XI. Acknowledgements

A finished task is common enough, the only marked difference is the effort expended. And most great tasks are defined by that effort, or the summation of efforts of all individuals involved. Recognized here:

To my parents, who paid for the tuition that would eventually fund this undertaking. That and for waking me up, feeding me, and taking me to school—as much as they possibly could, with all the patience in the world.

To my college friends, who made the length of days short and sweet.

To my high-school friends, who will always remind me of all that I can be, should be, and will be.

To Coach Gerry, whose impetus gave me strength.

To Joms, who reminded me not to tarry.

And to Myself, for following through—eventually.

Ad Interim

Tomorrow marks the 7th day, the end to the week long break from that side of me that pushed so hard to go places. That side of me that heeded to keenly the ticking clock of my transitory life. It felt good, not wearing that watch for a while.

And in that short span of time, I:

got plenty of hugs, found the courage to follow-up on those malicious 'intentions', got a picture instead, overloaded on rice, played the drums again and found my awkward beat, got drunk, sang, got drunk again;

overslept, asked someone out to a date, did something japanese, went to confirm I'm 'negative', confirmed I'm negative, got a hug, got a number, liked someone, went and watched something japanese, had a bag full of dark-chocolate covered malt-balls, went and watched something campy, stayed up late, laughed with friends, laughed with family, felt alive, read a book;

overslept, spent some quality time with the dog, got what needed doing done, gym-ed, danced 'til I was sweaty, was satisfied, went home, closed the door on someone's hand, avoided a lawsuit, read a book, wrote;

overslept, marathon-ed a tv series, felt embarrassed, felt alone, attempted to rediscover, attempted to reconnect, found some degree of quiet, found some resolution, found his friends, over-ate on dimsum, had a great time, loved his friends a little more;

slept, had a brief encounter with a needle, got checked-up by a doctor, flirted during the pre-medical exam, went all the way to Makati for really good ramen, loved it, learned the value of new friends, went home, dreamed of New York, dreamed of better things.

In 7 days, I reconnected with old friends. I did not deny the wish of my good friends. I imposed on best friends. Is this what being alive is like? Maybe all there is to live for is the company of good friends. Pursuits, dreams, goals, they're all noble and practical. But who'll be there to celebrate and applaud when you've finished the race, when you've followed through. When you're finally up on stage, will you stand before an audience of one--your own vanity--and be happy?

Life is a collaboration. People each have separate routes to plot, and I believe that the impact, the collisions of these trails produce all the beauty life has to offer. All the things I know and love have gained that place because they have touched my heart in an unexpected way. It's in the unscripted that I found sincerity; in the unpredictable, passion. I think it's time to talk to strangers, to be guided by the wind, and to consult with the stars.

Oh, and I found some great music. Little by little, it's starting to feel like it all makes sense again.

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.