The wind's friendlier now than yesterday and I don't see cows, hollow blocks and people dancing with the leaves in the sky like Bear Brand kites. I can, now, use my umbrella without worrying that it might die and lose the purpose of it's existence, while in between where I'm from and where I'm going.

It's rest day again and the weather's fine. What else is there to do other than folding my clothes, since the heap of which seems to put Mt. Everest to shame? If you think this is an exaggeration, the news is: you're right.

So, any suggestions?

photo taken from http://www.josephinewall.co.uk/fairies/moonbeams

Just came home from the clinic to have my throat checked. Since I can hardly speak, the doctor advised me to take some rest and try not to talk. This made me feel a little low since my voice has always been my best entertainer.

When I'm bored, I hum, almost involuntarily, any tune that plays inside my head; when I'm angry, I yell at my best friend, Dandie, who's currently out of town, so he won't be able to read this, which is good; and, when I feel as if I'm someone who really believes in the existence of this thing called love, my voice is what I use to sing songs that come close to conveying the emotions my heart, or others say, my brain contains.

So after a long night and a busy morning, I'll take some rest. This way, my throat, without me disturbing, can fix himself, clean himself, and make himself liveable, again, by the voice I so wish were here to dance with my imagination.

My voice, let me wake up tomorrow with your greeting. Telling me "I'm back" with a smile.

I don’t watch the news often. Weeks would go by without me deliberately turning on the TV to watch whatever is happening around me. Ignorance is bliss as they say; but, even so, I do not remain in this state. Current issues are often shoved in my head the moment I get inside the office. My co-workers cannot be stopped from talking about whatever they see on TV, or read from the papers. Aside from these unstoppable mouths, there’s Yahoo, the default site on my laptop; so while waiting for Facebook, Multiply, Friendster, or whatever site to pull up, the stalking news is in front of me.

Sometime this week I was struck by a news report showing a video of Boyet Fajardo stripping some Duty Free employees, especially one whose name’s Marvin Fernandez, of their dignity as human beings. On the video, Fajardo was shown as a furious customer whose rage was supposedly caused by the male cashier’s asking of a valid ID, while at a counter, as proof that he is the owner of the credit card he was using to purchase some goods, a procedure which is supposed to be expected from establishments that value the importance of security. Fajardo, made his anger more visible by pointing fingers at the employees calling the cashier ‘bakla’ and one of the managers ‘baboy.’

In an attempt to pacify Fajardo, the manager told the cashier to proceed with swiping the card, never mind the ID, but that didn’t stop livid customer, he said he’ll only be relieved if the cashier agrees either to be slapped or to kneel in front of him. Fernandez, the unfortunate cashier, chose the latter while crying in shame as several people witnessed the price he paid for doing his job.

Now, I’m not going to form opinions about the incident and add to the already long list of derogatory words thrown at the said designer. Countless of blogs have done that already, and I’m not going to be able to describe the wrongness of what he did in a way that wasn’t already done. What I’m concerned about is how some people reacted. And how some of them, in their efforts to show disgust over Fajardo’s behaviour, showed the people who read their comments and hear their opinions, their similarity to the person they abhor, in the process.

“walang hiya kang bakla ka!”

“tama lang yung ginawa ni Mao Tse Tsung at Hitler na ipapatay lahat mga bakla.”

“baboy..dapat kaw ang ipaku sa krus ng pabaliktad ngayong semana..leche ka! Baboy...”

“please lang ituloy nyo ang kaso na yan sa hayuf na baklang yan.”

“cno yn c fajardo? sikat ba yan? sikat nga pala dahil pinaluhod nya ang kapwa nya bakla...hahaha....”

“may araw ka rin tabatsoy...kang bading ka!”

These were just a few of the comments I read on Youtube and some blog sites. I stopped reading at about the third or fourth page of the comments section since it felt as if I was being slapped a hundred times as every comment page progressed.

I believe—No, there’s no point preaching here but--Aaargh! If we are a people who can leave comments like the ones I quoted, why should we condemn Fajardo? What makes us different from him? If we throw stones at him why, oh why the hell aren’t we throwing some at ourselves?

My head’s aching. I’m going to bed now.

Christmas, correct me if I am wrong, together with New Year, is supposed to be the merriest and noisiest season of the year. I believe you would even be excused if you terrorize your neighbourhood by obliterating their eardrums. The irony is that, it is Christmas, indeed; yet, this is the most quiet our room has ever become –this year, at least. Yup, I am left alone. I guess I mentioned this already on the entry I wrote on the 25^th of this month; however, make no mistake. I am not asking for sympathy. Truth is, I just want to write something here since I have nothing better to do as of the moment.

But wait.

I re- read what I wrote and it got me into thinking. Figuratively, or, in a way, this room only becomes silent when I am asleep. You see, the moment I wake up it’s almost involuntary for me to pick these two remote controls; one for the TV and the other for the DVD player. These two, for me, go hand in hand since there’s nothing good to watch on TV and of course the DVD player can’t stand on its own. Currently, I’m alternating The Tudors (season one) and Gilmore Girls (season 7.) When the episode gets boring, I turn on my laptop and pull up three sites: The inevitable Friendster, Multiply, and my favourite, YouTube. Apart from these, are random pages. Porn sites are of course not excluded.

When I get tired, I hit the shut down tab and lie down on my bed only to feel guilty at the sight of the dog- eared books scattered on the floor beside my bed. At this time, I’m reading two: Alternately, Sinclair Lewis’ Babbitt, and my old friend, Jessica Zafra’s Twisted 8.  To ease my guilt, I flip a few pages until I get sleepy. I dog ear another page and promise myself to leave more time for reading the day after. But then again, an old saying goes: promises are made to be broken.

TV with a DVD player, the internet, and books; with these things around, apart from the entertainment I get, at the end of the day, I get a headache. As if the information they give; the characters; the stories, and everything else coming from them are meeting each other like buses, taxis and jeep (jeeps? Jeepney?), all in a halt due to heavy traffic in the little city which is my brain. With headache being the last experience in the day, my three inanimate companions have successfully made the idea of silence distant and gave me a touch of Christmas instead of Good Friday.

It’s been a fun Christmas. Next stop: New Year.

I am alone this Christmas. Contrary to what impression one may have, I am not sad. ‘Though, it would’ve been nicer if people were here to create a more cheerful and Christmas-y atmosphere. There’s no chicken or turkey in the oven, and I doubt if we even have an oven; but, much as I admire Sylvia Plath’s works, I am far from lured to try how she designed her way out of the earth. Suicide rate goes high during this season but people of the Philippines; I’m not going to be a part of that statistic. Whether or not you’re happy with that, is the least of my concerns.

Merry Christmas.

For A Boy

His name was Thomas. And I just found that out a couple of days after I noticed I’m not seeing him anymore. Early in our shift today, on my station’s pc, I pulled up some stored files to see if someone with his name still exists in our company.  I entered his first name, his last, both and it gave me the same information: that a person named Thomas (last name deleted) works somewhere on this planet, just not in this country. Then it dawned on me. He doesn’t work in our office anymore.  Another man got away, and I am left with so many what ifs, again.

Back in 3rd grade, I first fell in love with a boy. I have to italicize the term since I believed in it, then. God, I even believed in fairies. Not that I am one, but, at that time I actually thought one day I’d wake up and turn into a girl. I imagined, when that happens I‘ll run to Alfie and tell him how I felt for him no matter how embarrassing it would’ve been. That day didn’t happen, of course and I’ve given up on hoping it would still come.

Alfie. That was that boy’s name, the most probable reason why the song of the same title means so much to me. He never really knew me. In his eyes, then, I was just another kid from another section who he’d smile at, once in a while, not out of any particular interest but of politeness.

A year after that, I lost him. I didn’t see him, anymore. I remember being so excited to go to school on the first day of my 4th grade, hoping to see him somewhere in a group of kids he usually played with, a year before. I didn’t find him. And I didn’t have the courage to ask anyone from his classmates where he was, I mean, who would, in my situation? I couldn’t even admit I was gay then. I found out that his family transferred to Manila and that they were to stay there for good. I was devastated. Imagine a nine- year old sexually confused kid feeling devastated with no one around to share his agony to.

Then, a year after that I went to the same school. On the first day of classes, I still hoped he’d be there but he wasn’t. For years he has been the subject of my longings. For years, I looked at the sky every two o’clock in the afternoon just to recreate his image. Just to make sure I remember every detail of his face and talk to him as though his image responds. And I made sure nobody saw me or else they’d think... I don’t even know if i can imagine what they would’ve thought of me.

Now it’s happening again. And I don’t like it. Well, somehow, I do but it’s painful. Although you grow and become stronger because of it, you’d sometimes wish it wasn’t there. You’d sometimes wish you can take away every experience in life you’ve had that caused you pain. Sometimes. You only wish for it sometimes because you know it cannot be granted.  Pain is part of life. Instead of letting it tear you down, might as well use it to create beautiful things; thus, the birth of authentic art and artists. I’d have to say losing Alfie made me an artist. He made me compose and sing songs. He made me love music enough to believe I’d not last on this earth this long without it. And I would never listen to Linda Ronstadt’s You Go to My Head and, Dionne Warwick’s Alfie the same way had I not met and lost this boy.

Fifteen years after I met Alfie, came Thomas. Now that I’m 24, I find it odd that I’m back in the same situation and am tortured by the same feeling. Here’s this guy again. We never talked; we didn’t have common friends; I never even knew his name. I just looked at him, often from afar. Never made a move to let him notice me. Never did because I know it’s futile to do so, even if deep inside I’m hoping to still have a chance of having him look at my direction and feel the same way as I do towards him. I was in love with him in my 3rd grade sense of the word, at least. But he’s gone, now. It’s time to start composing songs and writing poems about him. It’s time.

Thomas’ leaving left me with the what ifs that haunted me for years after I lost Alfie. I must have loved the pain it caused me so much to let this happen again.