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.

Pangarap pa rin

Joy joy joy joy! Parang ang dali lang maging masaya noon. Ang yabang yabang ko pa, meron pa akong nalalaman na "Happines is a choice." Pero ngayong nagta-trabaho na ako ng 3 taon, nakalimutan ko na kung panong maging maligaya ng basta-basta. Hindi na kagaya noon na gigising lang ako sa umaga at ang maiisip ko ay "Ang sarap-sarap mabuhay." Ngayon, sa pag-gising ko, bubuka ang aking mga mata, titingnan ang dilim ng aking kwarto, papakiramdaman ang init ng mundong ibabaw, at pipikit muli.

Ganun ba talaga yun kapag tumamatanda? Siguro. Naisip ko din dahil meron na akong trabaho at salapi, mas matindi na ako mag-ambisyon ngayon. Umaasa na akong magka-kotse na pula, magtayo ng bahay sa may SLEX, makabili ng condominium sa Makati. Noon, mabili ko lang yung napaka-gandang pantalon, makakain lang ako ng sapat, makanood ng magandang sine, sulit na ang buhay ko. Pero dahil 25 na ako, kelangan nang maglevel-up ang naipupundar. Sa edad kong ito, dapat yung mga pangarap ko nang pagkabata tinutupad ko na.

At ano nga ba yung mga pangarap ko ng pagkabata? Madami. Ang dali talaga mangarap, at ang dali maging masaya dahil alam mo lang na yung mga pangarap mo matutupad din balang araw. Puwes, dumating na ang araw na iyon. At sa pag-sikat niya, ang mga pangarap ay pangarap pa rin.

Hindi naman ito kasalanan. Mahaba pa ang buhay, bata pa naman ako, sariwa pa naman siguro. Pero nakaka-pressure na. Kelangan na ng direksyon, ng patutunguhan. Hindi na pwede yung basta-bastang pag-gawa ng mga araw-araw na responsibilidad. Kelangan nang mag-isip ng "long-term", mag-isip ng seryoso.

Nakakatawa, pero yung mga laos na tanong noong highschool guidance class, yung mga "Where do you see yourself 5, 10, 20 years from now?", tinatanong ko na uli sa sarili ko. At mas lalo pa, inaalala ko kung ano yung mga sagot ko noon. Sabi ko, kapag 25 na ako, dapat lawyer na akong pasado sa bar, kumikita ng 50k at ang kalahati nun ay iniipon para makapag-milyon pagdating ng 30. At dapat nabili ko na yung buong Harry Potter na series, dapat hard-bound.

Yung Harry Potter ayos na, pero yung lawyer ay matagal ko nang ipinagpaliban. Sa suweldo, malapit na din; pero ang ipon, huwag na natin itanong. So medyo ok pa ako, medyo "on-track" kung ganun ang usapan. Pero kahit dito pa lang, kahit wala pa sa totoong ginugusto ko, ang hirap na pala makarating dito. Masaklap pa, kahit nakarating nga ako, parang kulang na kulang pa din.

Ramdam ko na ang ikli ng buhay at ang pagod na kasabay ng pagtahak ng mga landas nito. Ang dali noon ituro at pagnasahan ang mga destinasyong nakakalat at nangaakit. Sa aking pagtanda, hindi na lamang ang malayong kislap ng patutunguhan ang nakikita ko, kita ko na din ang mabato at masukal na daan patungo. Kung iisa lang ang pwede kung marating, kung isa lang ang maaari kong makamit sa buhay ko, ano yun? Nasaan yun? May panahon pa ba?

*photo credit from Palipasan which, in a sudden spate of irony, is a post about never giving up on hope.

Japanese Separation Anxiety

I haven't done anything Japanese in 3 months. A long time for someone who's worked at a Japanese company for 3 years, geeked-out on Japanese anime in school, and dreamed of living in Japan one day. The new job doesn't have Japanese bosses, Japanese classes, Japanese documents, Japanese emails, nor Japanese firewall warnings(they block a lot of sites there) and the culture is radically different. The freedom is shocking. I kinda knew all this beforehand, and 3 months in, I all but confirmed my predictions. But I never would have predicted I'd change along the way, too.

I thought it was a caffeine thing, so I drank more coffee. Then I thought it was an exercise thing, so I gym-ed a little more. Then I thought it was a work thing, so I put more heart and time into my job.

But whatever I did, I just felt sadder. I still accomplished things, but it all felt like goals outside of myself. I spent a lot of effort, and still I felt I wasn't getting anywhere. I got even more dejected, and then just focused on work instead. Started to feel numb and thought this is what working in Makati is like. The hurrying pedestrians, the constant roar of traffic, the cold, sterile offices. This is business, after all.

But this weekend, I got a Sunday all to myself, and decided to clean out my pc clutter. Sifting through old pictures, installers, and porn, I found I had a copy of Nodame Cantabile. I indulged and watched it.

And BAM! It was a one-two punch: it was Japanese AND it was about music. I remembered how I love watching an anime begin. The anticipation and the excitement is overwhelming as the intro music roars the typical happy Japanese gibberish. As a kid, I jump around, ecstatic. I remembered how wonderful it felt to play in an ensemble. The music envelops you and somehow, among all those instruments playing their own tunes, you find your spot in the melody and play your own, leave an impression, and complement the whole, become a part of a living thing that resides in everyone who listens.

I'm back again, I'd say. 3 months into the new job, I've come full-circle back to the awkwardness of growing, the innocence of budding dreams, and the rush of finding my own way in the world. I said once the new job feels a lot like high school, I didn't know my metaphor was so truly spot-on.

I Live in a House with No Vases

I brought my mom flowers one day, a stalk of linen-white oriental lilies. They have yet to to bloom though, still encased in their green sheaths. The florist assured me though that they'd bloom in time for Valentines.

So I headed home quickly and thought to present these blossoms well. I sought for a vase, something slender to compliment the stalk. Something plain and without hue, so the white of the lilies could stand out.

After a long search, I salvaged a vase shaped like a woman and her hair, also green, bending over. It was very art deco and it had a hole which made it a vase somehow. I placed my one stalk inside and it looked a bit awkward, the lilies jutting out at a sharp angle to accommodate the curved posture of the green artsy lady.

In the afternoon light, I stared at my attempt at being emotional and thought this is how it is in this house.

In the earlier days, my mom and dad have made it a point to always stick to essentials, and have cultivated a culture of scarcity. My parents reinforced this by placating my childish wants for shiny new things with tenets like, "Not for now dear, we're a little short," "We don't need that right now," and the ever popular, "When it's your birthday or Christmas, I promise we''ll get it for you."

In time, I've learned to rely on myself for my own needs and wants. My parents provided everything I needed in school like books and pens and notebooks, new ones every school year. And I enjoyed these times because I could pick and because I didn't have to feel guilty since there was a set budget. But for impromptu necessary expenditures like field trips and projects, I drew from my own purse. In my youth, I dealt with absolutes and only now have I realized I could have still asked these things of them, that they could afford it and would probably condone--and eventually did in later years.

But it stuck, and I always made it a point to be independent of my parents, especially financially, in all things. For frivolous things, like designer perfume or sweet flowers, I've only lately learned to indulge in those and I have my friends to thank for that.

But in this moment, I've come full circle. I have fresh flowers in a house that have never known any. The only fresh blossoms to ever step inside are the sampaguitas my parents buy off the street kids. Here, today, I am confronted by the humility my parents brought me up with and the resulting growth in my character.

The improvised vase was leaky. The green lady was old and it was never meant to hold water--we've had her since we moved in 15 years ago--so we placed the lilies in a large clear water-glass. My mom found them in the morning and--though they were unnecessary, do not contribute to paying any bills, nor fulfilling any pending needs--they bloomed, and they bloomed beautifully.

My mom was happy that Valentines.

Hovering

Welcome back to Manila. Back to the frowning masses, back to streets awash with cars. Back to each disappointing sunrise and the endless wait for sunsets. Welcome, friend welcome. Lay your head here awhile, to the side, rest its weight upon your own shoulders and worry about stiffness later. You've left too late and come back to soon to your own life, the one you've been working on for so long. And though it's the only thing you've ever known, the only thing you're good at, you wonder if, out there, there's still some other life you could live.

I've been tempted lately by thoughts of disappearing, but not in the kidnap-gone-awry-then-suddenly-cadavers kind of sense. Instead, wandering off unexpectedly and getting lost to the world seems like a lovely plan. I'm starting to feel like most of the things in my life are things I agree to do but don't feel entirely compelled to pursue. It's like playing the music of my instrument on someone else's beat and cadence.

Mind you, I'm not resentful or frustrated. Things are actually good. Not great. But relative to genocide, sudden unemployment and elections, preferably a-ok. The recurring thought that pokes some mischief into me though is that I feel that if you left me to my own devices, somewhere far away where no one knows me and no one cares, I'd be making completely different decisions. Somewhere out there is a life I could have if I just decide, wholeheartedly and completely to abandon this one.

This has nothing to do with the friends I've known, the family I've grown with and the people I've discovered. There is no individual repellent. It's just that I like playing with odds and, lately, I've been playing it safe too long. It's time to walk out that door, commute towards the opposite direction, and make things interesting.

That's the last thing Jesus did if you remember, the great (though inconsistent) disappearing act that culminated with a certain heaven-bound hovering. I guess for Him, gravity was just a suggestion and, just like me, it may seem absolute now, but hey! He did it anyway, doves and dramatic lighting included. It can be done! We have the technology! I just need some guts.

He kind of died first though. Let's just mark that milestone as "pending".

Like a Lover's Voice Fires the Mountainside

It was dark, of course, as I wearily crept up the stairs and found my seat overlooking the stage. I watched tonight's band setting up gingerly in the dim gloom on that Thursday evening. The place was still empty but I knew the crowds would come. The long-weekend starts tomorrow after all and the week's passing deserves some music, some drinks, and some unsuppressed revelry. God knows I needed some of it, too, but the reason for tonight's romp was mostly foreign. My overseas sister flew in earlier this week and she's been craving for some live music, live 80's music.

Which was a happy coincidence considering we originally intended--and I originally hoped--to watch the wonderful local group SPIT for tonight. They canceled tonight's show though. So to save the evening's festivities and with the weight of 2 laptop bags slung over my shoulder, I stepped out of the office and slowly trudged towards those neon-light infused streets just a city block away. A few minutes later, I called the family up and told them, "Yes, they're playing 80's tonight." In the background, I heard my sister's squeal in delight rise above the cellphone static. I was glad for her, it was her night after all.

I also had an hour to burn before the show started, before the family could make it through the clogged Makati streets, and before I had to meet up my friend all the way back in Glorietta. So, I started walking towards the commercial district, started to join the faceless crowds marching home, and caught up with myself and how the week has been.

The week has been tiring. But this was welcome fatigue, a sort of cherished exhaustion that came for spending every second of your life doing something you knew would propel you forward. Something you knew would define your life in hindsight, something chapter-worthy, if you'd write an autobiography. This new chapter was about the new job.

The new job deserves some talk. It was exciting work since we were, even as developers, working so close to the front-lines(the marketing people talked to US). Our work had such a direct impact on the project, and the project itself is a behemoth of technologies, constantly growing in size and capabilities. We weren't attaching little diodes or fancy fenders to this thing either. We were building it from the ground-up, attaching the arms, legs and head to what will soon be an industry changer--at least that's what marketing says. I agree, but we still have a long way to go.

"We'll get there," I thought to myself as I tried to ignore the band starting to play downstairs and my sister gyrating inconspicuously in her seat next to me. I didn't know how I'll get there, what I'd be doing in the critical weeks thereafter, but I knew I just had to trust in my own strength, in the teams strength, and in fate who hasn't let me down yet.

And then they started playing my music, my music of all things. Of all places here, in the darkness, on a random Thursday night, beneath the swirl of the disco ball and glint of neon lights, among foreign foreigners and familiar family, in this nondescript bar in the middle of Makati, my song found me.

Life taught me something that night. We live like the nightclub anonymous, distant from the throb and hubbub on-stage as we drink our lonely drinks and forcefully drown the responsibilities, problems, issues we've left outside in the night. We may have friends with us on the table, people who relate, people who sympathize, who share our drink and our fears. We stare beyond the brim of icy glasses, at life in all it's whirling colors, in its upbeat rhythm, in its perpetual dancing, and think, "Why bother."

And then they play your song, and you can't help but stand, can't help but surrender to serendipity. You start to move with the beat, simply trust that it all leads somewhere worthwhile. The music consumes you, and you celebrate, even for a short while. You spin and spin on the temporary momentum of joy. We raise our glasses in the air, in defiance against transition, in challenge against change, and shout, "Why not?"

Life's a playlist. It may be long, and it may seem like it's set at random most of the time. But our song is there somewhere, and it'll play eventually, and it'll eventually all be alright. And definitely, it'll be fun.

a short intro

On my first day at work, the new boss asked me to write something up about myself. Sitting to my left, his eyes never leaving the flickering monitor, he said, "Be creative. Use pictures if you like. Just say what you want. Who is Dean?" Another developer, 2 seats to my right joined in, "Ayos lang yan, pinagawa rin niya yan sa akin (It's no big deal, he made me do it, too)." So I did, verbosely:

I guess the best way to start job introductions would be to say a little something about why I ended up here in the first place. So, I was exposed to computing at an early age. To put things in the proper perspective, this was a time when internet connections involved noisy modem beeps, Yahoo and Geocities ruled the scene, and floppies were a respectable means for data migration. I enjoyed it and so actively joined those random Computer clubs at school that really don't offer much education besides launching Carmen Sandiego and, if you're lucky, disassemble a pc.

My sister took up an IT course in college and I--getting my hands dirty in HTML, PC setup, and Diablo 2-- followed suit, taking up Computer Science in UP Manila. And I had a great time of it, working on little MP's that showed me how much is possible with the right algorithm. By then, I've also discovered how much I love to write, probably because I love to read as well. I think the programming knack is related to writing, since both attempt to communicate intangible concepts through words, though to entirely different audiences.

So there. I spend most of my time reading(current book is H.G. Wells' "Food of the Gods") and keeping tabs on multiple rss feeds clueing me in on emerging technologies. Currently, I think Android is a great bet since it's a lot more liberal in terms of what you can do with a mobile device. I feel that when I get better at it, I'll be able to create amazing things that are a lot more practical and wide-reaching. Instead of building applications that run in some random server in some dark corner of the world, I'll be building something that can improve, or even radically transform, the way people live.

And all this from finding the right words to tell the PC. That's why I'm a Software Engineer.

I thought it was a little too intense for introductions, a little too dramatic for your first hello. But I knew this was how I honestly felt. Just be honest; I remember how simple life could have been if I stayed true to myself in younger days. I'm going to follow my own advice this time.

I received a copy of my write-up later that day. He had sent it to the company-wide mailing list, with a brief messaging welcoming me to the fold. I feigned embarrassment. But the truth of the matter is, I was filled with pride. I hope everyone's first impression of the new kid on the block is: "The new guy's passionate, and literate, too."