It's such a stressful day for me. I'm fantasizing about that scene from the movie, The Hand That Rocks the Cradle: Rebecca De Mornay's character quietly goes to a public bathroom with a small shovel and, after gently closing the door, starts wildly hitting everything with the shovel.
A peek into the unimaginably wild beast beneath a calm skin.
And I thought everything was going along well.
I saw an old friend last night. Old, as in, we last saw each other in 1997. (She once promised she would invite me--if she ever gets married--to her small beach wedding.)
It was a small party in a small (but fairly new) Makati bar. I didn't think I would bump into her. But she was there. All smiles. We said our hello's and how-are-you's and performed our obligatory hug with matching beso. I didn't notice at first that she was with someone.
Half an hour later, she was across the room, posing for a photograph. And she was with someone. They held each other, just for a second, and it was all it needed for my world to turn upside down.
"Are they together?" my date asked me.
Isn't it freaking obvious?! "I'm not sure," I replied. "I think so. It seems like it. She hasn't said anything to me."
My old friend and her girlfriend.
How come she never told me? When did this start? My life started flashing before my eyes.
She was my secret love. That girl across the room. There was a time when I loved her, when love was able to make me vulnerable.
"It's weird," she said over the phone, a lifetime ago.
I didn't reply. I didn't know what to say. She continued, "You're a good friend, but I don't look at you that way. You're like a sister to me."
It was a hot summer afternoon. I had dropped off flowers and a do-or-die card at her house in Las Piñas. All the way across town. I was in Makati.
What could I say to that?
"Okay," I muttered. "I'm...I didn't..."
She added, "And I'm not into girls. I'm not gay."
End of flashback. The roar of the bar crowd comes back.
I wanted to call her a liar, to blame her for all the tear-soaked journal entries and the cuts on my arm, the pillows filled with muffled screams. For the pain of unrequited love.
I went to the bar--the open bar, thank God. "White Russian, please."
I was thirsty. "Another one please."
I found a bar stool and started a conversation in my head.
"I need a good fuck tonight."
"Oh, yes, you do."
"What's the worst quotable quote about love ever, in the history of freaking womankind?"
"What?"
"It's better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all."
Another White Russian gone.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Monday, February 14, 2005
Weekends are Not Restful for Me Anymore
I've been feeling weird this whole day. Under the weather, since last night.
The days seems to pass in and out while totally ignoring me. No hi, no hello. It's as if I'm sitting in the kitchen, staring at my now-cold tea, and time just barges in and grabs a can of Coke and leaves.
Hoy. Look at me. Or do I shuffle to the bathroom in my bathrobe and slippers, and take a hot shower? Or nevermind, and I'll just sleep again, under the sheets, hiding from the glaring sun.
In here, out of sight, I'd like to type or write and get lost in this world. I'd imagine a tree and a lake and no people. A giant, rocky mountain, casting a foreboding shadow. And an endless line of chocolate cakes. I will dip into the pond of nonsense.
What do I need?
The sun hangs like a 200-watt light bulb, too bright to stare at, washing away the landscape. In the horizon, I see Manila Bay, like gold, like glass, like it's on fire. Everything else is grey. The buildings, the sky, the sound.
I wish I could just stare at this, at nothing, until the sun disappears, and I have an excuse to leave the office, and disappear into the city.
The days seems to pass in and out while totally ignoring me. No hi, no hello. It's as if I'm sitting in the kitchen, staring at my now-cold tea, and time just barges in and grabs a can of Coke and leaves.
Hoy. Look at me. Or do I shuffle to the bathroom in my bathrobe and slippers, and take a hot shower? Or nevermind, and I'll just sleep again, under the sheets, hiding from the glaring sun.
In here, out of sight, I'd like to type or write and get lost in this world. I'd imagine a tree and a lake and no people. A giant, rocky mountain, casting a foreboding shadow. And an endless line of chocolate cakes. I will dip into the pond of nonsense.
What do I need?
The sun hangs like a 200-watt light bulb, too bright to stare at, washing away the landscape. In the horizon, I see Manila Bay, like gold, like glass, like it's on fire. Everything else is grey. The buildings, the sky, the sound.
I wish I could just stare at this, at nothing, until the sun disappears, and I have an excuse to leave the office, and disappear into the city.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
All I Have to Do is Wait for the Next Leaf to Fall
That green leaf over there, pretending to be growing. That green leaf over there, gathering enough guts to let go and jump off the branch. Leaves are lucky, it reminds itself, because they don't really fall down. Too light, too soft, they are caught by the wind, no matter how gentle or how still. A leaf will never fall straight down. Sideways, it will go, or even travel across the street. In a windy storm, it can even fly across town.
I wish I can watch that leaf fall. Any leaf, for that matter.
I wish I can watch that leaf fall. Any leaf, for that matter.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
"Smart, emotive blog"
Said Lauren Cerand of Cupcake Reading Series, one of my favorite literary blogs. Of course, she also labeled her October 28, 2004 entry as "Cheap Literary Thrills" and reposted an excerpt from my October 12, 2004 post. Please read it, I can't believe it myself.
This Google discovery came right in time.
I just came from a long holiday from Tagaytay, spending Christmas and New Year's away from everything and everyone. Despite all that, despite all the rest, I feel I came back to Makati all empty. I was supposed to recharge, but my internal Motolite needs changing.
For fun, for self-deprecation, self-immolation, let's dissect Lauren's remark.
Smart: I can put together coherent sentences, even entire paragraphs, with very few misspellings. Perhaps decent typist, with amateur editing skills. I have a wide enough vocabulary and attempts at some irony, along with other simple literary tricks. I claim to be bisexual, very cosmopolitan, contemporary. I also claim to be literary and design-sensitive.
Emotive: Not only good in the head, but also in the heart. As opposed to "emotional", which is a bad word that alludes to "hysterical"--a very bad word. Women can't call other women hysterical. Hysteria is a phallocentric concept, not for us babes. Therefore, "emotive"--a way to hint that I like to talk a lot about my feelings, that like to complain and be obtuse and difficult, that I curse, that I can let it all hang out. That I can ramble on and on without making sense--while being "smart".
I don't want to diss you, dear Lauren.
I want to put your remark in context. I am thrilled by your three small words and proudly claim it. It affirms my own ideal for this endeavor. A cheap thrill, as you would say.
At the end of it all, I left with myself, on the other side of the world, in the third world. Our tsunamis are nothing compared to your recent mudslides. We are a blip in your radar. The 12 people that died in California is bigger news than the hundreds of thousands that are dead and missing in our part of the world.
I am Makati, I am the Philippines, I am ravaged Asia.
I am at that time of the night where I have nothing to look forward to, nothing to wake up for. The days are all the same. This new year is the same as last.
At the end of it all, I left with myself and whatever energy is left for me to write in this goddam blog.
Pause with me.
Like this.
Sigh.
And nod.
I feel lost, as lost as when I started this blog months ago. But I say this with no sentimentality or nostalgia, with no emotion. This is a practical matter for me. What do I do with my time? How do I build my energy?
Sex can only go so far. And I don't want any commitment or any complicated relationship. I just want my space, my paper, and my pencil. A computer and Internet access, my occasional lover, a cat who feeds himself. I want a view of the beach. No TV. No radio. No watches or clocks. I want no world, except for mine. I am not a social worker, I am not selfless, I am not who you think I am.
I am not smart or emotive. I am angry and tired and frustrated, and so is this blog. I am seething. I am a fault line, ready to shift. God help me.
This Google discovery came right in time.
I just came from a long holiday from Tagaytay, spending Christmas and New Year's away from everything and everyone. Despite all that, despite all the rest, I feel I came back to Makati all empty. I was supposed to recharge, but my internal Motolite needs changing.
For fun, for self-deprecation, self-immolation, let's dissect Lauren's remark.
Smart: I can put together coherent sentences, even entire paragraphs, with very few misspellings. Perhaps decent typist, with amateur editing skills. I have a wide enough vocabulary and attempts at some irony, along with other simple literary tricks. I claim to be bisexual, very cosmopolitan, contemporary. I also claim to be literary and design-sensitive.
Emotive: Not only good in the head, but also in the heart. As opposed to "emotional", which is a bad word that alludes to "hysterical"--a very bad word. Women can't call other women hysterical. Hysteria is a phallocentric concept, not for us babes. Therefore, "emotive"--a way to hint that I like to talk a lot about my feelings, that like to complain and be obtuse and difficult, that I curse, that I can let it all hang out. That I can ramble on and on without making sense--while being "smart".
I don't want to diss you, dear Lauren.
I want to put your remark in context. I am thrilled by your three small words and proudly claim it. It affirms my own ideal for this endeavor. A cheap thrill, as you would say.
At the end of it all, I left with myself, on the other side of the world, in the third world. Our tsunamis are nothing compared to your recent mudslides. We are a blip in your radar. The 12 people that died in California is bigger news than the hundreds of thousands that are dead and missing in our part of the world.
I am Makati, I am the Philippines, I am ravaged Asia.
I am at that time of the night where I have nothing to look forward to, nothing to wake up for. The days are all the same. This new year is the same as last.
At the end of it all, I left with myself and whatever energy is left for me to write in this goddam blog.
Pause with me.
Like this.
Sigh.
And nod.
I feel lost, as lost as when I started this blog months ago. But I say this with no sentimentality or nostalgia, with no emotion. This is a practical matter for me. What do I do with my time? How do I build my energy?
Sex can only go so far. And I don't want any commitment or any complicated relationship. I just want my space, my paper, and my pencil. A computer and Internet access, my occasional lover, a cat who feeds himself. I want a view of the beach. No TV. No radio. No watches or clocks. I want no world, except for mine. I am not a social worker, I am not selfless, I am not who you think I am.
I am not smart or emotive. I am angry and tired and frustrated, and so is this blog. I am seething. I am a fault line, ready to shift. God help me.
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Sex and City and Me
I was never a loyal fan of Sex and the City. I liked it when it came out and I never missed an episode. After the first few seasons, it started getting old. Sex, sex, sex. I only began watching it again on its last season.
During my disenchantment, friends would ask if I saw the latest episode. No, I wasn't able to. Then they'd tell me about it.
I liked the clothes, the shoes, the restaurants they went to. And New York City.
It was always my dream to end up in New York City. During college, I had this dream of studying in New York, maybe painting in the School for Visual Arts, or Journalism in Columbia, or Film in NYU. I did send in my applications, but was rejected in all of them. Sayang. I was planning to shave my head, the moment I stepped onto the streets of Manhattan.
Did you know that New York City is one of the few places where it is easy to shoot a movie? They actually set up a city agency that supports filmmakers who want to shoot scenes on the streets of New York.
I just caught the HBO special on the ending of Sex in the City, hyping up the last two episodes which will be shown on Tuesday, 8:00 PM.
One thing is true: they have been around for a while. Six years. Late nineties. That was a good time for me as well. I wasn't thirty then, and nowhere near it. I was young, with a Black Russian in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I had great friends, great time, and I was a complete mess inside.
Things were just starting then, it seemed. Like the Internet, which was a baby compared to what it is now.
And Sex in the City was just a show about women who talked about sex a lot. It was interesting and exciting, until the whining and the men began to repeat themselves. It was only later, in the last two seasons, when things began to end, that it became interesting again.
Forever is a fantasy. Endings, which can lead to beginnings, is the reality.
I am reminded again of this tonight.
As the old scenes from the TV show flashed, as the cast and crew gave their praises and goodbyes, it is only after so many years that the show has gathered its significance.
If it ended in a year or two, it would have meant absolutely nothing. That it lasted longer that it should have, in TV time, allowed it to transcend its origins. They believed, the actors, the writers, the crew, they are all convinced that they were part of something big.
And I envy them for that.
How do I become part of something big? Did they know this when they started? Perhaps not. It is only after, I remind myself.
Perhaps, years from now, I will realize that I was never part of anything outside of myself. Years and year from now. Only then.
Happy Christmas.
During my disenchantment, friends would ask if I saw the latest episode. No, I wasn't able to. Then they'd tell me about it.
I liked the clothes, the shoes, the restaurants they went to. And New York City.
It was always my dream to end up in New York City. During college, I had this dream of studying in New York, maybe painting in the School for Visual Arts, or Journalism in Columbia, or Film in NYU. I did send in my applications, but was rejected in all of them. Sayang. I was planning to shave my head, the moment I stepped onto the streets of Manhattan.
Did you know that New York City is one of the few places where it is easy to shoot a movie? They actually set up a city agency that supports filmmakers who want to shoot scenes on the streets of New York.
I just caught the HBO special on the ending of Sex in the City, hyping up the last two episodes which will be shown on Tuesday, 8:00 PM.
One thing is true: they have been around for a while. Six years. Late nineties. That was a good time for me as well. I wasn't thirty then, and nowhere near it. I was young, with a Black Russian in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I had great friends, great time, and I was a complete mess inside.
Things were just starting then, it seemed. Like the Internet, which was a baby compared to what it is now.
And Sex in the City was just a show about women who talked about sex a lot. It was interesting and exciting, until the whining and the men began to repeat themselves. It was only later, in the last two seasons, when things began to end, that it became interesting again.
Forever is a fantasy. Endings, which can lead to beginnings, is the reality.
I am reminded again of this tonight.
As the old scenes from the TV show flashed, as the cast and crew gave their praises and goodbyes, it is only after so many years that the show has gathered its significance.
If it ended in a year or two, it would have meant absolutely nothing. That it lasted longer that it should have, in TV time, allowed it to transcend its origins. They believed, the actors, the writers, the crew, they are all convinced that they were part of something big.
And I envy them for that.
How do I become part of something big? Did they know this when they started? Perhaps not. It is only after, I remind myself.
Perhaps, years from now, I will realize that I was never part of anything outside of myself. Years and year from now. Only then.
Happy Christmas.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Remember What We Were Supposed To Be
I fought with my best friend tonight.
Should I even write about this? A few paragraphs is better than finishing off a pack of Marlboro Lights. We were in this bar in Greenbelt and she started talking about this guy she's dating. That was fine, but the guy really rubs me the wrong way. I couldn't really sympathize with her giddiness.
If you read this--hey--then I'm sorry. God, this is so showbiz.
To make a long story short and bearable, we stopped talking, finished our smokes and drinks and said goodbye to each other. She had a car, and I had a taxi cab waiting for me.
I didn't want to go home yet so I told the driver to bring me to Rockwell. I went to a bar there and downed a White Russian and proceeded to Fully Booked. I had to take my mind off things. Afterwards I went out of the mall and walked to Starbucks.
My phone buzzed in my handbag. A text message:
M sori
It was so easy to reply then, but part of me didn't want to. There was so much I wanted to say and it won't fit in a text message or make sense through a phone call. I had to be face to face with her, my best friend, with my facial expression and my hand gestures and arm-waving.
And it's not just about the guy. It's not about the guy at all.
It's just that I want so much more from our friendship, like the way we used dream about when we were in high school. All those promises and dreams of being friends forever. I've seen it happen. One by one, our barkada disappeared behind a wall, getting married, getting pregnant, becoming super moms, with house loans and car payments and children's parties and family trips to Splash Island.
We used to dream about living in a big house somewhere, remember? An old house with a friendly ghost and a dozen rooms. And we would take in stray cats and stray dogs and friends who have nowhere else to stay. We would have our own business: a sari-sari store and cafe and bookstore downstairs, from a converted garage; our own fashion line, including accessories and shoes; art classes every weekend, for kids; a mushroom farm beneath our house. And more.
And you were supposed to be a photographer, remember? And not an account manager?
And our husbands would live with us and love us and our kids would grown up together in the same house. And we would be buried in our own backyard, beneath a big mango tree. As angels, we will watch our kids grow up, watch them make the same mistakes we did. Watch them get hurt and cry and laugh and be amazed at the world.
Remember all that?
Should I even write about this? A few paragraphs is better than finishing off a pack of Marlboro Lights. We were in this bar in Greenbelt and she started talking about this guy she's dating. That was fine, but the guy really rubs me the wrong way. I couldn't really sympathize with her giddiness.
If you read this--hey--then I'm sorry. God, this is so showbiz.
To make a long story short and bearable, we stopped talking, finished our smokes and drinks and said goodbye to each other. She had a car, and I had a taxi cab waiting for me.
I didn't want to go home yet so I told the driver to bring me to Rockwell. I went to a bar there and downed a White Russian and proceeded to Fully Booked. I had to take my mind off things. Afterwards I went out of the mall and walked to Starbucks.
My phone buzzed in my handbag. A text message:
M sori
It was so easy to reply then, but part of me didn't want to. There was so much I wanted to say and it won't fit in a text message or make sense through a phone call. I had to be face to face with her, my best friend, with my facial expression and my hand gestures and arm-waving.
And it's not just about the guy. It's not about the guy at all.
It's just that I want so much more from our friendship, like the way we used dream about when we were in high school. All those promises and dreams of being friends forever. I've seen it happen. One by one, our barkada disappeared behind a wall, getting married, getting pregnant, becoming super moms, with house loans and car payments and children's parties and family trips to Splash Island.
We used to dream about living in a big house somewhere, remember? An old house with a friendly ghost and a dozen rooms. And we would take in stray cats and stray dogs and friends who have nowhere else to stay. We would have our own business: a sari-sari store and cafe and bookstore downstairs, from a converted garage; our own fashion line, including accessories and shoes; art classes every weekend, for kids; a mushroom farm beneath our house. And more.
And you were supposed to be a photographer, remember? And not an account manager?
And our husbands would live with us and love us and our kids would grown up together in the same house. And we would be buried in our own backyard, beneath a big mango tree. As angels, we will watch our kids grow up, watch them make the same mistakes we did. Watch them get hurt and cry and laugh and be amazed at the world.
Remember all that?
Monday, December 06, 2004
Sunday Evening Walk with Slight Misadventure
After the last mass at Greenbelt, I took a walk.
I had a small knapsack with me, swinging on my left shoulder. It was heavier than usual, because I bought some books at Powerbooks and I had the idea of bringing a flask of home-brewed coffee.
The priest discussed marriage for some reason. I listen to sermons indirectly, as if through a reflection. I zone out and focus on the general direction of the altar, and I let my mind wander. I justify this as divinely inspired daydreaming. I am in a holy place, after all, in a holy ceremony.
I don't like the idea of marriage anymore.
When I was young, I imagined I would be married with kids by the time I was 24, because it had seemed to be a very old age to be. Then by the time college came, marriage just seemed so crazy. There so much to do. I wanted a career. I wanted to have sex with boys. And girls. I wanted to travel. I wanted to shave my head. I wanted to screw up badly and redeem myself. I couldn't imagine taking care of anyone else.
My best friend in college had a solution: get married in Las Vegas and get divorced right after, just to get it over with.
This idea was recently made real by Britney Spears, but years ago, it was also (apparently) done by the parents in Family Ties. One episode showed how the kids discovered that the parent were previously married. It turns out that they were previously married to each other. They got married early, got divorced, then found each other again.
Well, our idea was to get married and get it over with, so that I can just say to everyone (Dad, Mom, everyone) that I tried it and it didn't work.
Another great way to get married then get widowed early. That is more tragic and would draw sympathy, unlike the reaction for a Las Vegas divorce. But wishing to be widowed was risky business.
I thought about these things during mass, all the way up to the end of mass, and up until my evening walk. When I stopped and looked around, I was by the Filipinas Heritage Library. How did I get here?
Oh, well, where do I go next? What's open on a Sunday night? Maybe Jupiter. How about Rockwell?
The evening was warm and clear. No chance of rain. And it was nice to have trees above me. I always wished that Makati would have a huge park, a real one, not the fake parks it has now. Parks with big open fields where I can lie down during cloudy days and listen to my iPod. Where I can play Frisbee with my gang.
When I reached the corner of Paseo and Buendia, I bumped (crashed) into someone.
Sorry! I said, holding my chest. Ow.
He was running. It was a guy I assumed. Or a big girl.
Tangna. I cursed. No one saw it. On the sidewalk, I noticed a small book. It looked like a Bible. I picked it up. It felt like one.
The guy must have dropped it.
I went and tried to follow the mystery man to return the book. He turned the corner into Dela Costa. When I got there, he was gone. Maybe he went to Ministop, so off I went. Not there. I peeked into Figaro. Nope. Oh, well.
I ordered some coffee jelly--hold the ice cream--and sat down. Hmm, I need a smoke, but no cigs.
I picked up and opened the book. It was in French. Something about Camus. Not a Bible after all. There was something scribbled on the inside of the front cover:
Et quand vous trouvez ceci, vous commencerez à vous trouver.
Back home, I translated it, and realized that I forgot to drink the coffee in the flask in my bag.
I had a small knapsack with me, swinging on my left shoulder. It was heavier than usual, because I bought some books at Powerbooks and I had the idea of bringing a flask of home-brewed coffee.
The priest discussed marriage for some reason. I listen to sermons indirectly, as if through a reflection. I zone out and focus on the general direction of the altar, and I let my mind wander. I justify this as divinely inspired daydreaming. I am in a holy place, after all, in a holy ceremony.
I don't like the idea of marriage anymore.
When I was young, I imagined I would be married with kids by the time I was 24, because it had seemed to be a very old age to be. Then by the time college came, marriage just seemed so crazy. There so much to do. I wanted a career. I wanted to have sex with boys. And girls. I wanted to travel. I wanted to shave my head. I wanted to screw up badly and redeem myself. I couldn't imagine taking care of anyone else.
My best friend in college had a solution: get married in Las Vegas and get divorced right after, just to get it over with.
This idea was recently made real by Britney Spears, but years ago, it was also (apparently) done by the parents in Family Ties. One episode showed how the kids discovered that the parent were previously married. It turns out that they were previously married to each other. They got married early, got divorced, then found each other again.
Well, our idea was to get married and get it over with, so that I can just say to everyone (Dad, Mom, everyone) that I tried it and it didn't work.
Another great way to get married then get widowed early. That is more tragic and would draw sympathy, unlike the reaction for a Las Vegas divorce. But wishing to be widowed was risky business.
I thought about these things during mass, all the way up to the end of mass, and up until my evening walk. When I stopped and looked around, I was by the Filipinas Heritage Library. How did I get here?
Oh, well, where do I go next? What's open on a Sunday night? Maybe Jupiter. How about Rockwell?
The evening was warm and clear. No chance of rain. And it was nice to have trees above me. I always wished that Makati would have a huge park, a real one, not the fake parks it has now. Parks with big open fields where I can lie down during cloudy days and listen to my iPod. Where I can play Frisbee with my gang.
When I reached the corner of Paseo and Buendia, I bumped (crashed) into someone.
Sorry! I said, holding my chest. Ow.
He was running. It was a guy I assumed. Or a big girl.
Tangna. I cursed. No one saw it. On the sidewalk, I noticed a small book. It looked like a Bible. I picked it up. It felt like one.
The guy must have dropped it.
I went and tried to follow the mystery man to return the book. He turned the corner into Dela Costa. When I got there, he was gone. Maybe he went to Ministop, so off I went. Not there. I peeked into Figaro. Nope. Oh, well.
I ordered some coffee jelly--hold the ice cream--and sat down. Hmm, I need a smoke, but no cigs.
I picked up and opened the book. It was in French. Something about Camus. Not a Bible after all. There was something scribbled on the inside of the front cover:
Et quand vous trouvez ceci, vous commencerez à vous trouver.
Back home, I translated it, and realized that I forgot to drink the coffee in the flask in my bag.
Monday, November 29, 2004
My Tank Top Girl
There was this girl with long, wavy hair. Her face was kind and she wore a stunning, tight tank top, slightly see-through, revealing a dark bra. She was beautiful.
She had a booth at the Ateneo bazaar yesterday, selling shirts and handbags.
I couldn't resist seeing her up close, so I took a look at the stuff she was selling. I took my time, asking questions slowly, like dunking a tea bag into my cupful of hot water one lazy afternoon. Do you make these? Pause. Look at a bag. Do you have any other designs? Pause. Pretend to be mulling over something. How much if I buy five bags? Pause. Change topic. Do you have a store? Pause. Then I slip a personal question. Are you an Atenean? Pause. Do you have a mirror? I want to see how this bag looks. Pause. Can I see that bag down there, by the chair?
She turned around, looking for where I was pointing.
Her hair moved slowly, swinging like a mist of rain. Her body flexed and her shirt shifted, revealing the skin above the waist of her jeans.
You look familiar, she said to me, handing me the bag.
I know, I exclaimed. You remind me of a friend. You could be her sister.
At that moment, we were officially acquaintances. Her cell phone rang and she answered it. Excuse me, she said, turning her eyes away. I took her in, head to toe. Perfect. I wonder how it feels to be with her.
There you are!--a voice from behind me.
It was my date for the day. I was trying to shake him off, because I wanted to look around. So many pretty girls here.
I'm not yet done, I said in the girliest voice I can make. I gave him a peck and squeezed his hand. Can you please go around for a few more minutes while I shop?
He agreed and wandered off. I'm so mean. Poor boy. I needed a ride to Ateneo from Makati, and back, of course. I may have to kiss him tonight, maybe even wrestle a bit. Nothing more. He's a nice boy, but no tingles, you see.
Unlike now.
Sorry about that, she said. Oh, no problem, I said. Is your sister P---?
Yes, she is, she said. Her eyes lighted up, confirming a connection.
But usually, that's as far as it goes. We may become good friends, trading kwentos about boyfriends and dates and clothes and families and magazine articles. It's hard to find women who are looking for women.
I don't like hanging out in dyke clubs, because they're all so aggressive and smelly, with all that cigarette smoke and beer. I prefer bi groups. At least they're kinda normal.
This girl in front of me feels like a girl. I feel like a girl. Women are so lovely. This is what straight women will never understand. It is like returning to that mirror stage in our life, where the world is part and parcel of yourself. Being a bi, a lesbian, allows me to indulge that. As I touch a woman's body, it's as if I'm touching myself. And it all is like that.
Say hi to her for me, I said, nearing my closing statements. Then I took a dare--
Um, I'm going to look for something to eat. Do you want to join me?
For a moment, I saw that look in her eyes. That awkwardness of being surprised, hiya, and confusion. Then it changed quickly.
She turned to her partner--I'll just take a break, ok? Her partner nodded and smiled.
Ok, let's go, she said. Let's get a drink first.
Yes, yes, yes, I said inside. In my head, I imagined my date getting slightly pissed at having to look for me. Happily, my new friend and I joined the milling bazaar crowd. Damn the world--I smiled.
She had a booth at the Ateneo bazaar yesterday, selling shirts and handbags.
I couldn't resist seeing her up close, so I took a look at the stuff she was selling. I took my time, asking questions slowly, like dunking a tea bag into my cupful of hot water one lazy afternoon. Do you make these? Pause. Look at a bag. Do you have any other designs? Pause. Pretend to be mulling over something. How much if I buy five bags? Pause. Change topic. Do you have a store? Pause. Then I slip a personal question. Are you an Atenean? Pause. Do you have a mirror? I want to see how this bag looks. Pause. Can I see that bag down there, by the chair?
She turned around, looking for where I was pointing.
Her hair moved slowly, swinging like a mist of rain. Her body flexed and her shirt shifted, revealing the skin above the waist of her jeans.
You look familiar, she said to me, handing me the bag.
I know, I exclaimed. You remind me of a friend. You could be her sister.
At that moment, we were officially acquaintances. Her cell phone rang and she answered it. Excuse me, she said, turning her eyes away. I took her in, head to toe. Perfect. I wonder how it feels to be with her.
There you are!--a voice from behind me.
It was my date for the day. I was trying to shake him off, because I wanted to look around. So many pretty girls here.
I'm not yet done, I said in the girliest voice I can make. I gave him a peck and squeezed his hand. Can you please go around for a few more minutes while I shop?
He agreed and wandered off. I'm so mean. Poor boy. I needed a ride to Ateneo from Makati, and back, of course. I may have to kiss him tonight, maybe even wrestle a bit. Nothing more. He's a nice boy, but no tingles, you see.
Unlike now.
Sorry about that, she said. Oh, no problem, I said. Is your sister P---?
Yes, she is, she said. Her eyes lighted up, confirming a connection.
But usually, that's as far as it goes. We may become good friends, trading kwentos about boyfriends and dates and clothes and families and magazine articles. It's hard to find women who are looking for women.
I don't like hanging out in dyke clubs, because they're all so aggressive and smelly, with all that cigarette smoke and beer. I prefer bi groups. At least they're kinda normal.
This girl in front of me feels like a girl. I feel like a girl. Women are so lovely. This is what straight women will never understand. It is like returning to that mirror stage in our life, where the world is part and parcel of yourself. Being a bi, a lesbian, allows me to indulge that. As I touch a woman's body, it's as if I'm touching myself. And it all is like that.
Say hi to her for me, I said, nearing my closing statements. Then I took a dare--
Um, I'm going to look for something to eat. Do you want to join me?
For a moment, I saw that look in her eyes. That awkwardness of being surprised, hiya, and confusion. Then it changed quickly.
She turned to her partner--I'll just take a break, ok? Her partner nodded and smiled.
Ok, let's go, she said. Let's get a drink first.
Yes, yes, yes, I said inside. In my head, I imagined my date getting slightly pissed at having to look for me. Happily, my new friend and I joined the milling bazaar crowd. Damn the world--I smiled.
Monday, November 22, 2004
My First Digital Camera
I decided on my first subject: feet.
Mainly people's feet. I've taken a dozen photos of my own feet, at various times of the day. I even have some close-ups of my toes. Then over the weekend, I started sneaking in shots of other people's feet.
I didn't want to be obvious, so I turned off the flash on my cute white Canon Ixus i and held it like a wallet or cigarette pack. Then I put my jacket on my arm, partially covering the camera.
After an hour at Glorietta, I concluded that it was easier to just sit down and let people pass and stop by, then click. Usual problems include: wrong focusing and moving subjects.
Mainly people's feet. I've taken a dozen photos of my own feet, at various times of the day. I even have some close-ups of my toes. Then over the weekend, I started sneaking in shots of other people's feet.
I didn't want to be obvious, so I turned off the flash on my cute white Canon Ixus i and held it like a wallet or cigarette pack. Then I put my jacket on my arm, partially covering the camera.
After an hour at Glorietta, I concluded that it was easier to just sit down and let people pass and stop by, then click. Usual problems include: wrong focusing and moving subjects.
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