Sunday night self-destructive thoughts

It’s probably because moments ago it was Sunday. It must have been the fear I have of Monday. Or the report I have not even started because I love screwing myself by procrastination, which, feels so good all the time, only for these undone work to haunt me in the middle of the week. But the reason isn’t in any of those I mentioned.

I’ve been unfamiliar with this emotion that I thought I had ceased feeling sadness. But I hadn’t. It took a hiatus only to surprise me tonight. And I saw myself laid bare, unable to protect myself from it. I slept, for two hours, only to wake up still with a lingering feeling of that utter, unexplainable bleeding inside. I attempted in vain to comprehend where it’s coming from. Is it solitude? Idleness? Or an emptiness that sprung from a void I’ve never bothered filling in.

I texted my mother several times, but she seemed to be preoccupied with her own concerns. I didn’t want to bother my brother. And my sister was dating a high school fling. I tried looking outside my small window, trying to find the reason for what I felt from the unflickering lights of the huge metropolis, but I felt emptier all the more. I leafed some pages of a borrowed book but I gave up as soon as the words started dancing erratically before me.

I am indulging far too much. And it is easy to do a free fall in this infinite pit of self-destructive sadness.

I will never be able to resolve this article just like the rest, those that were recently written. Because even if I try to convince myself that I left scot-free that, that I moved on after that break up, I am as bruised, as hurt. I guess one can never say ‘I was hurt more’ because in the end, getting hurt is a shared experience, but unlike love, it is selfishly kept. Pain, sadness, they are far more complex than any emotions there is.

But while they hurt us like hell, we can’t deny that inside, we somehow enjoy them. We love being miserable.

Negotiated infidelity

I just love the phrase and the cleverness of its construction that gives rise to multifarious nuances. This I got from an Australian woman who practices this with her boyfriend. They were featured in one of National Geographic’s Taboo series. Although it takes a pailful of yellow guts to be able to swallow a relational contract like this, it seemed to me quite plausible (and worth considering). Nevertheless, I, of course, do not see myself a participant in this very pragmatic if not out-rightly libertine view on sex and human relation.

Negotiated infidelity at its very core works something like this: Both man and woman in a romantic relationship (man-man, woman-woman are other possibilities) can have sex with other people so long as the either of them has full knowledge of the encounter and so long as there is no intimacy (i.e., (as defined by the Australian woman whose collagen-stuffed lips twitched while explaining this part) cuddling, spooning, and sleeping next to the third party participant). It has to be only just about sex and must not go farther than blissful orgasm.

I believe some would argue that the phrase is reeking with parallel irony, impossible in fact, that is, if we stick to the strictest definition of ‘fidelity’ (faithfulness and loyalty), but one cannot deny that the concept has merits worth looking-into. With an almost clinical explanation, the woman (apologies if I kept on repeating ‘the woman’, I did not get her name, not that I think she’s a lose woman therefore ought to be burned at the stake) said that monogamy is not natural for men. So instead of crying in the corner and blaming the world for her failed past relations, negotiated infidelity gave her a renewed outlook on life. Deeply satisfied, her boyfriend and she regularly invite people to their place to have sex with either of them. Her boyfriend reads book  in the living room while she’s being humped by a man she met in a bar a week before, or she polishes her toenails in the other room while her boyfriend and a bespectacled woman are on their way to seventh heaven (if such exists).

I love how the phrase sounds and the darkness it conjures while its meaning is rather too clear for the word to qualify as a legitimate euphemism.

I am looking for ways to answer a lot of questions that bother me these days, questions I do not know exactly what, much less phrase them articulately, and along came negotiated infidelity. Not that these questions have to do with matters concerning my sex life (or romantic life), though some of them have, what the idea taught me is that having our minds boxed in well-defined compartments can be brain-deadening. It’s a fresh perspective that came from a totally old reality ordinary people in a relationship confront.

Infidelity is taboo in a civilized society. It is taboo, I think, because it challenges the pair groups that have been the very foundation of human societies which are fundamentally based on monogamous heterosexual union. However, the world does not keep itself from changing. It constantly evolves into something completely unrecognizable to those who lived decades ago. I am not saying this is a better alternative to the constricting monogamy for I know man is capable of coming up with novel ideas that work without compromising his tightly-held values.

In the mean time, negotiated infidelity is sort of exciting and interesting.


We are all drifters, said a forgotten philosopher who to his dying days begrudged the fact that he will to eternity not have the honor to own the profoundly beautiful quote, ownership being nothing but an illusion he can only marvel at but never truly touch.

It is unliterary to begin a decent story with a dilemma of the possibility of an impossibility, or like the local myth of Bernardo Carpio, to remain etched on the boulders he meant to have separated using nothing but naked force, unmoving, passe, uninteresting, both boulders and myth. And the man named Carpio.

Or walking naked in the house, drinking milk from its carton, letting some of the white liquid drip to the chests and run like midsummer rain. Only to be licked by an irked Cheshire cat.

Thoughts on sex (Part 2)

This is an addendum to Somebody’s thoughts on sex (Part 1)

“You told me it is not anymore important to you.”

“Yes, but it does not mean it is not anymore important. It definitely is, still.”

I have nothing against constricting my sex life in a straitjacket, or more appropriately a chastity belt, as this is a normal consequence when one gets himself involved in a strictly monogamous union. I welcome this as a restful respite from years of reckless abandon and unhinged debauchery. Sometimes I already find it hard to see my old self in the context of my new life. As if out of whim, but definitely a result of careful introspection, I woke up one day and came up with this foolish idea of denouncing promiscuity and sticking to the one person whom I derive sexual pleasure from and with.

When it stops being cheap, sex gains the greatest of values — bliss.

I remember writing ‘off to my third job’ (I currently hold four) as a Facebook status recently. A female college friend left a comment asking me ‘Wala ka na na social life, Fev, eh? (Do you still have a social life, Fev?).’ I remember how I used to equate social life with sex life and that the only meaningful form of socialization, excluding, of course, with my family, friends, students, and the people I work with in academe, is having sex with the other party. I, however, avoided having sex with another party if the other party happened to be coming from a different species, of supernatural origin, or a non-living thing.

Aside from finally deciding to retire from the repetitive courtship game of luring and being lured because it has gone tiring, stressful, I eventually felt that I derived nothing from it but dirty pleasures and the icky feeling of having contracted something malevolent such as syphilis, herpes, or worse, HIV.

But I guess this is the normal progression of things. When one grows old, he realizes there are things more important and interesting than getting laid.

A romance with public toilets

My job this summer requires me to travel to different places every day. It means waking up before five in the morning if I have to go as far as Batangas or just before six if my destination is to the nearby province of Cavite or Quezon City. Although traveling to these places puts on me an unimaginable level of stress, the pay compensates for all the hassles so much so that I am willing to give up little comforts such as having extra hours of sleep, eating my breakfast of corned beef and sunny side-up eggs, and a nice time spent sitting on that ceramic throne while reading yesterday’s paper.

The first two I am willing to let go. But my affinity to the third morning habit in the list has become too strong that I felt evolution had hard-wired it to me with such exaggerated gusto that it is impossible for me to vary the routine.

I wake up every day with a hope that my body has finally coped with my changed schedule of two months, that it will rid itself of harmful waste bound to poison it, and that it will do this fifteen minutes after I wake up, but to no avail. I’ve already done everything my resources can allow like increasing my fiber intake, drinking lots of fluids, even meditation, but none seems to work.

So I leave for work downtrodden and distraught at the feeling that I have not been successful in taking full control of my own body. But what is more distressful is the idea that my body mocks me and plays with my vulnerability.

Right after the first gush of frigid blows from the bus air-con hit my skin, the world begins to take a different hue and a more sinister character. I automatically become a different man oblivious of anything but the odd feeling in my mid-section. Coupled with my rich imagination I conjure images in my mind that are too vulgar to be written here.

That evolutionary mechanism I’ve been hopelessly summoning an hour ago while in the bathroom makes its presence felt right when I need it the least.

Modern societies do not think of this bodily process an apt topic for writing much less for a meaningful conversation unless the involved parties are doctors of internal medicine or philosophers in search of the best analogy for life. In fact, in some cultures, this subject is taboo that members have to devise euphemism if only to cover up for the ‘unmentionable’, which explains the overuse of pronouns to take the place of this unwanted antecedent.

Because of the torturous feeling and indescribable angst, these moments of helplessness might have given the world’s most notorious terrorists and suicide bombers the most ingenious plans and ideas in materializing their plans to change the world in however they deemed appropriate when they were right in the middle of the endeavor. Any normal human being will think of the worst things about mankind in general if confronted with this dire situation.

As in all things, succumbing to the powerful pull of gravity can be the only way to go. With no choice left but to find the nearest encampment, I would pretend to be an innocent customer of a diner, eat my breakfast meal as fast as I can, and head to the safest place, my enclave.

There I passionately evacuate all my fears, hopes, aspiration, shame, pride, lust, (you may complete the list of the seven deadly sins here) down the sucking vortex of nothingness. There I feel that I am indeed a free individual who can do whatever he wants, uninhibited by any external force that will curtail his much valued liberty and pursuit of his personal happiness.

However the fragility of the supposed freedom disturbs me. The fact that I have to conduct my search in such clandestine a manner makes me question the fundamental grounds where this freedom rests.

If I look at defecation and public toilets in the perspective of romance, of love, then things are bound to change. Liberty is a shaky business, but romance isn’t.

I am beginning to love public toilets because they may not give me a clean welcome but they allow me to trust them.

Clandestine or not, they willingly open themselves to me. There is no challenge so big and so insurmountable that they cannot handle. Had I been a philosopher, it wouldn’t have taken me long to find the perfect analogy for existence, love, and life. I would have easily found this comparison in the whiteness and coldness of the porcelain seats in public toilets. They are perpetually forgiving  and do not keep grudges. They unconditionally forget the shortcomings done to them. And they love as unconditionally.

Kailan ito hihinto?

May mga paglalakbay tayo na lubhang nakababagot, may mga maiikling paglalakad sa parke o tabing dagat na kawili-wili. At di rin mabilang ang mga paglalakbay na dahil sa kung makailang beses na nating gawin at tahakin ay parang hindi na natin pansin ang anumang emosyong kaakibat nito na gawa marahil ng kompulsyon, madalas ay hindi na natin hindi naiisip ang mga tanawin, mga taong katabi at kasama sa paglalakbay, o ang dampi ng hangin habang tayo’y nakaupo, nakatayo, o nakasabit sa dyip o bus.

Noong mga unang taon ko sa kolehiyo, aliw na aliw ako sa tuwing sumasakay ako ng dyip papuntang Miagao, minsan nilalabas ko pa ang aking ulo at kamay upang damhin ang malamig na samyo ng hangin. Hindi ko inalintana ang sobrang bilis na pagmamaneho ng tsuper na sa isang maling pihit lamang ay maaring wakas na ng aking masayang paglalakbay. Kahit kadalasan ay siksikan sa loob kasama ang ibang mga pasahero, gulay, mga pinamiling gamit sa bahay, at mga tandang sa loob ng kulungan nitong alambre, hindi ako nawalan ng ganang umuwi ng lungsod pagsapit ng Biyernes dahil nasasabik akong muling sumakay ng dyip.Binigyan ako ng bawat paglalakbay sa loob ng dyip ng isang di maipaliwanag na ‘high’ na hindi kayang ibigay ng pagsusulat, pagbabasa, o seks.

Paglipas ng halos limang taong pagtahak sa parehong daan, pagdaan ng tingin sa mga hindi-nagbabagong tanawin at pare-parehong pagal na mukha ng mga taong nakatira sa tabing-daan naglalakad patungo sa kung saan, at pagsakay sa pare-parehong dyip, nitong hapon, habang inihahanda ko ang aking mga gamit, libro, at damit na susuutin para sa linggong ito, at muling pagsakay ng dyip patungong Miagao, nakaramdam ako ng pagkapagod. Hindi ito pisikal na pakapagod. Ito’y pagkapagod na bunga ng pagkabagot. Na sa kabila ng pagpupumilit kong maging masaya sa loob ng dyip, may mga bagay talaga na isusuka na ng aking kaluluwa.

Nais kong iliko, ihinto, o ibunggo ang dyip na sinasakyan ko. Sa ngayon ay inaalam ko pa kung paano.

In and on love: delirious ramblings written on the eve of Valentine’s

I love as if it is my last day alive. I am never scared to risk it all for love. I love to love because the act of loving is more than a reason to fall in love and to remain in love. I am confident that all the people I loved in the past and the person I love now never complained and will never complain that I lacked passion, that I did not love them with fiery intensity, only the opposite, that I loved them too much. Love propels me to reach for higher grounds, to do things beyond my human abilities. Love may have caused my past follies as to write the most prosaic of poetry, but my best prose was made poetic by love.

I am the happiest when I am in love. I walk with insouciance, almost flying; I defy gravity. When I am in love, all the food I eat taste like my mother’s specialty dish; I finish all the books I read; a ‘hard read’ isn’t true; I write in the most fluid of manner, unblocking my constant writer’s block; I lift the heaviest of weights, run the longest mile, and swim the most laps; I hug the tightest. I kiss the wettest.

When I am in love, my hypothalamus hypertrophies to a size bigger than my skull, my heart beats so powerfully that I fear it’ll rip my ribcage from inside, that member stands most proudly (its hardness and length rival that of my femur).

When I am in love, this one without any attempt on exaggeration, I become a better version of myself.

I don’t stutter when I am in love. I am calm when I am in love (like a cold gush of wind from an evening breeze). I chew my food slowly when I am in love. I imagine I look good when I am in love. I listen more, talk less when I am, of course, in love.

When I am in love, I quit being sarcastic. I cut on my acrid remarks, dramatically doing away with my often sardonic way of laughing when I think that the world has become hyperbolically un-clever. I become nice, even nicer than a nice cup of tea. I knowingly leave my stiff upper-lip on a train to Stratford-upon-Avon and from there totally forget about it. I become warm, warm enough to boil water 24,000 ft above sea level.

I am not irritable when it’s Valentine’s Day. I look forward to it like how I did for Christmas when I was seven, that is, if I am in love. Like today.

I want to remain in love, to love until the world gets fed up and decides to burn me in stake because of this love. There’s no sweeter reason for dying than to die for love.

And no better reason for living than to live for love and the person I love.