I remember a FedEx commercial which shows breath-taking scenes of how they bait a potential recruit. It’s funny, but I cannot quite be sure about certain details since they stopped airing it some years ago. But if my memory serves me right, it stars an everyman who, oblivious of the scheme, manages to outsmart every difficult situation prearranged for him by FedEx. He finally ends up being snatched by men from inside the company’s truck. What a great catch. He deserves a job inarguably. But we are left forever unsure of whether that man needs a job, whether he likes the suddenness of it. Nevertheless, it is one of my all-time favorite 30-seconders.

Earlier today, while I’m in my locked-up isolation contemplating solitude itself, I chanced upon an old paperback that begs to be salvaged. Because my mother likes to trash kilograms of papers my five years in youth council had amassed, and because she does not distinguish between the disposable and reusable documents, I decided to scavenge the plastic bag to which she stacks all the potential candidates for the trash bin and hoped I could pick-up something of value. There I found the book along with some science journals, office documents, assorted billings, subpoenas from Smartbro’s smart-ass law partners, personal notes, etc. Thouless’ Straight and Crooked Thinking outshines the rest. Something in its cover told me I would need it and it paid to trust that instinct. The book discusses how to get rid or to counter sophisms and other intellectual dishonesties. Interesting, I thought. And after reading the first half of it, I realized how I suck at analogies; that my analogies are forced, forceless and fuzzy; that my last entry contains such, and therefore is utterly nonsensical. By the way, I haven’t given up on analogies.

There’s something in that ambush-hiring extravaganza I mentioned in the beginning that resembles my current affairs of the heart. One and probably foremost is that, I did not seek this love I have right now. It sought me. It lurked from a distance and grabbed me with a force of a black hole the moment it had the slightest of chances. The man in the ad did not fill up a form, neither did he fall in a long queue of sweating applicants, nor did he wait for his turn to impress an employer. He did not seek a job, it is the other way around. The man writing now did not schedule a plan, did not wear any guise, did not put up a trick towards winning her girl.

Now a question: Do I place an instant job and my instant girlfriend in the same level of significance?

My answer is yes.

Because landing a spot at an express delivery company, one of the biggest in the world if not the biggest; one of the most trusted if not the most trusted; is only, and will remain only, a dream for many other hard-working, meager-earning proletarians. Likewise a beautiful lady landing into your hands, a lady whose family owns a big fraction of an entire province, whose family with its equals dictates the political climate of this country, whose material worth is matched with her exemplary virtues (and exemplary bosoms), proof to it is her choice to become independent, to secure several jobs outside the country just so she can sustain the various charity works she had been doing so quietly, is only, and will remain only, a fantasy for many hard-wanking mediocrities of this earth. The man in the ad is skilled with solving the physical riddles of everyday encounters, I don’t know if I am as impressive enough in solving whatever riddled her. At least in her eyes, I delivered well.

But there’s the rub. In the ad we are left clueless about the readiness of the man to accept the very challenging job. Or does he really need a job? Granting that he was scouted and found to be an honest, skillful gentleman who seems in need of a livelihood; still, no one can be sure what goes around inside his head. He maybe in a financial low, but who knows if he adheres to his ascetic nature and does not want anything more than a simple living like that of, let’s say, a plumber? There are maybes. Of course they cannot tell the whole story in 30 seconds. And if ever there is a story behind that, they should have made a film instead, which would be soppy and stupid nonetheless. I know I am beginning to sound hilariously speculative. The purpose of the ad is focused solely with showing that they employ only the best, it is not inclined with pandering to the great many possibilities of human nature. It is pointless to broaden its meaning. But then we really love to think that the man in the ad took the offer, did well in the training course, gradually coped with the new working environment and finally learned to price and love the job which he now believes to have come to him thru the grace of heaven.

For analogy’s sake, I have to say that no one can be sure what goes around inside my head too. I am in a financial low, but I tend to adhere to my hermetic nature. Do I really want more than a simple lifestyle like that of, let’s say a writer? Am I ready for a steady, serious relationship? Do I like the suddenness of things? Can I survive the demands of time?

Two weeks ago, I wrote about something like: give me this break that I want. With break I meant I have to gather myself up first, to adapt with the new template caused by her sudden omnipresence. She gave me a break and waited with utmost fidelity. Now I slowly recover from thick surprises. I should then consider that all the everyday squabbles we have is just a part of my training course, designed for a novice lover. As novice pilots too undergo drills to master the unpredictables of the altitude.

By accepting the love, her love, I am bound to accept the terms and agreements attached therewith. That first, I will undergo a training, to prepare me for a plunge into the realms of emotional commitments. Them I will do my best to carry out the duties of love with pride, honesty and loyalty. And finally, despite great distance and great obstacles, I will live to deliver that love, complete and exact.

Slow boiling rather than microwave heat, Prof. Randy David ended his article succinctly. He was talking about the people’s outrage against misrule and why the church is not to be blamed with its less than explicit call for the people to once again mount another uprising in EDSA. I do not agree with him completely, but it will bore you if I attempt to give a critique on a socio-political theory. I have to admit that I am yet to have the mental faculties to expound on that subject. Instead, I will just borrow the professor’s analogy for another topic I love to discuss today: love.

Sociologists speak of people power fatigue, that the boiling point of the masses has increased with time; the noise of street protests and the heat of critical clamor will fail short in bringing the public into the, well, boiling point. It is also believed that a heart that has already experienced several tragedies would require a longer period of rest before it can love again. (Right?) Because the two EDSA revolts proved no reward other than another tyrant, the people has grown cynical about such political surgery; the removal of malignant rulers who eat the flesh and the bones of this country. Same thing can be observed with people who have loved again and again only to end up sorry, they grow cynical about the process of love, and they will never rush again. I don’t know. Such is not my case.

Last week, 12th of this month, marked the first month of my boyfriendhood. I confess, I have never been a boyfriend before. Not with any girls that came my way and shared my orbit. When it comes to romance, I was a conservative. I always demanded that friendship must first be a springboard to whatever depths the relationship wishes to delve into. Although it proved counter-effective, I am not utterly dismissing it. My girlfriend and I agreed not to hasten the ripening of our long-distance affair. With friendship as the prologue, we believe that our story of love promises to be a long, great read. Back to sociology. I do not believe in people power fatigue. I mean, I do not believe we should ever get tired of getting actively involved with such a democratic exercise that aims to remedy the ills of government. When we feel like taking a shit, we do not delay it until it boils inside; we dump it asap in abidance with natural orders. We do not think twice whether the last trips to the toilet made us objectively better. We delay justice, we deny it. By choosing to stay apathetic, we are only feeding the beasts that will devour us. And so with love, however drastic our history with falling in and out of it, we should never get tired and resign. Whenever it knocks, we shouldn’t think twice whether or not the last visitors to grace our hearts made us objectively better. This is not to say that rushing in is fine, a little calculation in everything is always better. I just warn against the cold cynicism that could prevent us from experiencing the magical feeling of love, a love that inspire us to live optimistically, to always change for the better.

Change is evident with me since Ann came. I feel taller. No, I am taller. Not that I gained several inches, but because the heaven feels so much closer now to my reach. How phenomenal it is to love and be loved. This, I guess, is the true people power. The capacity of people to oust the agonies that misgovern their hearts and to rally their spirits into chasing the sentinels of grief away so that they may wallow from the wellspring of love at last. And those who do not have the courage to stand against the evils of state and of the heart, deserve not the blessings of justice, and love.

Happy 2nd birthday to my nephew, Bonbon.

It took me half an hour to find something that resembles a pen since I’ve given up the hope to find a real one. I write now using my mother’s eyeliner. Hell, I do not intend to write such an introduction. I wanted to begin outright with: Whammy, I’m sorry. We’re nearing our monthsary but I seem to have shut all the possible entry for our contact. But half an hour wasted on an effort to find a pen already has frustrated me. I have not only a ruffled house; I also have a ruffled mind right now. In the absence of a PC, I have no choice but to resort to the primitiveness of pen and paper, without backspace, without shift + F7—notice how I lacked another word for ruffled. I am sorry. My house seems to have learned how to get even with me, as what happens in a certain children’s story where the young boy reaps the vengeance of the things he didn’t take good care of. Everything here eludes me, everything I need would suddenly vanish. A book by Patrick Suskind for instance, when I decided to finish it, disappeared. As if the book knows too much about the ZTE-NBN scandal. The SIM card on my wallet, the wallet on my pants, my pants on the laundry, they all disappeared as if they are deemed by the government to be collaborative witnesses that will testify before the senate. Even the TV has gradually lost reception. Worst of all, my cat has lost control to defecate outside. What a sorry life indeed inside a house where a family is missing, things are missing, pens are missing. The original sweetness of thoughts I mean for this letter is missing. Now I have to find that too, my dear. In a matter of minutes, I’ll find the words. Or I’ll just take a long pause and close my eyes to feel this room, which is filled with emptiness you can never know. It misses familiar sounds and shadows. It misses your call, the distinct sound of your voice over the loudspeaker of whoever’s phone I could borrow, your soul emerging from the background of live hospital actions: the shrieks and songs of the patients, the clatter of medicine bottles, the staccato of your footsteps while doing the rounds. There is great distance between us, beyond geographical distance, that can never be denied. Our age, our culture, our family values, our worth according to the universal currency—no wonder everyone objects to our love. Everyone tends to complain when one is being too lucky; yet you stood steadily for me all the while. But then finally, I’m sorry that I have to be sorry for a while. I’m afraid that in this mess of a life I have right now, I could also but misplace my heart. My love will stay I swear; just give me this break that I want.

Was it Tanya Garcia I saw ambling, looking around across the literary section of a bookstore, picking a Murakami and putting it back after ten seconds, turning her head on me in a jiffy before picking another Murakami, some lazy afternoon? I don’t know, I should have asked. Why was she wearing thick sunglasses? I suppose she continues to languish after Mark Lapid failed to defend his post in Pampanga against a vitiligoed priest, and, failed further to become a father to her newborn child. That makes her cry every night, that makes her eyes swell every morning. That makes her wear sunglasses. Along with that, depression makes her anew; it introduced to her, no, not booze and joint– she already knew those–books; the solace of fiction, the taste for art. And I really hope I was not mistaken. It was Tanya Garcia on a skimpy pink satin dress. She better not become another broken angel; like Farina’s Carlson or Kenndy’s Monroe, just to name a few. I think of her, I think of this now: people in power get the girl(s) they like, get the guy(s) they want, for a fuck, that’s a fact. But for love, so seldom. And in my glooming life comes Ann, she comes from a political clan, not in Aklan. She said mariage to her family is but a business; an integration of assets, never merely a union of souls. Every dynasty wants to grow, that sometime it prohibits the heart to choose. I know, at first she just wanted to defy such custom. But as we moved on, so suddenly she became the lightning that stroke a fierce protest, then followed the thunder that sounded like: BUM!