As of today, I’ve been away from home for 95 days.  It’s only special simply because before today  the longest I’ve been away from my beautiful islands is 94 days.  This was in Vietnam last year.

Vietnam will always have a special place in my memories of places I have been.  Nowhere on this planet, so far, have I gone through so much pain, anguish, and frustration.  Nowhere else have I ever felt truly alone and scared.  The biggest mistakes in my life–a very bold and yet in my mind, accurate statement–happened in Vietnam.

To tell you the truth, I’m not really into trauma.  But if there’s one place on Earth that I refuse to ever go back to, it would probably be Vietnam.

There’s nothing wrong with the country, really.  In fact, the country and its people are quite lovely and interesting.  No, I don’t blame the country for any of the strong feelings I have about it.  It’s an innocent bystander in the magnificent train wreck that became my life while I was there.  In truth, there were many beautiful memories there.  But somehow, they’ve all been tainted.  Even the good ones inevitably lead to reliving the ones that still make me wince to this day.

The good thing about memories though is that they’re not as unchangeable as we’d like to think.  What we learn and do today, or tomorrow can reach back and change the meaning of events.  Perhaps some day–hopefully not too long a wait–I’ll look back at Vietnam and Apartment Building 4A at Sky Garden Phu My Hung, and realize it was the place of my rebirth. I’ll remember the bed where, after a long time in slumber, I awoke to many terrible realizations.

But not yet.  For now, I’m just content to remember it as a fucking hellhole that sucked up the happy little delusion that was my life, and like an ill-tempered toilet gurgled and groaned until it finally spat me out.

(This post was originally published as a note on my Facebook page.)

Ok, because a bunch of people are spamming my inbox…

1. No, not really that scary. But the rush is phenomenal. It’s a little annoying that the freefall lasted only 30 seconds or so… BUT…

2. The float down on the ‘chute was actually more fun and exhilarating. We did some spins and turns, and no one ever tells you of the rush you feel when you’re doing these moves on a ‘chute. It was actually more addictive than the free-fall. You can really feel the g-forces pile on, and you hear the wind suddenly whipping as you gain speed. You can even make the thing dive… yes, with the ‘chute on. I always expected it to be a boring floating-down-with-nothing-to-do kind of experience. Now I really want to do it again, or take up hang-gliding. IT ROCKS!

3. The song is “Radio Song” by a French group called Superbus. It’s from their Unsorted album. It also appeared in Guitar Hero 3 (for XBOX) where I learned of them and became a fan. You can find the music video on Youtube.

4. It cost about 275 USD. The video and stills cost me an additional 135 dollars. Meh.

5. You can get certified in around 8-10 jumps which takes you from a number of tandems, to static solos, to completely oh-my-god-I’m-all-alone-with-my-nads-and-my-chute-and-my-creator solo.

6. Yes, I’m seriously considering getting certified. But 2750 dollars isn’t cheap. But then again, we all die anyway, and we can’t take the money with us.

7. Yes, the instructor who kept me alive was this lovely lady called Dee who was all pro and all helpful and happy. Yes, I was strapped to her. Yes, pelvis to pelvis. No, you can’t do it facing up. No, she’s not available. Yes, her hubby was waiting on the ground. Yes, he’s twice my height and weight. No, you don’t want to mess with him.

8. Yeah, I was screaming all throughout free-fall. Didn’t even realize it. Didn’t even hear it. All you hear is wind. Once the chute deploys though it becomes quieter. Was having a nice conversation with Dee on the way down, and she let me take the ropes for a few calm spins.

9. No, I was not the one taking the pictures. Watch the video. It was this nice dude called Yuri. I assumed from the name and the accent that he was from somewhere in or close to Russia. Possibly the Ukraine or something. I’m not good enough with the accent to place it specifically. I’ll make sure to ask if I can find him on Facebook. Anyway, no, I wasn’t about to go jumping out of a plane with my camera gear. Yes, he was using a pro-looking helmet-mounted cam complete with a sighting reticle over his eye. No, I didn’t want to ask if he could fire missiles with that thing. Yes, I’m sure you can buy missiles cheap in Russia.

10. Yes, I’m quite happy I did it. Yes, I think people who like that sort of rush should try it at least once in their lives. Yes, it’s about as safe as driving your car to work in the morning, in the streets of Manila. So yeah, DOH ET!

I know what torture is. It’s a long-ass ride home in horrendous traffic, in a cab where the driver insists on playing his Air Supply CD, in an eternal loop.

Here I Am. Even the Nights are Better. Two Less Lonely People in the World. Now and Forever. Making Love Out of Nothing at All. Every Woman in the World. All Out of Love. They should have written one last mega-hit entitled “Please Kill Me Now Before I Gouge My Ears Out With A Car Door Lock Knob.”

It’s utter anguish. Not because Air Supply sucks. On the contrary, I know of few people who can resist singing along after overcoming the initial wave of nausea.

It’s just that after a few bars of “Every Woman in the World”, the faces of all my exes have flashed before my eyes and I realize just how much I still love them all so…

I panic. I pull out my ipod. Must escape. I put the buds in my ears and hit “shuffle”.

I get Clair Marlo’s “Till They Take My Love Away”.

Like I said… I know what torture is.

The Apostate Aflame stood on the shore, his red ember eyes gazed steadily across the ocean’s turbulent edge, searching for a glimpse of what lay beyond the horizon.  Beyond where the sea met the sky, he thought, there are more lands.  There must be.

A sharp pain pulled him from his reverie.  The water had lapped his toes and he winced and staggered back.  Where the water had touched him his flesh smoldered and turned black, cracking in bright red fissures.  He cursed himself for his distractedness. The sick-sweet smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils.  He would be fine, of course.  In a few moments his feet would catch aflame once more and all he would have would be the memory of pain.

He stared back at the path he had taken and saw his footprints seared in glass on the sand.  Soon, he knew, he would leave his last tracks and walk into these waters to leave the Isles forever. Soon would come the pain wrought of the death of a life and the glorious maddening pain of rebirth.

But there was time still before that would have to come to pass.  Time to try to remember, to fix what he could.  Time to seek some last vestige or forgiveness or redemption.

Near the tail-end of an otherwise flawless evening, the strangely enchanting girl blurted out to me; “my god, you’re borderline gay.”

What is going on in the world?  Since when were otherwise gentlemanly arts relegated to the province of gayhood?  Strangely, these were all arts and faculties that I always felt were supposed to **add** to a gentleman’s appeal, rather than detract from it.  So what are men supposed to do?  On the one end, we are constantly accused of being little more than speaking apes; lazy and smelling like mushrooms.  Apparently, when one deviates from this, one runs the risk of giving the impression that one plays for the wrong team.  Sigh.

For what it’s worth, and for the sick and simple pleasure of peering into my deviant little brain, here’s a quick and dirty list of skills I think every gentleman should learn.  I’m not saying I have all of these in my pocket; that would be too immodest.  These are simply the marks I’ve always thought were worth having simply because in a life so short, the only true crime is to be uninteresting.  In no particular order, after the jump.

1. Dancing. I find nothing more strangely erotic and yet tantalizingly innocent than dancing with a woman.  I don’t mean standing in front of each other and moving every joint other than your knees to the incessant droning of an over-loud bass drum.  I mean flitting around a wooden floor on heels and toes, hand-in-hand and cheek-to-blushed-cheek.
2. Cooking. There is perhaps no more primal way to talk to someone than to feed them.  My preference is simple earthy food, elegant, but with a definite streak of rawness and boldness.  Grill an excellent cut of beef with fresh pepper and fleur-de-sel, serve it with some hollandaise and a side of herbed potatoes and salad.  It’s like making love on fresh cut grass.
3. Penmanship. I don’t know.  Perhaps I’m just too old.  But I remember a time when one wrote real letters with ink and paper.  What better way to profess ones love, after all, than with the mark of your own hand.  Ideally, with a real pen.  The kind you can dip in your own blood…
4. Letters and poetry.  If one can use a pen, one should have the words for it.  I don’t care if you can’t speak English.  Or Filipino for that matter.  But know one language well, and use it well.
5. Visual arts. Behold as much beauty as you can, and be comfortable in talking about it.  That’s pretty much it.  This is important because, life is hard and we are surrounded by ugliness.  What more do we want for the ones we love, than to surround them with beauty.  How else do we recognize and express how beautiful a woman is, if we don’t understand that which we so admire?
6. Massage. When paired with the discipline to do it for its own sake, as a way of loving someone with one’s hands, I don’t think you can do any better than giving someone a massage.
7. Music. I think music is important.  Hearing it can evoke primal emotional responses.  So I’ve always thought it made sense that any gentleman worth his salt should be able to play even a little bit of music. Ideally on an instrument one can play solo, like piano or guitar.  You may never get the chance to play for her, but if you do, it would suck if you sucked.
8. Manners. This goes without saying.  I know of too many guys who seem to revel in their barbarity.  Guess what kids, most of your friends are probably guys.  Being cultured and refined isn’t a sign of weakness, in my mind.  It has nothing to do with one’s strength of character.  All it is, is a mark of one’s appreciation of how far the human race has gone.  These are traditions that remind us that we are no longer animals.  It doesn’t hurt to know them, even though they may seem silly.

The list goes on and on… but I’d better stop here for now.  Lest you think I really am gay…

I’m at the airport, again. But this time at the ungodly hour of midnight, waiting for my crap 1am flight with Cebu Pacific.

I was hungry and knowing that they don’t actually feed you in these budget flights, I got myself a sandwich at the airport concessionaire. It was a dry, cold ham and cheese sandwich. It was crap, which wasn’t a big problem except the bastards charged me 7 dollars for it. Godammit, this is Vietnam. I can get my pipes cleaned for that kind of money. And the little old lady manning the counter didn’t even have the courtesy to give me a reach-over.

Grr… we were supposed to board at 1230pm.  But hey, the plane just arrived, which means its delayed by at least 30 minutes again.

Sigh.

Let me tell you a few things.   I didn’t join a gym / health club because I needed friends.  I didn’t join it to pick up other men or be picked up by them.  Come to think of it, I didn’t even join it to pick up women (although I wouldn’t mind too much getting picked up by them if only they weren’t the overly fat kind that tends to **live** in these places).

I joined a gym because I wanted to work out and get healthier.  Specific to me, that means a desire to burn calories, and to push, pull, lift, crunch, run, or swim to the point of utter exhaustion.  It means I want to get my heart rate past the point where I can have a decent conversation with anything other than an eggplant.

For all you idiots who live in gyms because you think it’s the cool place to be, let me be painfully clear:

1. I do NOT want to join your pansy geriatric AQUA AERO class. Do not ask me while I am changing.  Do not ask me while I’m warming up.  Most definitely do not ask me while I’m doing laps in the pool with my heart rate hovering at about 170.  The last thing I want is to waste a breath and lose my pace while pulling your micro-encephalic gay head under the water.  Please.  Pleaaaaaase.  Come to think of it, I don’t want to join ANY of your classes.  I got the brochure when I signed up.  Told them I wasn’t interested.  Stop asking me.

2. I do NOT have any intention of telling you about myself in between sets of moving heavy plates of metal around. Do not expect me to ask about you unless you are female and look like Adriana Lima.  And even if you do, at the very least, I’ll probably wait until YOUR workout is over, and most probably until both our workouts are over.  But since I am a fat fuck, realistically, I’ll just act cool and indifferent to hide my extreme bashfulness when stepping upon an altar of beauty.  In any case… STOP.  TRYING.  TO.  MAKE.  FRIENDS.  I know a lot of people with LOTS of friends.  Guess what… most of them are fat.

3. I do NOT want to hear anyone say “no pain, no gain.” Anything that so conveniently rhymes and points to some grand universal generalization like that, is almost certainly false.  First of all, just because all gain comes at the cost of some pain doesn’t mean that ALL pain comes with gain.  That’s like saying childbirth hurts like hell so to have children I need to crucify myself and try to pass a watermelon through my pipes.  It just doesn’t work that way.  Secondly, pain means something, and when a supposed trainer starts talking like that in front of newbies, it reinforces the stupidity that you should work through your pain, which usually just leads to injury.  Definitely, success means learning to manage and recognize pain and take steps to minimize what is causing it.  But a phrase as stupid as “no pain, no gain” is bound to kill someone. And sadly not these micro-encephalics who call themselves trainers.

4. I do NOT want to see your bits while in the locker room. Just because I have one, too, doesn’t mean I want to spend my time watching you give the boys some air.  And as for you European expat schmucks, you ain’t no mandingo just because you can pick up sticks with that thing.  For chrissakes, if you’re going to swing it around, at least have the decency of being cut.  It looks like a diseased aardvark with no eyes.  Oh the nightmares.  And as for you old guys, jeeeesus christ… your sacks are disgusting.  Please keep them in your shorts.  Pleaaaaaaaase…

I wanted to raise my heart rate, that’s definitely true.  But I really don’t want to kill anyone in the process.

GRRRRR…

So far so good.  It’s been 30 days.  Still no cigarettes.  There were a few close calls though. I was standing outside a 7-11 and I start having that conversation with myself again.  It’s the conversation where one side is telling you that it’s ok, that you’ve won, that you’ve proven that you can quit and that there’s nothing stopping you from lighting one up.  It goes on to tell you that, to truly quit, one must be able to have just one more and still not get sucked in, that you need to test yourself to see if you really are free.  Then it starts getting desperate.  It tells you that no one will ever know.  No one will see.  Just one more.  It can hardly count against a lifetime of not smoking to have just one more.

That conversation again.  I was actually lined up already.  I bought a banana instead.

So if you see some nutbar walking down the street with a lit banana in his mouth, say hello numbnuts, welcome to my world.

It’s happened.  Finally.  I’ve snapped.  It’s like a roller coaster.  You creep up to the edge of the first drop, you hold your breath and wait for it.  When you tip over, it’s terrifying and glorious all at the same time.  It’s not much different from waking up one morning crying and realizing that you’re as good as dead and the only thing left to do is live.  It’s been a long time coming.  It feels like… coming home.

Like a roller coaster, there’s no stopping this now.  I’ve got to ride this out.  See where it takes me this time around.

I’ve got nothing left.  Nothing left that I’m not willing to burn away.  Yes, even love and friendship.  Simply because I know the fire only tempers these things.  I don’t do it for the sake of testing my relationships.  It’s just something that I need to go through.  I know it is just as testing for everyone else who cares as it is for me.

I’m irritable.  Impatient.  I’m also very sorry.  To a lot of people.  You’ll just have to understand.  This is something I need to do.  I need to find a place where I can be happy with myself.  Previously, I was comfortable with myself.  And that was a dangerous thing.  When you’re comfortable, you’re complacent.  You cease to grow.  You start to decay.  I don’t want any of that.

To the people I love, you guys already know me.  I’ll be back.  Eventually.  Keep a spot on the table for me, and light a joint in my name.   You guys can’t watch.  That’s part of the magic.  Even caterpillars hide in their chrysalis.  And yes, I just want to be a beautiful butterfly.