We expect those we love to show us, by their actions, the depth and complexity of their inner world, not the broad practicalities of their material situation.

—Love in the Time of Migration, Randy David

An hour before we leave, I still have my things unpacked. I don’t know what to write, how to bid adieu to Olongapo. Mama is biting her nails now, worrying that I might have gone somewhere so as to miss the trip. I don’t want to miss the trip, what I don’t want is to miss the opportunity to reveal my secrets to a friend. I never had the courage to do that but now. Some kind of courage a migrant can depend on, as when it knows it can get away with the probability of an unwanted child after a good, irresponsible fuck. So I am here in my favorite internet shop, to tell her everything in a hurry. After all, I’ll be gone for some time, away from the claws of responsibility to such a bold action, away from her further scrutiny, away from a backlash of words. I though it will feel better, but after a while, I just realized how coward I was all along, how coward I am up to now. I opt to fly against the rush of the wind. But I guess I can’t tell you why at this juncture. Time is not my friend today, I better tender my valediction.

There is nothing in Olongapo I will miss but a handful of friends, and this particular seat at this particular internet shop. Needless to say, I will miss chatting. They say, technology has yet to reach our province, that in order to connect with the world, I have to take a one-hour ride to the city, which I won’t do anyways. I need to miss it, and be missed. Mushy is at stake, there is no contact whatsoever, we will rely with spiritual communication.

Yesterday while my mom is packing her things, I saw a bayong beside her traveling bag. You know what kind of bayong I’m talking about, just imagine Caridad Sanches and her movies. We are not going to drag that with us, I told her. If you think it looks funny then I won’t ask you to carry it, she replied with a neutral voice. When I think of it now, I see her as a shining example of humility. She can afford to get better, fancier things, but she stick to her nature. Simple and practical, a mark of a genuine probinsyana. Tantamount to that of Ka-Bel, he can afford to hire a carpenter to fix the roof but…

I love my mom, I love her probinsyana tendency. Apart from the serenity of Leyte, I hope to find friendships there from people of the same frugal nature. Leyte will serve a break from the clichés and monotony of the city, it will serve me a boundless inspiration to write. To meditate about life.

Ciao. Catch you all soon. I will tell you my stories as soon as I get back to cyber life.

Dear Mushy,

Eleven days after I’ve lost Ann to a white vulture, you came. Actually, you came way back long. It is our love that followed through just recently. People shrug it off, the idea that I am able to perfect another love so easily. That is not very Lolito Go, they say. Yes, that is very mushy, I say. Somehow, mushy is a self-critical term of endearment, beside the fact that it is a derivative shortcut for mushroom. Our love like a mushroom, materialized from nowhere.

My friendster profile has never been viewed this often. In a span of two weeks, it already has more than 200 hits. Phenomenal indeed. How about you, are you selling well? Contrary to what many would like to believe, we didn’t want any hullabaloo. Tired hearts need not the public eye; we can make better use of the gloomy hours can’t we? You concentrate on photo editing, I’ll write poems, and songs. I understand should they cast doubts to our romance, for they themselves are guilty of some cheap friendster tricks every once in a while. Just look at the bulletin board. Look at how they title their inanities. If there is anything we are really guilty of, it lies on the fact that we are both proud of each other. We are both enough for each other, which helped us eliminate the troubles of picking six featured friends and arranging them either according to importance or feng shui. We only have each other for now, and we choose to proclaim that mutual exclusivity, which stirs some minor chain effect. As we expected, closer friends responded first. Some even went as far as rubbing their noses on the mushroom, inspected it closely, whether it is edible or not, natural or cultured. Inadvertently, this has come to test the sensibilities of our friends, especially in my case. Is it too much for them to ask me what ever happened to Ann? How did it go for us? Did we meet? Why not? Will I be okay? Is mushy just a coping mechanism? To fill an emotional cavity? It could have felt better for me if they let their concerns heard. I wouldn’t mind if they accuse me of making you up, at least they are concerned. For those who cared less, I will never be the same for them again. Never.

You have been what they failed to become as a friend. A human diary. You keep one of the most climactic chapters of my biography. Conversely, you let me inside your world where no one else had ever been before. A hostage then, a captive of your own doubts, you let me in to be an accidental negotiator, when all I wanted originally is just a solace in the jungle of your despair.

Our story is not unusual anymore. Especially when technology is now capable of bridging two bored, bitter or battered individuals in Paris and Timbuktu, in Samar and Kiribati. Nothing is out of reach. More especially when technology has made it possible for a kiss or a hug to be virtually felt through emoticons. Most especially when technology has given us the power to concoct as many personalities as we can for ourselves with a little help from Adobe magic seasoning.

A cyber romance is never guaranteed to last. Never mind lasting, just mind being realized. This love we have, only time can test. If after some years, when we are both professionals, and our paths will cross somewhere, and we still feel the same intensity of connection, then we probably should make a home: plants surrounding the perimeter, butterflies flutter in perfect cadence, our children marching to Mozart symphonies, their laughter thinning out into elemental hopes, dissolving into the air. Otherwise we stay friends.

Still, a lot of things can happen. Your seatmate in biology class could become your future love. I could still work some miracles to win my ideal girl, you know who she is. That separates us from other cyberlovers; we are not under the illusion that this love is invincible. What’s important is I can promise to take care of your heart, as much as you take care of mine.

1. I went to Air Supply Subic concert. Not one of my favorite bands, but still they are The Air Supply. We grew up with their music. They gave us classic singles such as All Out of Love, Chances, I Want To Give It All, Here I am etc.—songs that made me wish I wrote them, songs from which I borrow some messages of a failed romance, no matter how mushy they may seem. My general admission ticket cost P500, but as always, I managed to breach security measures and went to secure one of the most convenient seats that cost P3,000; unfortunately, I missed a digicam. Luckily, there is nothing so spectacular throughout the event a digicam could have practically missed. Surely they still sound good, but the price isn’t right. Bad stage direction (I experienced the show closely being almost at the backstage), loose security (I made it to the backstage), free drinks could have rescued it from being a total lackluster.

2. Daboy is finally laid to rest in Heritage Park, Taguig. Primetime news showed some dissatisfied fans that crowded outside the gate. They complained being muscled away from the scene. If Daboy is alive, someone commented, he wouldn’t like this, he likes us all beside him especially this day. Seriously, I thought of getting there. Four hours from Olongapo, showbiz and political personalities will flock there for sure, and they did. One would only need a digicam (which I have) and some extra guts (which I ooze with) to score some elbow-to-elbow, friendster-worthy-poses with the stars. Next time, I will grab the chance. When and who’s next? I think of Cory, not very late this year. (knock on wood)

3. Along with nationwide celebrations for the 110^th anniversary of Philippine Independence are nationwide street protests fronted by labor union leaders, party-list leaders and the youth. Days earlier, forwarded e-mails from co-writers came, inviting me to join poetry readings in Manila. One is aimed to indict the fact that we are still under the bondage of despotism, a quite tiresome idea; the other is purely for the purpose of gathering in celebration of a certain e-group’s foundation day.

4. Now for the meat of the issue. This should have been the fifth month with Ann, my ex-girlfriend. We could have been both there in Taguig, in Manila, and in Subic afterwards. Twelve is a special day, for so many reasons. But nothing is more noteworthy of twelve than what I had with her. Twelve may never signify freedom for me. Because it was on a twelfth when I let her ruled over me. With her, I needed to reinvent myself according to what she wished. Twelve will never remind me of independence neither; for it was only during with her that I felt so secured, attached to promises of holistic alleviation. But we are over before our fifth twelve. And I am coping now very well with a new love. I didn’t expect that to come, least come as quick as a whip.