A Conspiracy of Raindrops

Looking back I should have listened more intently at what the rain was telling me. Which is funny, because I've always claimed that I was happier when it rained. I thought the rain made me happier because I knew it better than sunshine. I thought there was a hidden message in the pitter-patter of the rain which I could easily understand.

But emotions are the frailty of existence, our feelings leave a lot of room, sometimess too much room, for gray areas -- doubt, confusion, uncertainty -- and we can't really say for certain we have things all figured out unless we ask.

It was a Thursday afternoon. We left the office early, a sudden downpour had paralyzed a good portion of the city as streets swelled with the liquid fat of the heavens. I tagged along Mayong's staff as they enjoyed a leisurely lunch at Shakey's and thereafter proceeded to have coffee at Mocha Blends accross the street from the mall.

As we made our way through the parking lot, the overcast sky above gave in without warning and a torrent of raindrops descended on us. I found myself sharing an umbrella with Rocket Man, a fellow writer who refuses to tell me his real age. I reckon he's in his mid-30s but I do know that he's a father of one, lover to none and still struggling with the closet.

As the rain came down on us, we laughed all the way to Mocha Blends, especially at my expense since it was my idea to go there in the first place. That, and because of Kit's incessant whining about how her hair was soaking wet without even getting dry since that morning.

It had been a few weeks since Kit's birthday party in early August where I made a mess out of myself. I got drunk and they had to drag me off the floor all the way home. The worst part of it was that I kept calling out Rocket Man's name as they did.

I never really had a chance to get over that episode, partly because it still embarasses me, partly because he never seemed interested to talk about it.

So while we were having coffee, I put that incident back in some obscure corner of my mind and instead made some harmless remark about a cute guy sitting in the opposite table.

The sky cleared up a bit and we decided to go back to the mall. not more than a few steps away from Mocha Blends, however, it began to rain again, and I shared his umbrella once more. It was at that moment that I thought some grand design was being put to work, as if, in Coelho's words, the universe was conspiring to give me what I want.

But then again, it's now clear to me. Whatever conspiracy was at work that day wasn't backed up with further signs by any previous or subsequent event.

For example, last Sept. 4, I went out with AI people for the launching of GMA-7's new gay-oriented TV show, OUT. I was giddy and feeling good on my way home after shaking hands with Jigs on whom I have had the biggest crush long before the show went on air. Then Rocket Man texted me, asking me where I was. After a few more SMS exchanges he began whining about our common lack of a lovelife. Not-so-subtly I hinted how he need not look farther and that a love might just be around. He asked who it could be, and not willing to dish out more bull, I just told him to go to sleep instead.

A few nights later, I agreed to meet up with my friend and ex-officemate Ryan, who took me to Runes, where Kit's bash was held last August. That night, I got drunk again. And in keeping with our pattern, where we exchange messages whenever either one of us is drunk, I sent him a message. I asked him point blank: "Bakit ba ayaw mo sa akin?"

"Sabi ng kaibigan ko, kung gusto ko daw ng love, wag ko karirin. Tulog na ko."

It was evasive, ascerbic and I was honestly pissed off. He must have noticed because the next time I saw him we barely talked and he later texted me asking me if I was angry at him. I lied, said no, he accepted it, and said he would (finally) lend me his copy of Veronika Decides to Die.

And that was the end of that. The next time I saw him the excitement was gone. I realize that unlike him, I face up to how I really feel, regardless whether I feel good or bad. I don't run away from my emotions. Of course, this is not to say I haven't been there, but I don't want to be with someone who is emotionally dishonest, either. So with that letdown I decided he'd be better off joining the growing ranks of my friends instead.

Nowadays, when it rains I still manage a smile and rethink of that episode at Mocha Blends. It's all so funny now, really, because I finally understand what the weather was telling me back then. But for now I choose to keep it as a secret between me and the rain.

Scarecrow

How often are we allowed to feel a love so intense it consumes us and lead us to think we'll never be able to feel that same way about anybody else for the rest of our lives?

In an episode of Nip/Tuck, I see Sean in a hotel room with Megan O'Hara, with whom he is having an affair. Terminally ill, she wants to do away with all the mess of dying when she knows the end result anyway. She asks Sean to be there with her when she breathes her last.

Which is how Sean McNamara ends up in the hotel room with her where she writes a note to her husband and children, then lies down in bed, takes down a handful of sleeping pills and then puts on a plastic bag over her head. In all the while, Sean watches.

"Goodbye Scarecrow, I'll miss you the most," she said, her eyes falling under the weight of the choice she has made, before pulling her away from consciousness into where only she will ultimately know.

Megan's choices are not to be valorized, nor justified. Least of all because she does not exist in real life, though there are those who have made the same choices she had. But what about Sean? He is the one who has to live with Megan's choices in his mind. Megan, good soul that she is, said it best. Don't remember how it ends. Think about how it started and all the things in between. Remember those and you'll do fine.

These were the same words I said one rainy Thursday night while talking over crepes and apple cider juice with E. in a place called Cafe Breton over at Morato. I guess she's right, I say. It really doesn't matter how a relationship ends. What's important is what you get out of it and all the good times that you had in between the start and end.

E. is feeling depressed, not knowing what had happened to Cholo. It has been quite some time since she'd cut all communications with him, not because of a bad break-up. Far from it. In fact, E. says she'll probably never meet anyone like Cholo in her life.

What he said he likes about me is that I let him be who he is, with no pressure and no expectations, she says. I let him be a kid, E. says. Secretly, I had always envied E. From what she tells me, it seemed like a carefree, easygoing, mirthful and enjoyable relationship. Something I so desperately seek or am not able to do in my own relationships.

There was a time, when Cholo's cousin called up E. and begged her to dissuade him from drag racing because it's hgh-risk. She refuses. I let him do what he wants, she says, why should I tell him how to live his life? Their set-up, in other words, was one bereft of petty fights because they dealt with each other as they were. How often does that happen in our relationships?

Not often, I guess. So imagine how it must have been for E. to find out that the one guy she thinks fits her well had a terminal case of bone marrow cancer. They cut off communication at one point when it just seemed like things were taking a turn for the worse. He didn't want her see him go through the things Megan wanted to do away with when she took her own life. The effects of chemotherapy, the weakness from all the medicines, and the terrible, terrible headaches. So for months E. carried on with her life, but not only in one instance did she tell me how no one that came along afterwards could compare to Cholo. My advice: keep him in the back of your mind and live your life.

She tried, but the bad news came recently.

There's just too many songs out there that remind me of him, she says. It's a good thing you didn't become friends with him, or else I would have been forced to cut off my ties with you too because you would have only reminded me of him, E. tells me. Her words packed a wallop.
It got me thinking -- beyond remembering, how does one deal with a love that's buried six feet under?

Much has been said about falling in love, meeting that one person to risk your everything for, and an equal amount has been said about sorries and goodbyes, and tearful rejections and separations. And to be sure there have been stories before about what happens to love, beyond this place of existence.

As for my friend E., I'd like to know two things. How she will carry on, and whether she'll ever be inspired by anyone else the same way. For the moment we refuse to talk about it. It's better that way. Her loss is a deeply personal struggle for which I can only try to put together some words to make sense of it and console her. In the meantime, I ask myself: How does one really say goodbye to love, when life steps in and says "Sorry. This is as far as your years will allow you to go."?

Hopefully when E. asks me I can have the answer.

This Year

"All the planets are lining up for me. This year, I'm going to have fun." - Chantal Kreviazuk

***

Emily Saliers pleaded with the resting soul of Galileo to tell her exactly how long till her soul gets it right. I often find myself asking the same question. Who wants to live a life and have to look back at nothing but mistakes, right?

I feel like my life choices have been more frequently wrong than right. Thinking like this makes me think that what I've done with my life so far doesn't amount to much.

Thus, when someone asks me where I went to school and what I took up, I say "UP Masscomm lang." and then I quickly add "Ah, it took me six years to get out of there. My grades were embarassing."

Someone asks me where I work, and I say "Ah, I work for a Congresswoman." and then I add, "Ghost writer lang ako."

Someone asks me if I'm dating somebody and I say "Naaah. Masyadong busy. Saka wala namang nagkakagusto sa akin."

Sometimes, when I listen to myself, I want to puke. I often forget that even though it took me six years to finish college, it wasn't because I was lazy. It was because I was a working student. I didn't depend on anybody for my degree, I worked my ass off for it.

I'm ashamed of my grades, yet I conveniently forget that my learning wasn't strictly conducted within the confines of a classroom. I was out there in the streets doing what a lot of people my age are scared of doing: dissing the establishment.

And I guess working for a Congresswoman is nothing to be ashamed of. She speaks my words -- my words are in her statements and in her speeches. She's speaking in my language!

And as for the love department, well, okay, THAT one needs a little bit of work. But in all humility, the few brave souls who dared can't accuse me of being a lousy lover.

So I guess I really should kick myself in the rear everytime I try to put me down. If I do that then who else is going to do my P.R. work for me, right? I guess I should stop measuring my worth against the yardstick of my mistakes. I didn't turn out all that bad! Sure, I have a long way to go but damn it, don't feel sorry for yourself, dude!

If I am to go by Paolo Coelho's words then there must indeed be a reason for everything. Though I stumble and fall, it can only mean that when I do get it right then it will be worth it.

So what if I'm not perfect? My life choices may not have been for the best. They may have been ill-thought of. They might not have given me the things other people have but take for granted: a committed relationship, a glamorous paycheck, fame, cars and credit cards, a blurb on the lifestyle section of the Philippine Star or a billboard with my name in neon lights along EDSA.

But for a moment I can take a deep breath and thank whoever is up there for what I do HAVE: friends who accept me for who I am, a family that has taught me what it means to be a decent, respectful citizen, a mind that can think for itself, convictions that inspire me to look at the world beyond my own concerns, a house I can still afford to pay and where I can always rest my weary head, food on the table three times a day and simply the chance to breathe the air again and again with each new day.

Hope is a neglected lover, Negativity a seductive mistress, and I have much to apologize for my indiscretions.

So this year will be a year in which I will deal with the cards I'm dealt. Of course there will still be tough times ahead, but so what. I say 'bring it on'. I look forward to what challenges are lined up for the next twelve months.

This year will be a year in which I will stop singing love songs to no one. The world is a rhapsody of so many tunes, and surely there are better songs out there that are not just about men and their mysterious ways.

This year will be a year in which I will also step up and step out. No more shirking from responsibilities. Just this morning I took up a part-time engagement with an NGO where I will be doing some additional media work, and I am excited by the idea of working on agrarian reform issues.

Just a couple of weeks ago, I left the safety of my comfort zone and went out with complete strangers and actually had a great time hanging out with the people from Amnesty International. It really pays to expand your social horizon. Surprise, surprise, the world is indeed a bigger place than Friendster, adn I even got the chance to meet a crush!

This year will be a year in which I will also pay more attention to feeling good about myself physically and sartorially. Okay, this sounds shallow but the grungy-fashionably-sensitive-but-too-cool-to-care attitude is just so 90s, and it has got to go. Just a little tweaking here and there but I'll still be the same old me. Hopefully with ripped abs, to boot.

This year will also be a year in which I will tear down some walls that refuse to come down between me and my brother. I barely know him, yet I love him, simply because he IS my brother and nothing will change that. Libya might be a universe away, but there's always e-mail.

All in all, I think 27 will be a nicer place than 26. Not much will change, for sure. There will still be bills to pay, and on top of that an amortization to cover. But as I've said before, I'll be damned if I don't at least try. I feel good about 27. It's like a personal turning point from the angst, confusion, senselessness, anger and bitterness of 26, 25, 24, 23 and 22. And if I find myself standing on 30 and alone and want to kill myself then I hope I'll have 27 to look back to as the age when I finally stood up and said "I can make it on my own, so quit whining and just keep moving on."

How bold, eh? But true. I honestly feel good after some time. So much so that I can finally declare: my own private quarter-life crisis is over. I can't wait for the next quarter to begin.