To the Best Mom in the World

Coffee date with my only brother. It has become a staple activity, once a month, usually on the second week. I have never been close to my brother before, but as they say, absence makes the heart go fonder.

We have talked about everything before, but now, the Daniel Lem I knew since childhood became so simple, stronger, and more intellectual. Our monthly coffee date became something that I never imagined. We talked about family, something that has become such a touchy topic for me.

We never knew who our real parents are. We are from different birth mothers, but we only recognize one, our Mother, who had to go through tremendous hardships just to get us to where we are right now. In the course of our conversation, he told me something that I had never thought about, something that I don't have the courage to even say out loud. he talked about the possibility of us getting old and our parents going to somewhere more peaceful. I mean, it is a fact of life. People come and go. See, I can't even write the word, much more utter it. I haven't thought of going through life without my parents, my mom in particular. She has always been my strength, my beacon.

If people only knew how hard it is to live aside from your family, knowing that they are just a jeepney drive away. I chose to savor independence, and though it is really tough in the real world, I have to get away from my comfort zone - my family - and live on my own.

"I can't bear to think about Mama dying," he said.
"Then don't think about it," I replied.

I wanted to tell him that I am scared too, knowing that in a decade, or hopefully in 3 decades, my mom or dad would pass away to a better place. It made me sad just to know that that is a possibility.

It made me think of what I have now, of where I am, and it makes me want to be better in what I do. I pray that before that time comes, I could at least do something, or give something to the only woman I would ever love in my entire life.

I talked to her once, after a long while, after she left for Italy. I was glad to know that she was in her best health. I was actually happy that after 18 years in the land of gladiators and olive oil she finally toured Monaco, and has plans of going to Paris. I envy my Mom. I wish I could be her.

If there is one thing that I would remember until the day I die, it would be that one time when I held her hand and commented that she had rough hands, like me.

"These are beautiful hands," she said. "They are working hands."

I couldn't agree less, she had the most beautiful hands in the world. In those hands I was born and raised. Those hands made me who I am right now.

This is for all the moms in the world. You make the world a better place to live in. Without you nothing would be what they are.

I love you Ma, you are the sunshine of my life.

Happy Birthday.

Manhattan and Happiness

I am obsessed with Manhattan.

As any obsessed person would know, being obsessed means always thinking about it. Dreaming that you are in that place. Just knowing that in a couple of years you'll soon wear that dreamy pair of sandals you bought half price at a Shoe Sale walking the streets of Lower - or Upper Manhattan.

Maybe it's Sex and the City. Or it maybe the dream itself. I am amazed about how much I think of Manhattan. NYC. The Big Apple. I dream of being able to enter Wall Street and just be there, in the midst of all the hustle and bustle.

Oh, how I dream about Manhattan.

Manhattan, if you think about it, is a lot like Baguio, my home. It can get VERY cold sometimes. Or very warm in certain months. Manhattan is a place of "many hills", just like Baguio. And just like my hometown it has a lot of places to go to, restaurants to eat at.

Session Road, like the famed Golden Gate Bridge, has been a haven for those who do not have someone in their lives. And just like Carrie Bradshaw, I have nothing much to do except fret about being single, and write feelings for everyone to see.

Plans in my life ALWAYS involve Manhattan. Someday, I would also see those sailors, and maybe I could hook me up with someone. Just like Miranda. Or Samantha Jones.

Writing this entry makes me realize I am not obsessed with Manhattan itself. It's with the dream of someday, I would be just like the people in the series I grew to love. Too busy to care, too busy with life to even think about the bad things going on around them.

I glance into my Golden Gate Bridge and wonder how life would be after 15 years. Will I still be the same? I have changed a lot, I know, and with that a lot of people are affected. People I always think highly of, people that make me who I am.

Someday, when I am standing, looking at the real Golden Gate Bridge, I will remember this entry, and the people I wouldn't want to leave behind, but have to, for me to find real happiness.

Ah. Now I know. I am obsessed with finding real bliss.It is not Manhattan.Nor Sex and the City.

It's finding genuine happiness.

Pain

Pain. Everybody goes through them. Physically, every time someone experiences any illness, a common headache perhaps, we are assured that sooner or later it will go away. But emotionally - ah - it is fact that it will never go away that easily. In fact, it may never be a bright sunshiny day for some of us.

I have heard a song so many times before. In fact, I have memorized most of the lines myself. It has been one of my favorites, the first song I have ever saved in my MP3 player, and it is still there. I have tried my best not to hear the song, listen, yes, but hear? It pains me that somewhere, a long time ago, I sang the song in front of someone I have loved for the longest time. It was a song I have lovingly dedicated to the one person that made me think ok my future with. The song was full of hope, full of earnest patience. In the future, we will all have better days, it said. And in order to be in a better life, one should get through the night.

It was a busy night last night. I had a lot of work to do, things thought about. The player was silently playing in the corner of the office, to give comfort to those who would like to have a break in the middle of the shift. Then there is was, the song. My best pal, who sat next to me, told me about her conversation with the person I dedicated the song to.

"He said 'This is Chaz' song.'" She said.

I was surprised. How could one song make me want to cry, again, after a couple of days that I haven't thought about him? Was it because that song was heartfelt-fully sung in front of an eager crowd? Was is because in a way, he felt what I felt when I sang that song? Or was it because he knew that I am still hurt with the situation that we are both in. I wondered, aloud, to my best pal, about being able to get through the pain I have been going through.

Funny to think that I have gotten over it. I thought I was. But that song brought me back to my senses. I could never really get through this. If there are any closures to make, it would be with my feelings, my emotions.

I thought I already made amends with myself. But I was wrong.

Pain.

Everybody goes through them.

Physically, like breaking a bone, it would go away, with a strong 500 mg pain reliever pill and a short period of time. But emotionally, like having your heart broken, can take a long while to heal.

I am still hoping for better days.

I will make it through the night.

Going Straight

Once you've joined the bandwagon, there is no turning back.

That's what I have always believed in. Realizing I was gay in the 3rd gay, it does count that I have reasons why I'd like to believe that. However, because of a recent event that rocked my belief to the core, I tend to ask a question: Is it really that possible to join the "other side" when you have been on "this side" for the longest time?

It is one of the nightmares a straight woman would never dream of having- learning your "better" half turns out to be gay. I have asked a friend about that before.

"What if you learned your lover was gay?" I asked, curious about what the "no-so-opposite" sex thought.

"I'd die" she said. "I'd die then die again."

A close friend once told me a story about finding out her lover was gay. She told me her ex-lover did not admit he was. He just thought it was silly. She thought it was silly too. Until she found her ex in bed, with another man.

Maybe it's because I have cursed the label "hopeless romantic" already. Or maybe it is the fact that I don't think I would be happy living a lie. But I really don't think it would work. Call me pessimistic. I don't think a "straight-woman-gay-man" scenario would work.

Not unless both parties know ALL about the other person. And that would require a lot of courage, not to mention denial.

Do not get me wrong, I think in love, nothing is impossible. There are no barriers in loving someone, not even any if's or but's. Everything is fair in war and love.

That is where the real question lies. I am confused, can a real woman really love someone, knowing that the person she loves may love someone else, someone that has something she could never have? Can a gay man actually love a woman, with all his heart, without looking at the man at the next line, realizing that he has rock hard abs?

Okay, it is not a question on loving someone. It all boils down to one thing - being able to remain faithful no matter what temptation comes. Now that's something we really should think of.

To my friend, who have found real love in an unexpected situation - at least for me - I am happy for you. You have found love, something that I have been looking for for my entire life. In a way, I envy you, because someone has accepted you for who you are. I just wish that even if everything changes, you would remain the same person I have known for a while.

Congratulation, you have now gone straight.

The Case of the "Pancit" Date

One of the perks of working during graveyards shifts is being able to go on early morning dates. The bad thing about it is that if the person you have just met is really interested in you, it's either he is too young (and on the way to school), to old (can't sleep because of athritis), or is just to plain ugly (the "what-do-i-have-to-lose" guys). Yeah, I know, I sound really really conceited. But really, most of the guys I meet during earl mornings are (sorry) sore losers.

Being in a bad date is like being in a boat ride in Burnham. You know the water is murky, and it definitely smells like sewage (cause it is sewage), but you and your tourist friends still ride an overpriced boat just for the heck of it.

A bad date has three factors:
1. Me, and my hopeless quest for someone to truly love,
2. Him, and his awfully quiet or sometimes bad date demeanor, and
3. An overpriced restaurant or cafe where a bowl of overcooked pasta sells for at least half the price of the entire building.

Yes, we have been through bad dates. A night out with a date usually ends up with him drunk and you covered in puke. A stroll in the park with him in GOd-forbid tsinelas and you in a Choo. Ordering an expensive coffee at a cafe, not knowing that he does not have money and you have to pay for it.

But nothing beats a Pancit Date. This kind of date usually involves you, him, and a bowl of pancit. Yes, pancit. Pasta would be nice. Fetuccini Carbonara, or a bowl of piping hot Pasta Putanesca to warm your cold belly. But pancit?

It is not that I have anything against the typical Filipino merienda fare. It is just that if you would like to please someone, pancit is definitely NOT the food to place on the table.

Rei, a very good friend, was with me a couple of days ago. It was my restday and I wanted a change of scenery. So we talked. And having brought up the situation where he met a couple of gay guys who bought pancit for him to stay, I cant help but laugh. I mean, it really is not the food. I love pancit just as much as the people at the other table. It is just that a lot of people right now cover the fact that they are something they aren't! I mean, I wear makeup and huge earrings just as an expression, but these guys wear men's clothes, but has an inch-thick application of foundation on their faces. Talk aboout confused.

I know, I really don't make sense right now. Maybe it's because I am also confused. I mean, I love pancit and I am still looking for the right man.

Maybe with the right man, a plate of pancit wouldn't be bad, after all.

I Miss Me

In the dark night, I am amazed to see a light
At the hidden corner of the room.

A hidden corner in a dim room where
the only thing I see is me.

The light flickered, like a burning candle
ready to give up, the breeze forcing it to die.

I covered the flame with my hand,
I was amazed.

Twas the first time I saw my hands.
My own hands.

And I never let it go until
the wax it lived on boiled up to smoke.

My eyes tried to find the light.
Nothing was left.

So there I was.
In the middle of the dark room.
In the middle of hurt, and pain.
I was back to the place I have known so well.
The room of loneliness and sadness.

Here,in the quiet, I miss you.
But most of all...


I miss the light.


I miss me.

Alexandria

Is it over? Am I alone again?
Has the sun finally set?
Is my world in the dark again?
I woke up in the glittering sun,
There was too much light, I squinted.
And when I got used to the warmth,
to the shining, shimmering sunlight,
It ended.
Just like that.
Like a candle finally giving in to the breeze.


I sit in the corner of my dark room,
It was flooded with light before.
I listen to the murmurs from the distance,
asking me why I finally succumbed to darkness.

"I finished the book," I said,
a tear flowing from my eye.
"I finished the book," I said again,
not knowing why.

My Alexandria's full of scrolls,
bound books that where never meant to be there.
And there, before the light flickered to death,
I put the book I finished
I never got to the end.
I just knew what would happen.


So I closed the heavy book I held in my hands
and placed it with the others I have read.

In the dark corner I drifted to sleep.
In the dark corner of my Alexandria I wept.


Is it over? Am I alone again?
In the dark corner of my Alexandria
I wait for the sun to shine again.

The Long, Lonely Road to Him

So there I was, in the midst of 3rd class hotels and videoke joints frequented by old, drunk farts, inside a chessy drag show bar. A nice, old but goodlooking drag queen starting lipsynching to a song I haven't heard for a while. It was a poem I was trying to tell him. I am loving again, and I wanted him to know that he was who I wanted to love, forever.

It was the second night. Everybody came to the office on Sunday, when it all begun. The news was welcomed with mixed emotions. Many dreaded that day. I looked forward to it. The fact that our job was in jeopardy did not compare to the excitement I felt. This was what I was waiting for. Rest, at last. The past few weeks after the promotion was tiring, I needed space.

When our Manager OIC told us that we needed to take leaves - forced leaves - I looked at my dear friend, Di Anne, and told her that this was it, that this was what we were looking for. We immediately planned for a much-deserved relaxation "thingie", and we decided to take a visit to Asin, a popular Hot Spring Resort center around 20 minutes away from the heart of Baguio City.

We rode a jeep to Asin, just the two of us, and enjoyed a whole day of just swimming and basking in the sun while submerged in warm, inviting jacuzzis. It was heaven. Pure bliss.

It was day 1, and we planned that by day 4 we would be sitting on a sidewalk at Session Road begging for food. The plan turned around. At 12:00 am, we found ourselves sitting on Ben's car, to Manila, after he had invited us to come with him to the Big City.

Arriving at Makati at around 5 a.m., we had coffee at the only Starbuck's which had a room for smokers, at Legaspi. That was after a warm, sweaty walk looking for an open Starbucks around the Harbour, Baywalk, and Malate.

Coffee finally ended and we found ourselves at a hotel along Makati Avenue. We slept for a couple of hours and had late dinner at Hai, a restaurant near Highstreet, near the Fort. It was Chinese food, and we loved it. We met new friends, and I introduced her to MamaBelz, and Zenos, Ben's friends way back from Elementary and College, part of Casa Guapa.

After a walk at Highstreet, Nath called us, telling us that we had to go back to Baguio, because operations will start the next day. So after that call we decided to ride MamaBel'z car to Cubao and visit Palawan. We danced the night away, after the drag queens showed us what they got. It was the end of the 2nd day.

Di Anne's departure was dramatic, to say the least. She was crying, thanking me and Ben for a wonderful time. It was her first "wala lang" visit to Manila, and I was glad to be part of it.

That night, before I went to bed, I asked a question so innocent, I thought the answer was the only way to my salvation. It was the end of everything. It was the end of my life.

He answered my question with honesty, something I have always expected in our friendship. what I didn't expect was the intensity of pain I was going to feel.

I slept crying, not knowing what to do. I wanted to go back to my heaven, to Baguio, where everything seems to be alright. But I fought that feeling.

When I woke up, I decided to stay, even for just a few hours. I wanted to be with him, to savor the moment that we were alone, together.

That day became the longest and loneliest day I have ever had, like the car drive from Kanlaon to the Bus Station at Pasay. I wanted to jump out of the car, to wave for a cab and get on the earliest bus.

It was 6:00 pm of day 3 when I got on the bus back to Baguio. There, he stood, with the person he loves, my bestfriend. Inside the bus was me, the man that loved him even if it hurt me like hell.

I slept all the way to Baguio. Except for the ocassional cigarette breaks on bus stops, I remained on my seat, trying to fight the tears that wanted to come out.

Baguio City was the same. Cold, foggy, like I left it a couple of days ago. And when I saw the familiar roads and street lights, I sighed. I was back home - back to where I belong.

I rode a cab home and immediately laid down on my own bed, in my leased apartment. I closed my eyes and remained calm. It was the end of a very long struggle.

It was the end of the long, lonely road to him.

Voyeur

I'd like to now what they are thinking.

I'd like to know who they are.

In the sentences they write,

the songs they sing.

He wrote about saying goodbye, about thinking

someone was his forever love.

He was wrong.

I was wrong.

I'd like to know who this man is,

The man who loved.

The man who got hurt.

The man who bled.

The man with the likeness of Adam,

the heart of Eve.

The Eve that stood in the corner

of love and hate.

I watched him as he slowly died.

I watched him and thanked God it wasn't me.

It was not me who died that night.

That night it rained.

Yes, everytime someone we knew was sad,

it rained.

It rained that night, that same night

the man with Eve's heart and me.

We lost something that night.

Our dignity.

Our hopes.

Shattered into a million little pieces.

I'd like to know what you are thinking.

I'd like to know who you are.

In the sentences you write,

the songs you sing.

To the man with Adam's likeness,

and the heart of Eve.

I envy you.

At least you have said your last goodbye.

A Cup of Coffee

Almost all the blogs I have read - well, most of the blogs made by gay men anyway - have the word "coffee" in it somewhere.

Coffee addicts, caffeine freaks, coffee beans, coffee cakes, coffee conversations.

Somehow, I relate to them. What does coffee have anyway?

The bitter black liquid has become a staple to every gay man above 18. Now it's this bean concoction, and unless its piping hot and $3.00 for a tall cup, it does not count. Maybe it's the high. Or the wakefulness - that sudden burst of energy that will eventually dwindle to nothing. Or the company.

Hey, I enjoy coffee even if I am alone. With a cancer stick on one hand and a mugful of fresh, brewed coffee on the other. Somehow, there's comfort in coffee. Like a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon, or a cozy night on a fuzzy carpet by a fireplace. The warmth fills a cold emptiness in anyone's existence, a wonderful bliss out of a heavy burden and a dramatic life.

In a way, that cup of coffee we always hold in our hands become a connection to friendship, a link to love sought.

I have a fantasy. About meeting Mr. Right. I am alone, in a coffee shop, nursing my Tall Caramel Macchiato, when someone comes over and asks me if the seat is taken. I will tell the guy it isn't, then instead of taking the chair to another table, he would sit down, and we will have a conversation so long that the coffee shop crew actually asks us to go because they have to close up. After that long, meaningful conversation over coffee, he would actually ask me out. He will get my phone number then we will have dinner.

Then we will have kids.

Then we will buy a house in the suburbs and live happily ever after.

IT'S A FANTASY, dang it.



So there. A fantasy had boiled from a cup of coffee.

A cup of coffee boiled from a handful of beans from the Amazon or somewhere.

A cup of coffee that brought friends together and made iron-clad relationships.

A cup of coffee that, for the next half hour, becomes my lover.

A cup of coffee that will be my constant companion no matter who leaves...


... or whoever stays.