaving for home if I planned to wake-up at 5 in the morning for the ill-fated ski trip the very next day. I said my goodbyes, thanks, and yoroshiku's and once again turned to this date/friend of mine. "Take care, alright?" I whispered as I hugged him and walked away dazed.

I barely heard him say, "You, too."

to Start the Fire

It's been a new year for about 2 weeks now, and I've somehow got it in my head that things are gonna get better this year. Brought on, I think, by the way I've been letting things slide. Laundry placed in heaps, monthly gym usage left unclaimed, and hookups kept unanswered through the last months of 2013 have got me hopeful for this year. Since eventually, put off 'til tomorrow long enough, and we all end up putting it off 'til next year. And now, here we all are, with shiny resolutions in hand, worn resolve underfoot.

I've had a couple of false starts, but last week, I thought it'd change with a date: Friday night, Shinjuku, with a guy I met at a year-closing party. I remember he had these sweet eyes that shimmered with an inner gladness. I found him remarkable, actually, out of my league, until I found a stray message he left a week ago. He had me at "Hi, handsome," and I couldn't possibly say anything else aside from "See you then."

So there he was, on a winter night in the street, outside the door of this bar he's been to in a life he's had before, waiting for someone I hope will accompany him in his life to come. We step inside. We order drinks. He finds a cozy corner for us to take-off our jackets, get the conversation going, let the alcohol fuel our veins and our conversation. We talked about his new job at my company (which we toasted on), my volunteer work, what he's been up to last year, what I've got planned this year, his ex(we went there T_T), my friends who happened to barge in on us, all smiles and apologies. And before I knew it, 2 hours had passed, spent in this comfortable candor.

And the whole time I just wanted to kiss him, feel his lips burn against mine, and stoke the embers of my soul.

But a fire that blazed too soon is apt to burn-out as quickly, so I thought to play it aloof a bit longer. So I said we'll go dance somewhere, in the dark where I could take him into my arms, and stare into his warm eyes until winter turned into spring outside. But he had something to do tomorrow, something about papers, I couldn't remember, I was apologetic, "Look at the time, wow, I didn't notice. You could still catch your train right? Sorry to keep you so late. Let me just get my bag."

Back into the cold winter we went, down chilly streets and past shivering pedestrians. Cold crosswalk-light, after cold crosswalk-light took us closer to the station, so I asked, "So what made you ask me out tonight?" "Ah, that," he answered apprehensively. "'Coz I'm so glad you did, I really needed a drink, and it's great that I've got someone to talk to about this gay thing," I cut in.

And now, someone to talk about.

It's a start, I guess. He'll be joining my company soon, so there'll be other chances, other possible beginnings. Next month, I promise.

The Wall Less Traveled

So lately life has begun to feel like the road less traveled. Which, in my opinion, is a good thing. I mean, isn't life about maximizing your potential, pushing the boundaries, escaping your comfort zone? Well, I have been, for, I guess, 9 months now since I've joined Rakuten. And the closest metaphor I could conjure up is "walking along the wall".

Haven't we all tried that? Found a broken down wall, forgotten by time, a discarded piece of history, where, if you're careful and nimble enough, you could climb yourself, like a staircase, up into somewhere no one's been before, somewhere incredible. Because, God knows, unless you're in China, walls aren't normally made for walking. So, it is special in the sense that it is simply not done. Not done, because the stakes are high--literally high. At every moment, with every step, you titter-totter on the brink, as you go higher, and higher.

The allure, in my opinion, is the risk. Something so risky must be rewarding, right? Even if the result is inconsequential, taking risks is a test of our capacity to achieve. And in that essence, is a test of character.

And I've been testing myself these last few months, taking this lone walk along the wall. And in my journey, I keep asking myself, "What was it? What was it?" What was it that made me take the road not taken? What was it that brought this fierce unrest? What was it that made me walk out one evening, to bring me here?

But I am here, and the view is wonderful. And someday, the wall will end. And on that day, I'll have to choose which side to land on. Hopefully, it won't be a humpty-dumpty kind of ending.

Photo Credit: Wall in Intramuros from The Asian Network of Youth Volunteers

into winter

You get used to the cold, the longer you stay in it. However awful it gets. They weren't mincing words when they coined the phrase "numb from the cold." Fighting it, complaining about it, isn't going to clear the skies and usher the warmth back.

So I've gotten used to this bleak life I've found myself in: clock-in at work, clock-out from work, eat, sleep, pay the rent, get laid, get away, go far, and come back to the same dusty apartment where the calendar is inexorably running out of pages.

It's been great, I guess, to be where one would want to be. But damn, those guys who said, "Be careful what you wish for." Did they have to be so spot on? Why is it, that now that I've managed to win the one thing I've always coveted, must everything turn so damn difficult.

Because always and forever, I've always dreamt of freedom.

Since I was a kid, I've been afflicted with illusions of grandeur. Lofty dreams visit me at night, and contrast so starkly with vivid reality, the very real aspect of my quite average life. Food on the table, roof above my head, a bed to sleep in, and a family within arms reach were here for me, and yet I am stricken with this mad wish to escape.

I yearned it, the deep end of the pool, I wanted to be put to the test, to test my mettle, to stand outside and feel the light of the sun draw a long shadow upon the laborious trail that has now led me here.

Instead, it seems I've been left in the cold.

Photo credit: Winter landscape with a lamp-post and a distant view of haarlem by Jacob Van Ruisdael

a Sense of Distance

Far away is a feeling. It's a feeling not measured in feet nor footsteps, not in leagues nor landmarks; no, it is gauged in trifles. I measure it in the lengthy sentences crammed in every blank inch of a postcard; in the gap of words left unsaid to friends who are close enough to listen, yet too distant to hear; in every meaningfully clicked Like; in the density and brevity of a sent message made succinct in its request, reassurance, and regards.

Far away for me is expression with the volume down, and I fear the last bars left until I am struck mute.

But it's not like other feelings. Far away is not sad; it doesn't render remorse nor cause heavy drinking; and yet it pulls me aside to question what is missing, and how far is there left to go. Far away isn't happy either; it isn't comforting nor something to strive for; and yet it is inspiring and motivates me to go further.

Far away, unlike other emotions, isn't a shade or hue that life paints across the canvas of our days with every coincidence and happenstance. I feel like it's the realization that my actions have left me in-between.

If I were to draw all the new friends I have in my life as circles, they'd mostly be exclusive of each other. My friends each separately know the side of me that yearns for adventure in winding streets or forest paths, that hungers for much-delayed movies and helpings of cheese, or that part of me that won't get married anytime soon, and that side of me that writes. They see facets but never the whole, and far away is the distance between the intervening spaces.

So I am far away, somewhere between the place I have left, and the place that is left to be found. I am exactly were I need to be, but not exactly where I would like to stay. It's a personal journey, but it doesn't feel lonely. I may be travelling still, but I find stillness in this one thought: I am not lost, I am searching.

Photo credit: Iceberg Gaps by Mark J. Carter

somber straits

Like earthbound stars, shimmering on the surface of glass, a thousand shards of electric blue light floated freely in Sumida river. It was quite pretty. In a gentle way, they swayed to the quiet waltz of the water. Floating among the reflected clouds and above the deep, dark sky, they sloshed past.

It was to remember the fireflies, they said. There were thousands in the Spring, when the weather shifted and shrugged off the cold, and opened its arms to the warm sun. And in Edo-era tradition, they made a sport of catching fireflies here. They'd catch one or two in a lantern, to light the way home.

It's quite dreamy, isn't it? Even though I knew about the chemical reactions that yielded they're intriguing luminescence, there was a magical quality about this unworldly glow that teetered in the darkness. And I thought, it's good to know these things. The real world may, for the most part, be a harsh, no-nonsense kind of place, but there are glimpses through the fog.

There is more to the world. There is mystery in every quiet street, intrigue in every worn path, and promise in the shifting currents of the river. And though sometimes we may lose our way, stumble off the trail, or sink in the murky darkness, we simply need to hold on to the memory of light.

I like to think that life is the attempt to fill the heart with bright things. Like a lantern in the darkness, like a bouy in the turbulent sea, if you fill your heart with simple joy and simple kindness, the journey grows easier; the burden, lighter.

Like fireflies, from their light comes a lightness of being, and perhaps, like me, they dream to one day earn the serenity of the stars.

Photo Credit: Catching Fireflies by the Sumida River by Utagawa Kunisada I

Work, Work, Work

I guess it's about time I said something about the new place, the culmination of months of careful planning, and the final resting place of my (latest) hopes and dreams.

Well, it's great.

That's what I tell everyone who asks at least, then I swiftly distract them with a story of how everyone in my department are all [swarthy] men from America, Europe, and elsewhere, which to me is both encouraging and invigorating all at the same time, except when they wear shorts, and I end up mentally halting mid-line-of-code and thinking, "Ho- shi-, I'm such a lucky basta~rd!"

But the truth that lurks behind the wall of small talk and entertaining banter is that I am so terribly in love with my job. I am so genuinely happy to have landed this job where I get to work on projects that, from the perspective of someone who's been making little, quiet applications hidden away in some forlorn server on the dark side of the earth, has more screen time  has more far-reaching impact, has more fancy buttons and slick animations to complement every user twitch and twiddle. A big upgrade, I'd say, from the mangled hex digits, encoded dates and obscure toggles that were as intellectually challenging as they were obscure.

Where before my canvas were the pedestrian crossings and bike lanes of forgotten country roads, now I can paint frescoes on basilica walls. The beauty of mobile applications is their [prevalence]. For the humble app developer, his stage is the palm of your hand.

There're other things to consider at work, though. Like, as I mentioned, the manly colleagues, who are clever, intuitive engineers one second, and a rambunctious gang the next. They're like the brothers I never had, who have grown together, have so gotten used to each other, to a point that, from the uninitiated ears of an interloper, their varied interactions would come temperamental and brash. But they are all quite kind, the silly, boyish, lot of 'em, and are also quite human, prone to mistakes that in a team such as ours just manages to mix and dissolve together into a brew of stumbling, raving, genius.

What I initially saw as excessively vocal, was actually frank honesty. I've come to deeply respect this. What better company is there, than with those we trust?

So after the job, the people, that leaves us with the infrastructure of the company, the policies and perks. There's free lunch at the cafeteria, and vending machines at every floor, with an ATM at the 12th if you feel like dodging the sunlight a bit longer. My personal machine is a highly-spec-ed laptop on Windows to support any corporate application requirements, and my development machine is a powerhouse of a desktop, with dual monitors. One of which, is a wide-screen 23-incher in portrait mode. Oh, the number of lines of code I can see in a glance is a coder's wet-dream.

It's great, and my only challenge is, earning my place here.

Photo credit: Spring Fresco in Santorini from Jeremy Rutter
BGM: Lovelite - Brevity

your umpteenth-first salary is a desperate thing

I've never been flat broke in my life. I owe it to parents with stable jobs, a house that doesn't run out of food, and friends that are kind enough to loan me a buck or two whenever public transportation becomes "a luxury". By some miracle, I've managed to coast along in life never knowing what it means to be desperately, abysmally, direly out of cash.

I never had to wonder how I'm going to afford my next meal. I never had to spend a sleepless night in my apartment worrying how I'm going to pay for the roof over my head. I never considered the possibility of eviction, civil claims, or even having to say no to a night out for beer. I've never been afraid of being a destitute, because I could never imagine it happening to me.

But it could, I realize now. My mom's is retired, and she along with my sisters are all leagues away. My apartment just got some amazing pots and pans (all thanks to my sister), but nothing in terms of ingredients or even cooking oil (I do have a lot of peanut butter though). And finally, all my friends now are either too far away or, like me, faring for themselves as well.

If I run out of cash here, I'm fucked, is what it is.

So I plan meticulously, with an omniscient excel file that knows on a daily basis how many coins are left in my pockets. I also budget 6 months in advance, with exorbitant buffers and plenty of cash allotted to "backup".

So the transition to the new job had a lot of that planning put in it, and then some more, with a dash of worrying to taste. With preparation, I afforded the move to the new apartment, preparing for 4 overseas friends visiting, a weekend trip home, and miscellaneous costs that come with a new job and new friends. I had to sacrifice any outrageous birthday plans, funneling all my cash to get me through that last week before the first paycheck kicks in. The last canister of fuel that'll get me through this bleak, empty, gap of penniless space, and towards home.

And today was that day. I stayed up until midnight yesterday, doing laundry, whatever, bumming around, pretending not to worry, until midnight struck and I logged onto my Japanese bank account where, rising above the sea of gnarled Japanese characters, was plainly written: 0.

I'm fucked, is what it is.

I ran through my necessary expenses: rent and utilities which will total about a 100 thousand yen. Available resources: if my family could scrounge up that amount, it'll be too late before the rent is due. I don't have friends here who I think could part with that amount of money, nor would I be comfortable at all to ask for that amount of money from a friend. Cash loans are impossible for foreigners, which I unfortunately am. My only option is to confront the HR at work and demand the cash. And I won't take no for an answer.

So I slept, restlessly. And on the next day, took my time going to work, walking casually on the street. I came in late by 10 minutes, with my head recounting every argumentative Japanese phrase I could remember, riddled with the Japanese words for "rent", "salary", and "obligation".

To make thing official, I booted my PC and checked my salary statement to see how much I should've gotten. Since I still had to translate the statement, it took me a while.  But to my most pleasant surprise, after feeding in the elegantly-written Japanese script, the online translator spat out "bank transferred". Stress on the "-ferred". I was palpitating, and could barely input the security code for my bank account to check.

Well, it ended well for me. And all I have to say at the end of the day is your first salary is a magical thing.

Photo credit: Clan Takeda