How It Started

Last night, my partner Germaine asked me what is my manifestation of love. Since I write, people expect you to write about them in a form of pure adoration. I write poems, letters or snippets, hundreds of notes for her but I don’t write about her. Not in a whole paragraph in the sense of being the main topic or the way I write about the past, jobs, friends even strangers.

The greatest thing in writing about strangers is that they are almost inanimate, no consideration of feelings. I play with what I think about them. They’re like puppets moved by strings. They can dance, swayed from my lead. They can never talk back because again, they are strangers. Strangers remain strangers. They don’t know who you are, absolutely no idea that there are stories written about them, and they don’t care.

The past is written with emotions, carefully woven with thoughts and crafted with chosen words. They told me that writing is a therapy. What makes it so special is that it can be gruesome, some things were buried and you have to unveil privacy like looking at an old photographs. Writing about it creates a dimension where recollection takes place, opening first chapter of your life, exposing to someone who bothers to care. Past is divided into two parts, like being filed in a different folder, residing at the deepest part of your heart. Some should be forgotten, kept as inactive file while some remains as a treasure and once in awhile actively runs shots of flashbacks providing you good hormones. The scariest part about writing them is that you know they are real.

Writing about learning is the easiest. It is kinder than writing descriptions of trapped feelings or a daily journal. Situations here are negative subject to change. The words that will be written are boastful and yes, with dignity.

Today is Thursday, 25th of September 2008. The islands were in the hands of the storm “Nina”. The winds were turbulent and the rain was scattered. The sky was gray and the sun was feeling discomfort. Today is not as ordinary as yesterday. It’s our 11th monthsary and my plan was again disregarded. I should’ve cleaned the apartment to spotless, made the beds, ran some errands, get the laundry, buy something for tonight’s dinner, and well yeah, taken a bath. I should’ve cleared the kitchen sink for a start, but instead I brewed the coffee, lighted a cigarette stick and rebooted the laptop.

Today, I’m going to write about her and how it started.

I was sort of thin last year. It was the time that I thought eating was pointless and I made alcohol my hobby. I don’t know why being depressed make me looked good, that’s what my friends say or probably they were just being polite. However, it makes me feel damn good like a revenge or something that I lost my fear in cameras and developed this passion of being captured in pictures. I was broken-hearted from having broken off with a live-in female partner. I was shoved out from our nest with her name tattooed on my ass. Besides drinking, I dated numerous lesbians. The story was classic.

I was desperate. I’m a type of person who believes that I can properly move on and that life is prettier if you share it with someone. I can almost make an ad that goes like this.

A powered lesbian, looking for a dynamic and aggressive applicant who is willing to take over the position that was left by the previous one.

Qualifications:

• Filipina Lesbian
• Preferably single
• Not more than 40 years old
• Graduated in school
• If the applicant is underage, please bring a copy of letter of consent with dry seal
• Willing to go under supervision within 3-6 months
• Lives within the vicinity of Metro Manila
• With pleasing personality
• With or without experience, yeah!
• Common sense and humor is a must!

Interested applicants may submit their resumes with colored whole body picture with white background together with a copy of an essay “Why would I apply for this job?” at jeni@pinoy.org and will be notified thru text being asked for a scheduled date.

Successful applicants will have a chance to be with the coolest lesbian in town and will be given a competitive compensation package.

Compensation Package:

• Love messages and phone calls especially on mornings and evenings depending on the amount of my load
• Free Load
• Stuffed toys, letters, poems, chocolates, flowers and luckily cellphone in which depends on the amount of my salary and these will be deductible on your free load
• Love services and more!

Anyway, instead of this, I hooked up with a clan. It’s a group of flirty lesbians who abuse Globe unlitxt to the max. It’s like a forum and chat on the internet but cheaper. They were a bunch of nonsense. They are alive 24 hours! It broke my cellphone and ran my battery to empty. It was crazy. That’s a good thing about craziness, it gives you an opportunity to experience the extraordinary. A clanmate, Nadjz had a clanmate named Men-men. She had a “single and looking” lawyer friend named Germaine.

We were set up by them to meet at an exclusive party. Secretly, I was bound to meet 2 of them. Germaine and Katsura, a girl from the clan. By 9pm, I met Men-men, a formal butch in her 30’s who wore polo, pare, tucked-in her pants. Leather belt is visible matched with leather shoes. The lesbian world that I am in was different. We were hippies, carefree, worships dirty pants, printed shirts and funky sneakers. She was yeah, “formal”. I was caught off-guard and the moment she spoke to me was like how a boss would talk to an employee, slow yet clear. At first she told me that Germaine was sick and was not able to meet me and she asked my name twice as if it’s hard to remember like Rumplestiltskin. She asked questions like I was being interviewed for a high-paying job.

“Iha, taga-saan ka ba?”

“Makati.”

Iha is a strong word and in my head I was thinking, should I say ‘Makati po?’ I was taught not to be rude with elders and should use appropriate responses like ‘po’ and ‘opo’.

“So anong ba ang trabaho mo?”

Her questions became weirder.

“Call center agent sa Makati” (po?)

“Kasi yung kaibigan ko naghahanap sya ng pwede nyang makusap..”

Like I was stupid or something. God! I tell you…I was like a chicken being dressed alive.

She continues,“Lawyer sya sa DSWD..”

She pauses like to impress me that ‘hey, my friend is big time okay, so I need a proper screening’. My ego was insulted. Who is this lawyer friend of yours anyway? Is she God? Baka mamaya pulpol na lawyer lang yan! If I know, notaryong lawyer lang yan! These thoughts boost 2 bars of my ego..and patience. It helped me not to throw rude remarks at the most tempting moment. I let her finished her sentence.

“Maliit sya katulad ko.”

And I said, “okay…”

“Eto ba ang number mo?”

After she verified..

“Okay, Ite-text ka na lang nya.”

See? Like I didn’t pass the interview. Like we’ll let you know if you pass or not. Later on, Nadjz told me about Men-men’s comment - Bakit hindi raw ako naka-dress. Ang sa’akin naman e hotel ba ito? Pwet mo!

I went upstairs, drank bottles of beers with Penguin and clanmates; danced and rocked with the band and spend the remaining wee hours in bed with Katsura.

Two days after, I received a message from Germaine. She was apologizing for ditching me. The message was odd. The time is way passed by although her message creates an impact because it means triumph. I passed the fucking interview wearing pants.

I was challenged. Men-men, I was challenged. Thank you.

The exchange of messages through text was awful. The messages she sent were forwarded quotes. They were limited. One in the morning and one in the evening. It was pathetic. Mind you, it goes on for a week and I lost interest.

As I was doing my work, talking to an American boring me about her woes of her cancelled flight, Germaine texted me to meet her after work. Like preparing for another job interview, I should know something about her so I surfed the net and read her friendster profile. Would that be enough? Should I browse volumes of law books or memorize the preamble maybe? No. I decided to be myself. I decided to slap her with who I really am. I decided to wear pants, shirt and my trusty Chucks. I accessorized myself with rubber and leather bands. Goddamn, I will tell you that I sported a tattoo on my back.

I nervously walked to the hotel’s lobby. That would be at Renaissance’s in Makati. She came from a boring conference or training of some sort. I already saw her from the outside window seated alone, wearing pink polo in the lightest shade. She was so gay. She’s a live carbon copy of Men-men. I’m no longer doubtful about ‘birds of the same feather, flock together’. She recognized me, I don’t know why, so I just politely smiled.

We walked at Greenbelt Park. I considered her poor in Dating 101. She’s cheap. She told me to bring her somewhere inexpensive, not that I’m going to ask her to treat me or anything like that but I responded by telling her to eat our first dinner at the food court in which she declines by the way.

We settled ourselves in Gloria Mariz. She ordered herself Vigan longganiza and since I have the idea that it might be a dutch treat, I ordered coffee. I ordered coffee with a lie. I stirred my coffee with a concoction of lies. I ordered coffee because she’s a lawyer. I ordered coffee because it’s formal. I might probably order tea if the setting will be in England. I have this crazy thought that even if I wore jeans instead of a skirt, the cup of coffee would make me look formal. Business meetings were always conducted with coffee. Hence, coffee can be labeled as formal. Maturity is formal.

So now I am “formal”. Should I begin reciting the preamble now? What will be the conversation flow? Will it be about sex? I mean sexual harassment maybe? I almost slap myself. Why would I have to pretend in order for her to like me? Would I really want her to like me? I have rights you know. I have the right to express my feelings. I have the right to be myself. I am thinking a lot of rights that evening and I know she mastered all the rights that was constituted by law. After my first cup of coffee, I shifted myself in ordering a bottle of cold beer.

She was pleasant and calm. She wore glasses and her eyes were blinder than mine. Her pink polo was like chosen on purpose, it radiates the gentleness of her face. Her voice is a comfort like blanket during your sleepless nights. She was blessed with perfect teeth. Her hands were small like how literature describes a modest English woman. She glances and her glance shifts to stare. Her eyes twinkle. She can set the mood. I can almost feel tiny little hearts are falling. It made me feel the month of February. She has the ability of making you talk, making you laugh, making you sad. She has the ability to unlock different versions of feelings. She was fascinating. To me she was absolutely wonderful!

The next day was considered by her as a date. Poems were written about me and each poem was recited like how Filipinos serenade Filipinas thru haranas. For a whimsical moment she left me speechless, I was dazed with poetry and soon the magic began.

There are millions of stuffs about her that I can write. I can write how I missed her smell if she’s not around and why being away from her makes me sad. I can write how I wanted to kiss her good mornings and then again kiss her good nights. She wanders inside of me like poetry written on a priceless script producing scrolls of parcels. I can write anything about her in volumes and I can write about her for life. I want to write about her cruelty and how I reacted. I want to write about our differences and how we learn to work things out. I wanted so much to write about her and our lives together. I want to write about this sometime.

For now I have written how simple poetry became a conversation of love. The words that are written are only limited to the feelings that I wanted to describe. Living with her is more than amazing, it’s more than enough.

Happy Monthsary Nini and I love you!

THIS (IM)PERFECT PLACE

I left Makati for almost a month a now. I ran away. Not in the sense of running away like teenagers do, but I’m running away. I ran away from things I cannot do. I’m running away from harm that will cause me from so much pain. I’m running away from gossip. I’m running away from hatred and all that shit. I’m running away from responsibility. I’m running away from a stressful job. I’m running away from reality. Basically, I’m running away from an unhappy life.

I ran away to a new place so that I can heal the wounds slowly. I am broken into a million little pieces. I know it will take a lot of time, but I’m allowing myself to go through the process. Sometimes you need to find a place to start your life again. A place where you can run freely without any dictates and even better without any communication. Sometimes the child in you has a terrible need for what is surreal and drives your instinct for someplace to play. You have to start somewhere.

I transferred somewhere in between Quezon City and Manila where condominiums are actually not as high as you can see in the elite class of the dream city. But it is more colorful than you can imagine.

Children, vendors, teenagers, nurses, workers, bummers are everywhere - all kinds of people. Tom cats and stray dogs are everywhere. There are four sort of security guards/barker in shifting schedules. Parking is crazy during the night. Parked cars are very similar to how my little brother parked his Matchbox.

Our building’s paint is faded, chipped from the change of the weather. Almost each unit has a string of clothes like banderitas for a fiesta. There’s no elegant reception, drapes, elevator or even layers of chandeliers. The stairs are uneven. The hallways are dark, cold and wet even on the brightest day. The ceilings and walls are musty, covered with fractured cobwebs. I can hear the oil dancing in my neighbor‘s pan and the onions being sautéed on a skillet waft different aromas and flavors through the halls.

The corridors resound with disjointed voices and music; the wailing of babies in harmony with their nannies’ lullabies. The laughter, arguments, problems, even the simple conversation of these people are like chants. It gives you an affirmation of existence and a normal cycle of life.

DOORS

The door of each unit is usually closed. Trust is an issue and nobody trusts anybody now. Solicitors were shooed away, even missionaries. Each door is different from plain to sculpted, from green to blue, from mahogany to narra. Each door reflects different family, different persona, different lives.

Let me tell you a story about my door and the inside of it. Like everyone else’s, it’s closed. Even if you open it, it will automatically lock itself to close. The door represents as an opening to welcome various – yet familiar guests. Opening a door wasn’t that easy, it’s like revealing to a stranger your hideous secrets, giving them opportunity to draw in your life.

The owner of my apartment was a professor and a brilliant architect from a well-known school. However, his heart was not as distrustful as his door. This door plays a major role in his life. Students, professionals and other male friends that won’t be classified are his various guests. Some of them are knockers, some are knob-twisters and the special ones are the keyholders. September of 2007 was the time he last closed this door. He had a stroke that made him immobile and he left the apartment in care of his sister, who is my partner, Germaine.

The door is made of narra, with a single sculpted column embossed on it. This Greco-Roman pillar appears very bold and deeply symbolizes masculinity. It is heavy, thick and unscathed, almost phallic. The window grills contrast the art of its door. The welding is softly adorned with lotuses, painted in maroon, an indication of strong femininity.

The apartment’s floor is tiled in green and white. The place is smallish, a mere 6 steps from the front door to the kitchen. The walls used to be ungraciously accessorized with uneven bookshelves that held thousands of papers, hundreds of thesis and pieces of books, and this, I gladly dismounted.

The breakfast counter is purposely placed almost in the heart of the room to serve as a partition. The kitchen was designed to be illuminated with a nice light. When we first arrived, a collection of tupperware was visible everywhere. The kitchen cabinets still held pieces of plates and silverware. These are not just plates and silverwares. They are souvenirs from hotels and bars from around the world. These collections are now replaced by microwaveables, cheap plates and stolen glasses. There are bottles of cleansers, detergents – all sorts of chemicals under the kitchen sink. The maroon shower curtain serves as a door to the bathroom and the laundry area is separated by a tiled wall.

The stairs were slightly curved, matching the varnished door. The loft’s floor is made of entirely wood. Each footstep makes it creak. The ceiling is cold, roughly cemented and low. The cabinet is built-in, wide and doesn’t have a door so it exposes our whole wardrobe. The study table doesn’t have a decent light and needed the assistance of a table lamp. The bed makes the finishing touches and since mattresses were heavy and stores sells them over-priced, we settled ourselves to an airbed.

The outer side of our room that faces the other building is made of jalousie and was caged by ironed grills with a design of lotuses. The window provides a spectacular view. It gives me an opportunity to take a glimpse of my neighbor’s lives.

TRANSITION

So what do 28 year old runaways do?

I spent the first day cleaning. A house will never be a house if it’s inhabitable. I threw away the remaining papers, unlabeled cleansers and bottles of unknown chemicals like I threw away my baggage. I wiped away the dirt to each jalousie like I wipe the tears in my eyes. I swept the floor like I want myself to be scoured faultless. I mopped the floor to be spotless like I want myself to be cleansed. I smooth our bed neatly like how smooth I want my life to be.

The second day was spent making myself comfortable. A home is not a home if it’s lifeless. A home needs a sprinkle of laughs, a dash of hope, a splash of care and a speckle of love. A home has the ability to adapt the owner’s life. The mood adjusted the room’s temperature. The feelings that you exert will vibrate to its corners -- even the slowest movement, slightest tune and tiny whimpers are being whispered to the walls. Germaine and I cooked, ate, laughed, kissed and made love the whole day.

The third day was to familiarize myself with the community. I go down the neighborhood and observed. I mapped out the places that will be necessary for me. There’s a pharmacy, laundry shops, eateries, internet cafes, a water station, a bakery, salons, a talipapa and a dozen of sari-sari stores. There is also a Catholic church a few blocks away, but while there are at least two maternity and pediatric clinics, no real hospital is at hand for medical emergencies.

Each afternoon is catered by different vendors. They put up stalls and occupied the right side of building 2. The first stall was owned by nanay, an old plump lady. She was the Queen of Saging na Saba. She cooked bananas in wide variety. She sells turon, banana-que, banana fries and my favorite, maruya. She also sells different kinds of kakanin that reminds me of Simbang Gabi. Although her cooking abilities worked to run her banana empire, her spaghetti was the worst pasta I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.

The second stall was owned by the fattest lady in our community and she managedo be the fairest of us all. She flashes her first-class Louies Vouitton imitation handbag, sways with the rhythm of her waddling hips and pointed her porky finger to boss around her maid who do the cooking and the selling. She was the Burger Queen. You can have everything on your burger, from the bun to the de-takal na lasa na mayo, Papa ketsup, a rabbit’s cabbage-coleslaw, artificial cheese, super-pipit burger patty and slightly burnt egg topped with a bun and viola! Cheap Oil-burger on a bun!

The next stall was owned by a thin lady. She was so thin that she looked like a skeleton with a skin. She was like a walking X-ray. She sells Calamares - squid rings dipped in batter and fried until golden brown. Sounds good, tastes like hell! I had long lost my appetite for squids when I happened to watch Pirates of the Carribean. Captain Jones’ face was so disgusting! He’s a squid man rotting with algae and half of his face was covered with a starfish and his moving tentacles served as his beard.

Next to it is the serious woman in her late 30’s. She’s a nagger. She scares the buyers. You can’t ask the price if you’re not going to buy it. She spanked her children on the streets. She yells to her husband to shame. She’s a perfect definition of an Amazon. She’s the Ola Queen and she sells you-call-this-Mexican foods. The tacos are not edible.

Beside her is a woman with the waviest hair. She looks like she stepped out of the magazine page during the 80’s. She wears ribbons, bonnets and balloon skirts like Cyndi Lauper. She pouted as if ready to blow a kiss but not in a sexy way. Her lipstick is in shade of Puta Red. I call her Cyndi, Cyndi Lupa. She sells fish balls, squid balls, kikiam and kwek-kwek.

The girl next to her is the Mushroom Girl, bigla na lang sumusulpot. She’s like the commercial ad for Lady’s Choice Mayonaise, ‘Now you see, now you don’t’. She sells pails, dippers, hangers and basins.

Last in the row was the Balot vendor. The lady is fond of wearing leggings. She always matched it with dress-like blouses. She reminded me of Angelica Pickles of Rugrats.

The remaining days of the week were spent hibernating. That’s how tired I was. I was physically and emotionally wasted. Since I worked the night shift before for 1 and ½ years, I had become nocturnal. The sleep that I’ve been getting helps a lot. My body clock has returned to normal.

On the second week, I finally decided to be a housewife. I get up at seven in the morning and I cook breakfast usually associated with eggs, juice, tea or coffee, carbs and the usual morning talks. The cigarette is toasting and text messages are highly arousing, the other messages are friendly hellos and forwarded quotes, there is one message that I’ve been avoiding for a week now. This message will bring me back to reality and this message will come from Gerdine, a friend from previous work, waiting for an answer. She wanted us to apply for a job together. I want to tell her that I’m just starting to enjoy the seconds of my time now and I wanted more. I decided to text her later.

So Germaine and I ate, conversed, I smoked and packed her lunch, shrieked for some goddamn reason, activated my Globe unlitext. And after she left, I ditched the exercise program which I am about to start and snore the remaining hours away. By the time I woke up, which seems to be 50 golden years, the unlitext was activated within 24 hours. Hail to the Globe Company! I texted Gerdine to give me another week.

I’ve learned a lot of things. I learned that being inside the poor community shares poor satellite for cellular phones. To think that we’re residing on the third floor! How bad can it be? My text messages will be received every 30 minutes. I was told that shit happens and that each shit has an outlet where you can see a reason why it happened; like probably there’s a good thing why it happened, like rainbow after the rain or the Chinese ying-yang mania. The good thing about delayed messages is that I can collect my thoughts so that I can reply sensibly rather that “Uhuh”, “You’re right”, “It’s true”, “yes”, “no” and the famous “Haha!” Besides, I can always make the poor signal a reason that I haven’t received the message, right? Have you ever received a message that you don’t actually know how to respond? You go gaga thinking for an appropriate reply and after several minutes all you can come up is texting “Haha”. At least now I have a reasonable alibi that cell sites suck here and that’s exactly what I told Gerdine.

The succeeding week was spent watching Korea-novelas. I watched ‘They Kissed Again’ only to disappoint me with the ending. Besides DVD marathons, I enjoyed being a housewife.

The following week was the realization phase. My partner became busy with her new job and I’m always left alone. We don’t do the usual morning talks and she comes home late and barely touches the food that I prepared. I got tired of watching DVDs and finished most of the games on the computer. The house became quiet and it’s true that silence is deafening. It really echoes through the walls. The loneliness is unbearable.

I hated sunsets and during sunset, when everything turns lonely and sad, I pulled up my blinds and watched my neighbors outside. These strangers became my comfort.

If you’re going to look opposite my window, to my left, dwells a large family. Their family is so big that their grandmother and 3 Japanese Spitz dogs are included. I don’t know how they can manage because they’re like ballroom gowns inside the staircase closet. The grandmother loves gardening, so they made a miniature of it in front of their kitchen window. They had a birdcage that is empty. The children, both girls, play every afternoon.

The window directly in front of me is always closed. Since their jalousies were clear and not smoked, they used cheap-laced curtains to have some sort of privacy. There lived a simple husband who is married to the plainest wife and they run an uninteresting life. All I know is that one of them uses contact lenses because they have this large bottle of contact lens solution by their windowsill.

Next to the conventional couple, to the right, resides a very entertaining family. They throw occasional children’s parties and do videoke every weekend. They have an aquarium that lights their room. They have misunderstandings, troubles and laughter. There is shouting, washing and chatting. There are emotions. There are feelings, high and low. There’s interaction. They have the ability to live and not just to exist.

They are strangers and to them I am nobody, shuffling carelessly to my kitchen’s wide-open window. To me they are comfort. They are movies but you know they are real. This place is noisy and almost dirty, but it’s perfect. The city is starless, but it is absolutely perfect.

FOUL PLAY

So I did runaway. The realization phase was over and soon the problem began. My mom will move to a tiny room in Makati for 3K. I couldn’t afford the previous rent especially now that I’m jobless. It breaks my heart to know that I’m not giving her and my siblings a decent place to live in. I began to ask myself, am I selfish? I dread to go to work and the last time burns me out but being a bum means getting away from responsibility. The heartache starts when they told me that they are moving out and transferring to a smaller room. It’s like a slap on my face. Nakakahiya ako. I made my cousin pay for half of the ongoing rent and that cousin is supporting her own family as well. I let my brother shoulder all the responsibility even though I know hindi nya kaya. I need to do something and that something is a job. The sad part is the kind of job that I’ll be getting. I know sooner or later I will be landing on a call center job again because that’s the only job that can give me and my ability a decent salary.

Running away gives me time and comfort that I needed but I can’t be a ranaway for the rest of my life. I will have to come out from my hiding place and face reality sooner or later. This place became my playground and it teaches the child in me that after a whole day of play, you’ll know that the game is over and it’s time for you to go home.

Being gone for a long time changed me. I can now make the matches spark. I was once a girl who doesn’t know how to light a match.

Again I’m preparing myself for an unhappy stressful life. I think an unhappy stressful life is better than having heartbreaks and guilt. How can I compare desperate things and used the word better?

I believe that one day everything will be in proper place to create a beautiful picture like solving 1000 pieces of jigsaw puzzle. Life is ironic. Life is definitely an oxymoron.

“Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you think everything’s going right and then everything’s blown up in your face” – Alanis Morisstte