In any case, I wouldn’t have been able to go with him since I had already signed up to join a group of friends to volunteer at Habitat for Humanity as construction workers for a day (which, as it turned out, half a day in our case). This particular activity is somehow connected to  PiNOYs for Change, a group that was formed with the specific purpose of providing support to Noynoy Aquino, but at that time it was not clear to me.

I woke up at 5.30AM on Sunday to make the 7Am trip to Oudong, which is about 35 kilometers from Phnom Penh. I traveled with D because he brought his 2 year-old daughter with him, commando-style (meaning: no nanny). A third of the contingent were already at the site when we arrived. About half an hour later, the last group arrived. After a quick breakfast and a short safety orientation by the construction manager, we donned the required gear (gloves & hard hat for the brick-layers, plus goggles and face masks for the brick-makers) over the suggested outfits (rubber shoes, trousers, long-sleeved shirts) and we were off to work.

I chose to work as a brick-layer because everyone knows how I love a good lay. Kidding! I had decided on this because this brought back memories of wanting Lego so much as a child but my parents never got me one. I had to find contentment in playing with another similar (but much cheaper) toy. However, even if I knew that actual brick-laying would be much different from playing with building blocks, I hadn’t anticipated how physically exhausting it would be. Blame it on months (years?) of being sedentary. I had fallen off the exercise wagon that I started last year. Dieted and cheated as my weight fluctuated like the values of the world markets. I realized, signing up for this activity was more than a volunteer act, this was also pay-back for my procrastination and vacillation.

Sweating like the proverbial pig, I would’ve quickly given up in another time but once my gloved hands gripped the hefty brick, I was filled with a sense of single-mindedness and purpose. I got quickly lost in the instructions set by the construction manager and in figuring out how to physically accomplish each step that would make a sturdy brick wall. The physical aspects of the job are immense compared to the words that describe them. There are techniques within techniques that are either done and/or learned by common sense and/or by demonstration of a more skilled individual. Of course, I wasn’t thinking any of these while on the job. I was busy and preoccupied with making sure the right kind of brick was lifted, the right amount of concrete was spread in between bricks, and that the brick aligned with the rest of the wall-in-progress, among others. Never mind the buckets of sweat that soaked my clothes, the hair gel I carefully dabbed on my hair or the perfume I had sprayed on my wrist that were evaporating in the heat, or the silent screams of my muscles that were jolted into exertion.

Two and a half hours quickly passed. When it was time to stop, that was the only time I looked at what I had accomplished. I vaguely recalled a tip I got from a writing workshop long ago. To jump-start one’s writing, write continuously for an hour, then read your work after. As I looked at the part of the wall that I worked on, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of elation. I did this. But another thought quickly followed: I hadn’t done enough. However, this did nothing to dissipate the general positive vibe that permeated each of us. We happily washed up, changed our soaked clothes, and later posed for the requisite photos with visible joy.

This feeling continued well into the picnic that we shared by the foot of the Oudong hill, away from the dust of the construction site. As we were driving back to Phnom Penh, I began receiving the messages of my tired body. Perhaps it was because the atmosphere in the car had become languid in the afternoon heat. D’s daughter was sleeping in the back seat, while he and I were sporadically conversing about the morning that passed, and our plans for the rest of the day. I managed to ignore my body’s cries nonetheless.

That night, after a bath, while preparing to go to bed, The tightness in my legs had risen to my lower back then further up my arms. I decided I was getting a massage the next day to alleviate this soreness. When I lay in my bed, I almost groaned with pleasure. I’m sure my body thanked me for not staying up late. Each move I made seemed to be punctuated with a dot, or a touch–a comma, if you please, of pain. But I welcomed it. It was a good kind of pain. I felt no surprise or wonderment that in the day meant for celebrating love, I chose to do something that will cause me physical pain.

After all, when we love, or think that we feel love, or do something out of love, we are bound to feel pain, one way or another. When we feel a pinch of longing when we see the one we cannot have, each time we ponder on our solitude, or every time we pause to examine the things we have said and done to please our objects of affection, we prove that pain is inextricably tied to love.

And yet, despite all the struggles and hardships and realizations and resolutions, whenever we are faced with an opportunity to experience love, we yield to it like it’s gravity–the one force in this earth that no one among us can resist. I know I can’t.

Here in Buddhist Cambodia, where I have seen Valentine’s day for at least 5 years, I’m still surprised at the increasing fervor in which this holiday is being celebrated. I would venture an opinion that it rivals–if not exceeds the celebration of Christmas, in terms of the commercial aspects of this particular holiday. From almost every street corner of Phnom Penh, vendors with flowers, balloons, plush toys and other gifts sprout like mushrooms after a rainy day. Blame this on the increasing purchasing power of the so-called middle class Cambodians, or on the fact that more than half of Cambodia’s population is under the age of 24, even on the youth’s love of anything barang (foreign).

Now, there has never been a Valentine’s day when I had someone to celebrate it with. It always come at at time when I had no lover, or if I had one, we always seemed to fight a week or a few days before that day, to reconcile a few days after, or never. Some of my friends think it’s a deliberate effort on my part, but it’s not. Really. I don’t mind spending for some gifts, silly as some of them might be. Though I’m clearly not the world’s biggest romantic (refer to my Edwardian parents above), I still long for that day when someone who’s not my friend will greet me a happy Valentine’s day with a kiss, or God forbid, a gift of sweets or of fragrance. But there are times when life seems to play a practical joke on me, forcing me to laugh at myself rather than risk being laughed at by others.

February 13, year ####. One of my favorite malls. I lock gazes with a man as I am browsing in a bookstore. X is 36 years old, dressed like a young executive, a brown Jansport backpack slung on his somewhat broad shoulders in place of a briefcase. We end up watching a movie, fingers entwined, his head on my shoulder. In the comfort room, a man in a white shirt and blue corduroy jacket smiles at me while we stand in front of the mirror, washing our hands. His jeans barely contains his thighs and buttocks. Y and I shake hands then start to kiss. He pulls me out of the room when three laughing boys enter. We talk in the lobby. X, whom I had almost forgotten, looks for me in the toilet and clears his throat after finding me in the lobby. After a few awkward seconds I introduce them to each other, and for a while we chat. Small, autobiographical, non-sexual talk.

But it soon becomes apparent that we are not there to talk. I discreetly lace my fingers over Y’s hand. X amiably hangs his arm over my shoulders. We grin foolishly. Laugh like mischievous Catholic schoolboys. We check into a motel near the mall, splitting the bill equally among us. Y calls room service and orders six bottles of beer. X fishes out a pack of fried peanuts from his backpack. He is shivering. Tells us it’s his first time to enter a motel with guys. Y, who’s my age, laughs. “With a guy or two guys?” X says both. But after half a bottle of beer, he is raring to go. Soon we all are. After coming, X gets up, grabs a towel and rushes into the bathroom. The sound of the shower nearly drowns out Y’s languid, sleep-laced speech.

When X emerges from the bathroom, he explains the rush. He’s married. The wife should be mildly worried by now. It’s almost midnight. We stare at him as he puts on his clothes, combs his hair, fixes his tie. Perfunctorily he asks if we’re staying and leaves without really waiting for our response. Y laughs. We didn’t even get his last name. Alone again, we snuggle. Lap up the remaining beer. Kiss. Laugh. Make love twice. While resting Y blurts that he ought to stop cruising at the theater. I ask him why. “My lover. I don’t want to keep on hurting him.” This is it, I think. No more round four. “I think you two should discuss this. If you can’t be faithful, you might want to open the relationship.” Y says the lover wouldn’t be pleased. “Well,” I said, “it’s either that or you change. Which is more possible?” Y smiled at me and the sweetness of that smile made me understand the predicament of his lover. Such beauty cannot be contained, and consequently, should not be possessed by one man alone. Loving Y would break anyone’s heart, surely. Unless one is willing to share with the world.

It’s almost 3AM when Y and I walk out of the motel, our hair still wet from the shower that we took together (round 4, as it turns out). His calling card is a brittle weight in my breast pocket. We hail a cab and he suggested I take it. He opens the door for me. As I’m about to get in he holds me by the shoulders and almost decorously plants a firm, wet kiss in my mouth.

“Happy Valentine’s day!”

America Ferrera as Betty, circa season 4

Towards the end of season 1 a scene tugged at the remaining strings of my heart. In this scene, Betty (America Ferrera) was being prevailed upon by her father, sister, and nephew to forgive her colleague/friend who betrayed Betty’s trust. Frustrated, her elder sister Hilda exclaimed that Betty was too hard on her friends. Betty denied this with alacrity but when her father and nephew agreed with Hilda, she was forced to examine herself if she was indeed being too hard on her friends.

The state of my friendships has been relatively peaceful since the turmoil of the last 2 years. However, lately, I have found myself becoming irritated at some of my friends over the most mundane things. I have increasingly felt that most of the people around me seem to be able to do nothing but fail me in some way or another. This feeling did not help me at all. It, in fact, added to my distress, fueling my desire to avoid company as much as possible, for fear of being hurt or worst, frustrated.

Like Betty I had been told that I’m too hard on my friends. Unlike Betty I did not deny this. On some fundamental level, I know that this is at least partly true. I think, because it takes me a long time to be friends with somebody, I tend to completely give my trust to the few that become my friends. In addition, probably because of my insecurities, I like–no, I need to be reassured that this particular friend deserves my friendship. Because of this, I always tend to subject my friendships (and my friends) to tests and experiments.

That I am more demanding of my friends than my lovers is something I will readily admit as well. I was never a jealous lover; I cherished independence in a relationship. So much so that one former lover got so frustrated by this ‘indifference’ that he openly flirted with another guy hoping I’d get jealous or, at least mad. I didn’t, by the way. Because somehow I had it in my head that choosing a lover requires some degree of irrationality and recklessness (like loving someone in spite of one’s obvious faults) whereas choosing people to become friends requires deep, rational thought and deliberation (why would you be friends with someone who didn’t share your mind?). This is why I never attempted to be friends with my former lovers (except for one, but this is another story).

I set high standards of behavior for my friends (and implicitly, to myself as well); yes, I’ll admit this too. Because I think I know they can keep up. But have these standards become impossibly high that I have found my friends dropping like fighter planes shot down by ground-to-air missiles of indiscretions and trespasses? I am not sure. I only know now (because it was pointed out to me by another friend) that when these failures happen, I feel great sadness and distress because I know these failures are reflected as my own, as well. Egotistic, much? Yes, I think that is me.

Just last week, I got so irritated to learn that D has kept in touch with one of my non-friends, and I couldn’t resist confronting him about it. Mildly exasperated (I can only hope), he explained that his seeming friendship with my non-friend does not diminish the kind of friendship that we have. My heart swelled at the implication. D is one of the few people I consider to be a true friend in this darn country. If I had a brother, I would love him the same way I love D. But of course I made sure D didn’t notice this; I acted as if I didn’t believe the point he made. That’s when he said that similar line I heard in ‘Ugly Betty’.

V said something similar as well, echoing D’s opinion that V’s friendship with my non-friend is a non-issue. In V’s case, I am somehow resigned to the fact that when push came to shove, V would choose the non-friend over me. This is primarily because they’ve been friends for much longer than we were. Longer (and mature) friendships are difficult to wrestle. Still, V’s suggestion that I should probably ’soften’ my stance on my friends’ behaviors if only to avoid further stress brought on by frustration seems reasonable enough.

During the last weeks, I’d been avoiding E because he failed my most recent ‘test’. I wouldn’t bother you with the details anymore but in the continuum of trespasses, his failure is as mundane as it can get. This, however, did not prevent me from blowing it out of proportion (only in my head) till I was filled with chagrin. Since then I have seen him twice. And in both occasions I managed to give him my good old cold shoulder. He has apparently asked our mutual friends what he needed to do so I would speak to him. The most logical answer would have been that he addressed the only reason I got mad at him. But of course none of our friends answered him satisfactorily.

But now, in the dark silence of my room, in the coldness of dawn, I have realized that at this point, he doesn’t need to do anything. E, if you are reading this, please know that you don’t need to do anything anymore. Because the ball is already in my court, so to speak. You have attempted to speak to me, and I rebuffed you. The art of war requires me to make the next move. And whether this move will result in peace or further discord is also up to me.

Whatever consequence might follow is already my burden.

After this initial contact, she invited me to peruse her profile so I could get in touch with our other classmates. And before the euphoria faded away, I did exactly just that. I stifled a groan when I saw that she had 500+ friends. How was I supposed to get through this list? But about 90 minutes (and a blooming migraine) later, I have seen the many names that populated my young life. However, out of the 30+ names I saw in her profile, I only managed to click about 3 other names.

I have previously written how I felt about my unremarkable years in high school. Of course, when one hears that I graduated from high school at age 14, he or she wouldn’t agree right away that it was an unremarkable 4 years. But to be honest, that’s really how it was. If anything, the only remarkable things in my high school life were how socially inept I were, the sense of alienation that I felt (which never lifted until after my second year at university, and my utter lack of friends. If I were going to use my present definition of friends, I’d say that I only made one true friend in high school. And I never contacted him again since going to Manila a few weeks after graduating from high school. I saw him only 10 years later, by accident, while I was dining with my boyfriend at a restaurant. We were cordial with each other; he seemed excited about a supposed high school reunion that was going to happen in a few months. I feigned excitement when he mentioned the reunion, but I knew in my heart that I couldn’t be bothered to return to a place where I existed virtually invisible–always on the fringes, on the outside looking in the beautiful and popular ones.

Last I heard, J is dead. I remember he had a congenital heart defect. In fact, in our senior year, he got sick and almost died, about the time we had our annual spiritual retreat.

I didn’t attend that reunion or any other gathering related to my high school batch. No one probably knew how to reach me. After all, I (along with my family) left Bulacan after my high school graduation to settle in Manila. My father stayed with his job in the province for a good few years. I think I went to Bulacan only twice while I was studying. And one of the reasons why I did was just to hook up with someone I used to regularly fooled around with. When that proved unsuccessful, my interest waned. I would hear news on my old school from another alumnus, who graduated 2 years ahead of me and ended up marrying my uncle. She kept in touch with her high school friends. Some of these friends are elder siblings of my classmates so I would hear news about them too. I feigned interest but remained indifferent deep inside.

But, was high school really as bad as I like to picture it? This is a question that I hadn’t asked myself before, to tell the truth. Lately, I have to accept that our memory can play tricks with our emotions. Memories are, at best, tenuous and fleeting, always affected by external factors, and never truly accurate as, let’s say, a photograph. In all honesty, I can attest that my feelings about high school are true. If there is a part of my life that I have no intention of doing again, it will be my 4 years at Saint Paul’s School in San Rafael, Bulacan, hands down. I would like no more of those social missteps, the failures & frustrations, and the uninformed choices that defined my early adolescence.

Still, my contact with G brought on a rush of happy memories of high school. Small memories, actually, but happy nonetheless. And there were things about high school that made me happy. Teachers I genuinely liked. The nuns. The work I did for the school paper. They won’t be enough to dispel my opinion of high school, but enough to make me realize that like everything in life, there were good parts that went with the bad ones in my high school life. Makes no sense in looking at my high school life with disdain. Recognizing this reality will help me look back on high school with a more sympathetic perspective. Maybe, in doing so, it will also help me forgive myself for my past trespasses in high school, which were probably done in an unsuccessful attempt to gain leverage and, eventually, social acceptance within that microcosm called high school.

I was too young; I didn’t know any better.

Still, there are other things that I’m also thankful for during the past holiday season: the gifts. Yes, you read it right. In spite of the general malaise that my prose has exhibited of late, when it comes to gifts (giving & receiving–but more on the receiving), I am still a big soft, fluffy monkey. Of all the gifts I received, these are the ones I like most.

What’s not to like about this gift? It’s orange, it has a cute chicken in front, and it’s a giant egg-shell! It’s adorable, and with no real purpose in life other than being beautiful (and yes, adorable). Scrump was given by another friend, who knows I sorta collect Lilo’s (Lilo from Lilo and Stitch, not LiLo the Lindsay Lohan) doll. I just put in there because of the great contrast in color.

I love books. Books as presents I love more. This book was given to me by the author himself. This self-published memoir chronicles his struggle at reconciling his sexuality with his faith. Some people might find the thickness of the book daunting, but I read it in one sitting, one cool evening. Ray writes such fluid prose, making the reading process easier. But this is not to say that it’s an unremarkable book. Some of the contents are bordering on the ’scandalous’–depending on the degree of one’s modesty (read: prudishness). As for me, there were some moments that made me blush. But all in all it is a compelling read. I promised Ray a review of his book in this blog. I will do a ‘proper review’ in the coming days.

And finally, the gift that made me tingle in excitement. Not really. I was just happy to receive it and pleasantly surprised that the guy who gave it to me remembered how I liked fashion illustration. I mean, I love the way Christian Lacroix illustrates his designs (more than the actual outfits). This is why I was ecstatic to see the exhibit at the Singapore National Museum last year. Among Filipino designer, I think Rajo Laurel does the most exquisite illustrations. They’re artistic enough to be framed, in fact. I’m not a fashion designer, but I like to draw dresses worn by models. I remember, as a boy, my mother would make me draw the dresses that she’d eventually bring to her seamstress. This book is indeed a treasure. I can practice and take up drawing again this year.

This isn’t technically a Christmas gift, but it was given to me by a good friend for my birthday last year. However, due to some unforeseen delays, I only got a hold of it in the last quarter of the year, stretching the gift’s eligibility to be considered a holiday gift. Hehehe. That’s my name, dear reader, written in the Khmer script–phonetic, but comprehensible to those who can read Khmer. Next step? I’d probably have one made in white gold as well.

I went through the motions of fixing the Christmas tree, which turned out better than I expected (though I wouldn’t admit it). I went through my friends’ plans of hosting a Christmas eve party at home, instead of a Christmas day lunch that I usually did in the past. This experience taught me that a potluck party is way better than people contributing money then having the cooking done by just a few people only.

Why? Because when the expenses exceeded the pooled money, nobody volunteered to make a second contribution to the one who handled the cooking. Moi. I however, hope that everyone had a good time. Based on the level of intoxication of people, it’s safe to say that they did have a good time. I was, in fact, so drunk that night that I only managed to help V, my room-mate, a little in tidying up after the party before sleep claimed me.

The rooftop of our flat was decorated for the party. In the end there were too much food (which we ate for the next 2 days, it seemed) but not too much whiskey, vodka & beer. There were new friends (at least to me), resurrected friends, and friends of friends who attended the party.

The Beautiful Ones

I wanted to spend new year’s eve away from Phnom Penh; I considered going to Siem Reap or Bangkok. However, V beat me to the chase when he announced that he had purchased tickets to Bangkok. I couldn’t very well leave the house unoccupied at the start of a new year (bad juju, I learned from childhood) so I had no other choice but to stay. And since the Christmas eve party was held at home, everyone assumed that the new year’s eve party was to be held in the same place again. So with the flow I again went. I, however, decided that this party would be on a much lesser scale than the previous one.

Starting with the food, we only prepared meats for grilling, a festive rice dish called bringhe, and dessert. The amount of alcohol we served was also scaled down. Even the guest list. But something strange happened. I think we had a damn better time. The party started at 8PM, with drinks and the grilled pork, chicken and sausages. Later, those who wanted rice were led to the kitchen so they could help themselves. Drinks flowed. We cam-whored increasingly as our inebriation deepened.

An hour before midnight we walked to Hun Sen Park, in front of Nagaworld Hotel Casino, to greet the new year and to watch the fireworks. We brought with us 2 bottled of wine and plastic tumblers. The drinking and cam-whoring continued. When the fireworks display was over, we returned to the house for yet more drinking, eating, and cam-whoring (not necessarily in this order) and we didn’t stop till it was way past 3AM.

Then I slept peacefully. I wasn’t as drunk as I was at Christmas, but I was a comfortably numb bunny, with a little buzz of happiness thrown in on the mix. The next morning I reviewed and laughed at the photos we took. This is the stuff you pay good money for when you run for public office and desire a squeaky clean image. Of course, I exaggerate. We were happily misbehaving in front of the camera (that’s what cam-whoring is) but we never let go of our model behaviour. Well, enough with the  attempts at witty descriptions. I will let the photos speak for themselves.

I have no doubts the girl can write. But this particular note got me thinking. Because this was something I would’ve attempted to write when I were young myself. Of course most of the details would be different: mostly because of the sex/gender divide; also because we’re almost a generation apart; and we grew in different parts of the world. But I guess the general sentiment will be the same.

When you are young you can’t wait to grow up and when you’ve grown old you can’t stop thinking about when you were young. One of life’s hard facts. And one vicious cycle.

Also, it took me quite a while… and after a seemingly long delay, caused by many things (procrastination, learning a new software in my macbook–goodbye, CorelDraw! deciding on which photo to use, which design to do, and what message to write, plus all the wranglings brought on by a simple yet brutal lack of inspiration), here it is finally: my holiday card for 2009.

And now I can’t even do that.

I am resisting the urge of seeking someone to talk to regarding this, whatever-the-hell-this-is. I tried doing it to my friend but it ended in disaster. What was I thinking, anyway? I couldn’t–shouldn’t burden any of them with this. I am told I cannot do it alone but how can I bring other people into this morbid dance? It’s not that they brought me here in the first place. Well, some of them, probably. But the nature of my friendships has always been one that is frustrating and infuriating and loving and caring, all at the same time. Although, lately, yeah, I have to admit that, of late, all of them seem to frustrate and infuriate me more than love and care for me.

My gut tells me stay away, but my mind tells me I cannot do this alone.

But, pray tell, do what? Get over this funk? Emerge from this rut? Be free from despair and anger? Regard the glass as half-full instead as half-empty? Let my heart swell with emotion?

It seems that like writing, I am unable to do any of these things as well.

My mind is a bottomless well of ideas. A thousand ways–or more, to deal with whatever-this-is.

Do the things that made you feel differently. If this fails, do new things that will (hopefully) make you feel differently (hopefully, better). Seek the company of friends. Go out and (try to) have fun. Eat and drink and indulge. Do some physical activities and get an endorphin high. Read books with positive messages. Have a good cry. Have a good laugh. Pray. Talk to someone. Talk to a professional. Renew ties with  loved ones. Communicate with your family. Communicate with God.

The list is possibly endless.

If only these ideas will march out of my mind, coax my tired body to actually move, and turn these thought-forms into concrete actions.

However, something happened to me a couple of weeks ago. Without any real expectations, I entered a photo contest organized by one of Cambodia’s English-language newspapers. The contest was open to all amateur and professional photographers, with no real limits as to how many photos one entrant can submit in any of the 5 categories. These vague rules added to my apprehension but eventually my recklessness prevailed. To hell with all these fears and worries and dread, I said. And I shot photo after photo until my CF card couldn’t take any more.

In the end, I submitted 10 photos for 2 categories. Among the other entrants that I know, I submitted the least number of photos in the least number of categories. After that I went on with my remaining life here in Phnom Penh. One Monday noon I received a congratulatory text message from B. I asked, what for? And he said I won in one category. Winners for each category were to be announced daily–a fact that escaped me. And I couldn’t believe it until I saw the spread of the newspaper that showed, yes, I indeed won in that category.

I bought about 10 copies of that day’s paper, for posterity. I felt elated and, I must admit, happy. For the first time in quite a while. I was still competing in another category but I didn’t care anymore. I already won. To win in the other category would probably be along the lines of tempting the fates. Had this happened, I would’ve felt terrified of what the gods have in store for me, in return for such good fortune. During the awarding ceremony last week, I realized that most of the other first placers in the remaining 4 categories, plus the grand prize winner were all professionals. They either do freelance work or they have their own studios and they do work in travel, fashion, and advertising.

It made me a bit proud to be among these men. This hobby has been very good to me so far. Will I dare pursue this professionally? Maybe not. Yet. I don’t want to think about it. I just want to enjoy my prize (pictured below) a Canon IXUS point and shoot. I tried asking the sponsor to change the color but I’m glad they didn’t because I’m digging its color right now. I remember my first digital camera was a Canon IXUS too (750 is the model, if I remember correctly) which got lost by an irresponsible person about 3 years ago. In a pinch, I bought a Sony DSC N-2. I still have it, by the way. I’m trying to decide whether I will sell it or give it to my relatives in Manila. My DSLR is an Olympus E-520. But my dream DSLR is the Canon EOS 7D. I posted the photos I submitted to the contest HERE.