the men i've slept with so far

i saw a man's face in my dream, that stupid smile of his when he wants to be cute, and it forced me to throw the blanket aside and start my day albeit a bit too early. i planned to sleep in as much as i could today when i turned in at two in the morning, thinking i deserved it after braving a week of small fires and threatening conflagrations. why must people be forced to work, anyway? when i was young i wrote an essay arguing that work must be a product of one's creativity, not something squeezed out of someone with survival hanging over one's head like damocles's sword.

i digress. back to that face. that face which showed emotions plainly and which i adored for a while. why do people you avoid appear to you in your dreams? freud probably has an explanation, but right now i care not a whit about his everything-is-sex-related theories, because what i want is how to blow that face to smithereens, never to come back, in my waking or sleeping hours.

as i write this animal planet is reporting about the rescue of ducklings from some freeway in florida. reminds me of how CJ's ducklings chase his mom's car, thinking he's in it and it's feeding time again.

back to that face. i thought it was unfair of my subconscious to inflict that face and that stupid smile on me just when i think i am safe from the outside world and my brain revels in resting and rewiring. when i got up i saw my usual bedside companions. the latest time magazine, my reading glasses, rudy guiliani's book on leadership, david bach teaching women how to get rich, a must-read because it was given to me as a christmas gift, and the biography of yitzhak rabin, a re-read.

i smile and congratulate myself for making the right decision to buy a big bed when i moved in to this place. i planned to sleep with a lot of men, and a few women. since then the other half of my bed has always been cluttered with my current men and a few women. still beside it are former bedmates now piled up on my bedside table. i slept for a couple of weeks with nikos kazantzakis, and he told me how mankind's history could have been different had the one who was crucified avoided the sacrifice, got married and had children. i still don't understand why some bishops had their blood pressure shooting up and regurgitating hellfire and brimstone because of the book. oh, you men of the cloth have no sense of humor. oh ye of onion skin. you have no respect for the intellect of your flock.

then there's malachy mccourt, who's always drunk i am amazed he managed to have a career, a wife and children who left him anyway when the drinking became too much. why philandering husbands are the most jealous of the lot is still a puzzle. them who see rome as the "holey" land and a place to worship those delicate labias between the legs of the opposite sex, as many as possible please.

the pile is high. just four weeks and four new men. i probably should add anne rice's latest book, the one where she talks about religion for a change. how a vampire author can suddenly do a 180 degree and talk about the big boss up there is admirable and critics are lapping it up like CJs ducks to the pond water.

i think i ought to get outta here and forget that stupid face because i know when i see it in my waking hours, it deserves a slap.

or a kiss. or both. whichever i feel like doing that minute.

*sigh* women. we are confusing. there, i said it before any of you can.

Mahal Ko Na Siya!!!

Babala: Bawal Umihi Rito
Hay. Sana dumating na si Jimny D Cricket.
Pupuntahan ko ang Negra Point. Mangingisda ako roon. Magfi-fishing ako sa Batangas. Sa Mindoro. Sa Zambales. Sa Bataan.
Di bale na Subic. Tatlong beses na akong nangisda roon, wala akong huli.
Sama ko barkada kong LQ, as in Lang Quenta. Mga walang hilig mangisda ang mga iyon.

Bless the Beast....

(I saw the data in November and the numbers made me cry. I think visually, and the pictures in my mind were heartbreaking. I hope the episode this Saturday night wakes some of us up, and prod us to do something. As the Africans say, it takes a village to raise a child.)

Melissa is 12 and is still in grade 2. Still, she’s unable to read and write. But she’s lucky: her eight siblings are out of school and are now part of the country’s teenage work force. They are part of the thirty percent of students who drop out of school before reaching grade 6.

For allegedly stealing a camera, ten-year old Arnel is in jail. For a month now, he whiles the hours away with the hardened criminals in the cramped jail cell. He is one of the 28 youth offenders who land in prison everyday.

Meantime, Jhay Lord, a six-month old baby dies five days after he caught the flu. He is one of 30 of 1,000 kids who die each year before reaching the age of one due to preventable diseases.

In a nearby hospital, a malnourished woman sees her doctor for the first time during her entire pregnancy, just hours before giving birth to her ninth child. Will her baby be healthy, or will he be one of the 300,000 babies born each year with intellectual impairment due to malnutrition?

Me-Ann, too, has just given birth. She is 13. She and her 16-year old jobless boyfriend have no idea how to raise their child.

Experts say parents need a low of P1.3M to support a child’s needs until the age of 21. While this is a pitiful amount to some, it is not to the 33.7% of our population who live below the poverty threshold.

Imbestigador takes a look at the state of the Filipino child, and the tragic mistakes we are making in raising our next generation. Imbestigador airs every Saturday at 9PM.

There Are Days

I could have written it in two hours. It took me 12. Because I spent 10 just staring at the screen, unable to focus. You think things are great, then you encounter hitches.

I am sure my rainbow will surface tomorrow.

Work is a cure. Pain can be cured by focusing on constructive things.

Or by drinking. *Hic* Toma. Tagay pa. Alak pa!

In the immortal words of Koryn and Angel, patay kung patay! Tara!

*Hik*...bi*

Speechless

My friend was seven months pregnant. She and her husband had been trying for eight years. Then she loses it. At seven months.

For someone who loves words, I had nothing to say. I just tried to say I was there for her. Without saying the words. Every silent pause was painful. I knew this time, asking questions and having her answer them was painful. Both journalists, we skipped the process.

So we tried humor. And it worked. Until I had to leave. Hugs mean a lot, and this time, we both knew the embrace just about covered it all. Tears held back can sting more than yelps of pain and anguish. But I think that hug just about covered it all. I am here. I am with you. This too, shall pass.

***********

Another journalist. Another story. Another friend.

Years ago, my beeper sounded in the middle of the night. The message made me leap out of bed in the wee hours of the morning. She was being beaten by the husband. I came over. So did another journalist-friend and her husband. (The couple in the previous account)

They worked it out. I was godmother to the baby she was carrying then. Being single and avoiding men like the plague, I didn't understand how someone you married can make a punching bag out of you.

Fast forward yesterday, 14 years later. I receive a text message. The (former, I hope) wife-beater is crying. The wife left him for another WOMAN. Too stunned for words, I had nothing to say.

POWTAH!!!!!!!!!!

INOM! TAGAY! TOMA! SUNOG BRAIN CELLS!
Letse. Nyeta. Sinotataymo? Tangnangsyet.
Are we on the same page here?
Are you listening?
Do you understand?

(wala lang. just ranting)

aDuLtHoOd

She calls and asks if we can "do coffee" in the middle of a busy day. I saw a red flag in my mind. Over the non-existent coffee but her endless sticks of nicotine, she ticks off her problems. Minute, but irritating problems.

I asked her if she has some impossible dream. She says she's stopped dreaming after three kids and two lousy husbands who made her their more responsive punching bag.

No impossible dreams. No farm. No quiet house away from the city. No vision of life away from it all. My mind drifs back to the Titanium pick-up stuck on my computer. In a couple of weeks, I'll be driving its tinier cousin, but it's a baby step towards grander dreams. It's an acquistion of honest sweat and hard work and sleepless nights. In this third world country, and the state of journalists' pay in this country, it is my version of the impossible dream - twenty years ago. In my mind I see the vegetable and mango farm I'll own soon. The rose garden I'll create. The safe, simple house with a computer facing greens and soft mountain breeze. The sound of crickets and the sight of fireflies at night. The countries and small towns and big cities I will visit, even on a whim. Sicily. Dar Es Salaam. I will see the Nazca lines of Peru. Raise dust in Egypt. Marvel the Stonehenge. Go on a Safari. See lions mating in Tsavo. Go fishing at Lake Baikal. Catch that big fish in Lake Victoria.

If your dreams are just weeks away, it won't fuel you enough to reach the future, I told her. Your grand, impossible dreams will make these too small to count. She says she has forgotten. Reality has scarred her.

Adulthood. Who says you should not approach it with childlike dreams? Why do we lose it, the ability to see ourselves in the future, like those in our younger years where we are astronauts today and scientists tomorrow? And darn, why have I not stopped daydreaming?

Kids and Pens

They don't mix.

I can think of a lot of captions for this one.

Keep children out of reach. (courtesy of a Taiwanese bottle of some drug)
How a young writer handles his first rejection.
Let me be the youngest Michaelangelo! Give me that wall!
Everyone's a critic!
I want more ink!
This is how it feels to write under a dictatorship. (Don't tell my sister I said that)

CJ will turn 2 in ten days. Darn. I wish I were around him the past (almost) two years. I know he loves staring at books and writing on walls, but I wish he won't take up writing as a profession. If he does, I'll move heaven and earth to make sure he succeeds.

In the meantime, I have to ask my sister why my nephew cried. I really think he wants more ink.

What Women Pray For

A universal prayer for women. Harhar!
Don't you just love her?

An Open Letter to Henry Sy

Sir,

Please put those mounds of cash aside for a while and answer a few questions from someone who visited your mall more regularly than her mother the past 20 years.

Today I saw the facade of the new extension you're putting up at SM North Edsa. My heart sank when I saw that it has the hallmarks of those monstrous cement matchboxes you've inflicted on me, and the likes of me, the past few decades. I gave you a fair shake. All these months, I was expecting you'd smarten up a bit and come up with something refreshing like those the Aranetas built in what was a moribund Cubao years ago. CAN'T YOU HIRE A BETTER ARCHITECT? Forbes reports that you are worth $1.6B. Can't that buy you an architect with taste? You owe me. I spend more on you than anyone else I know. You get more of my paycheck than the government and my pitiful savings account every month. Why, oh why, don't you think I deserve a better Sunday playground than what you have now?

Will your new mall extension be more kind to people who shop, pay bills, see movies and eat there every Sunday? Why do you charge us for parking when we go there? Do you think anyone in his/her right mind would spend gasoline in this third world country to go to a mall and just use your parking space for free? Are you out of your mind?

Why the heck are toilets the biggest secret in your malls? You used to have more of them all over. Then you padlocked them and when they reappeared, they were magazine stands! And unlike malls all over the planet, I seldom see signs telling me where the toilets are. And when I do get there, the line is too long that if you or any of your kids encountered the same nightmare, I'm sure your mall is more bladder-friendly. If I develop kidney problems, I swear I'll sue you.

Your airconditioning. They malfunction during the summer. It feels like hell shopping there. As my late grandfather used to say, it feels like "impyernong luma" (ancient hell), to go to your mall on those days.

Your escalators. If they're all working when I visit your mall, I'd hold a candlelight vigil to say alleluiah to you and your managers.

The rackets you allow. Why, oh why, must you let those shady companies set up shop in your premises? They bug everyone everytime we pass by, and offer us ovens, electric fans and what-have-you, and ask us for our credit card numbers. Geesh! Can't over a billion and a half of dollars buy you a bit of ethics? Can't you at least protect us from them? Must you encourage them?

Bill and Melinda Gates are doing their bit for the rest of the planet. Bono, not as rich but as empathetic, is doing his share. Are you doing enough for me? Give back enough by not stealing money from me. Serve me well. Not you. Your malls, dammit. Make sure everything works, thieves are held at bay, and the aircon and escalators are working 24/7. And stop collecting those damned parking fees. You're too rich to be accused of highway robbery. And do hire a better architect.

Tales of the Christmas Past (Not For Kids)

“Hun, please?” I ask Kevin as he types away. I hate to bug him when he’s working, but the bottle opener is not cooperating.

Pop! Swoosh! The woman opens a bottle with her vagina. I felt so inadequate it made me swear I’ll never ask for help opening soda bottles for the rest of my life.

We were seated in the darkest corner of a pub in Patpong, Thailand. We went in after hurling more than the regular amount of dares and challenges, mostly about how prudish he thinks I am. Methinks he never expected I'd say yes to something that's not your usual fare of Christmas evening fun.

When we got there, they all swarmed around us, asking, nay, badgering us for money. Massaging us for money. Some showing us a bucket saying “Tips for Pussy Show.” A couple of female hands strayed onto my breasts, groping, feeling if I were lesbian-inclined. I searched for Kevin’s hand and held it.

Inadequacy was the word of the night, sexual or elsewise. A parade of vaginal tricks you wish you can do to please a partner. They all gyrated to some alien music. Then nonchalantly pulled out rabbits from natural pouches between female legs. A woman sent darts across the room to hit balloons at the far end of the stage. A string of flowers and blades sharp and new, and as shown, can cut papers. It hurt to watch. A banana, intact. Pingpong balls. Give me more beer. This is too much. A woman made her vagina smoke, and I don’t even puff that good. One showed off her skills without smiling, a cellphone on a string strung across her left shoulder. She straddles a metallic horn, and welcomes the new year with a powerful bleat that beat the power of my lungs. She then wraps her lips around the horns and blows, amid my scream, showing both sets of lips have the same power. The last one, Kevin christened “The Writer,” and gives me a naughty grin, referring to what I do for a living. She sits on a pen and proceeds to scribble “Hello Steve to Thailand.” She collects her tips from Steve and company, who apparently, and hopefully, are not native English speakers.

None of them were young. If they were, they probably aged thrice everyday they had “The Pussy Show.” They looked old to me. Some have given birth, caesarian scars proving it. Some are probably 18 with souls of 80. Did they train for the tricks? I guess so. All this in a country where holding one’s head, even out of affection, is considered disrespectful. They are probably raising sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, parents and grandparents. It is common in this part of the planet. My part of the planet included. I will not even try to justify, defend, cast blame or denigrate. It just is. This is Christmas day and I will not look for explanations. Things are the way they are because they are. I am not working. Let me work on new year’s day.

Kevin escorts me to the rest room and keeps an eye on the door. I keep an eye on him too, knowing how squeamish he has become lately of men who, thanks to science, have resembled women. Perfect, flawless skinned men-women.

Would I go again? Yes. Kenya sounds great. I am too young not to learn. Not to see. Not to know.

Meantime, I’m looking for the perfect bottle opener.

The Paper

Never before did I buy a paper because of its headline photo. Today I did.

I want my pick-up! I want to go fishing! Waaaah!

My Star of David

When I was a 11, I found the books my dad read when he was alive. I fell in love with Israel and the Mossad. The spy books gave me an idea just how bright the Jews are. I can probably claim I am the only Zionist in the Philippines.

I write this as I listen to CNN's reports about Ariel Sharon's third procedure the past 48 hours. The warriors are dying, them who knew how much peace costs, because of the war they waged.

"Why do you like them so much?" Kevin asked me once, looking at the Star of David around my neck.

"You will never understand," I said.

Eight years ago, I did my own version of the Aaliyah (homecoming). At that time, I had a couple of Israelis as friends. I liked them all. Loved the love of country they all had, at a very young age. (And they taught me to say manyak ben-sona. Don't ask me what that means)

I went there after a seminar in Sweden and I decided to go backpacking across Europe alone, on a 100 dollar per country budget. On the map I saw that the Mediterranean was the only thing separating me from my dreamland. So off to Israel I went. Alone. (And I it gave me lots of stories I will proudly tell my grandchildren about the adventure)

I flew El Al. (How I got on the flight will be another tale for my grandchildren) I spent the week touring Old Jerusalem and the Black Sea on a very tight budget. I slept at Noa's apartment, while she worked the day as social worker at Tel Aviv. I woke up with a note where I should go, and how to get there.

Then I met her parents. Amid tons of falafel, they told me stories about their part in the war for Israel. I asked them for pictures. Pictures of how Israel looked like before it became home for and of the Jews. They told me how they lived their lives as parents, and what they wish for now as parents.

I shed tears for Rabin. And others like him. One of my friends was a guy who provided security for the young man who shot Rabin. How he was able to keep himself from shooting the young man himself is a story in itself that he will keep to himself.

But I admire Rabin, Sharon and people like him who were warriors first, then became uncorruptable leaders of the land, and the people, they fought for.

In our country, we had good warriors. But they were corrupted by power later on. They become the monsters they sought to kill.

I wish love of country for Filipinos is as strong as those of Israelis.

It's a long story. But I love them. I just wish I didn't lose my Star of David last summer, after eight years of wearing it. It was a gift from Shlomi, one of my Israeli friends. And why he gave it to me, how, and when, is a story in itself.

Sarap!

Alisin ang saplot na bumabalot sa paligid.
Dahan-dahan. Huwag magmadali.
Amuy-amuyin ang karneng nabalot nang matagal.
Damhin ang init ng kalamnan.
Kagat-kagatin ang dulo.
Sapat lang, huwag saktan ang balat.
Balutan ng umaagos at mainit na katas.
Himurin ang maalat na likido sa paligid ng mainit na karne.
Habulin ng himod ang tumatagas na sarap.
Kagat-kagatin ang karne hanggang humina ang tuhod.
Pigilin ang kumakawalang gutom sa kalamanan.
Lasapin ang sarap sa bawat kislot ng dila.
Hayaang manghina ang tuhod sa pagnanasa.
Huwag lasapin agad ang sarap na nagbabanta.
Huwag sumalampak ng upo.
Huwag madaliin ang pagsubo at pagdating sa rurok.
Dahan-dahan.
Pagalawin ang dila, paikutan ang korona.
Lasapin ang alat at tamis na nagsasama.
Habulin ng dila ang tumatagas na likido.
Supsupin ang bawat patak.
Sayang.
Kapag tapos na sa paglalaro...ikutan ito ng dila.
At kagatin.

Ganyan kumain ng chicken strips at sauce.

(Naisip ko itong sulatin kanina sa tindi ng gutom. Salamat, KFC in the neyborhud)
Pag nakita ko ito sa ad niyo, i'll sue you for the shirts on your back.

Dreams

Last week, for three consecutive nights, I dreamt of songs I wrote myself. And I even woke up knowing the lyrics and the tune. And I can't even sing.

Last night, I was in a corner, typing away. The story was great. The plot was great. The words were powerful. And I wrote it. That was the dream.

And I don't really like what I write, even if others do.

Tangna, kulang lang sa inom ito. Wala na sigurong alkohol sa sistema ko. Kahit ako, gusto ko na ang sinusulat ko, eh!

What's next? I can cook perfect adobo?

Great!

Bunny was driving. I was staring at the darkening skies. Inwardly, I was kicking myself for staying too long in bed. The first day of the year was about to end in an hour, the yellowing light of the sinking sun was reflected by tall buildings. I felt sad, thinking of hourglasses mocking me.

Then like a banshee, I shrieked. "Yahoooooo! Winner!!!"

Out of the saddened skies, two rainbows, one beside the other, smiled at me. A double rainbow. I have seen nothing like it in my entire life. And it chose to appear to me on the first day of the year.

Did you see it, too? I hope so. It was wonderful. I felt wonderful.

This is my year. This is the year my life will be enriched by everything I have long dreamed of.

Two rainbows smiling down at me.