tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64331155303964678572024-02-19T04:11:46.883-08:00The boy most likely tosomelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-68560384095260017822018-03-18T00:58:00.000-07:002018-03-18T00:58:03.281-07:00March 18, 2018My youngest sister is in my room right now, crying her heart out over an ended relationship. She's 17 and considering that this is her first foray into the inexplicable genre of first love, I let down my sarcastic self and took the shoes of a responsible older brother.<br />
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She talked to our mother, who is probably my last bastion or resort for advice. It was quite weird hearing my mother, put on loudspeaker by my eavesdropping other sister, talking words of wisdom and whatnots to my youngest sister.<br />
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I never had that conversation, never dialed her number when the guy I was dating three years ago decided to hug it out in the stairs of one building in UP. To be fair, I am still in the closet. But as any gay guy would tell you on the street, your mother always knows, probably even before you knew yourself. Funny how I use that as an excuse now whenever the topic of coming out is laid down in the table. I'm 27 now and the inquiries of when I will tie the know have substantially diminished over the years.<br />
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It's weird hearing her advise. There's no jealousy or whatsoever. I am fine with my sister being able to open her life out to my mother, an opportunity I never actually had. Even if I were out, my mother would probably be the last person I'll ask an advice from. But it was nice hearing her talk to my sister- the idea that she is engaged and concerned with our personal lives; the possibility that some time in the future, her life and my personal life will also meet and we will, even if I probably won't, laugh at failed relationships and cursed hook-up.ssomelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-55830597374606624732017-12-03T06:04:00.001-08:002017-12-03T06:04:01.630-08:00"You look happy when you talk about films," she told me, despite knowing that I work as a lawyer, a profession one cannot associate with the arts. She, herself, is taking up chemical engineering although her real passion is creating virtual reality. Her parents want her to be an engineer. But her eyes glistens as well when she talks about art. I guess you can find yourself in others even milea away from home; and you leave that self behind as well.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-38054984883103912792017-12-01T21:53:00.000-08:002017-12-01T21:53:22.816-08:00Six days here and so far, less pleasant than I have expected. The weather isn't suited for my backpacking lifestyle (or the other way around because I was stupid to think that I can brave the winter with only a few sweaters on). I can't seem to take my eyes off my phone, constantly bombarded by the stupidity of the land I will come back to the day after tomorrow. I am frustrated. Things have been going out of my way recently. I can't seem to shake the bad things away. I can't seem to run away from it. Here I am, thousand of kilometers away from my bed, and the anxiety and melancholia still creep in, much more in the middle of the night where the room is cold from its emptiness. <div>
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I am headed to Seoul today. I lost track of time and was unaware that it is Saturdal. All of the trains are fullybooked. I got a standing ticket instead. This sucks. An hour in, I was squatting on the floor, in the middle of train 15 and 16, with no view of the passing trees and mountains, and a heavy backpack to mind. </div>
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Out of nowhere, an old lady gave us, the crowd inside the standing carriage, caramel candies. It was the simplest of gesture. It might even be natural for the old lady. But it is the highest point of my trip. Cramped among locals and exhausted with no sense of comfort in sight, I think I finally found meaning in this trip. </div>
somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-23974807327836692152017-11-26T14:56:00.000-08:002017-11-26T14:56:22.052-08:00Nov. 27, 2017The temperature is below zero here, and I am stuck in the middle of a town where bus signs are in a language I used to know a decade ago. I just saw a guy order an iced coffee. The idea of putting something cold in between my lips terrifies me now more than ever. The warmth, I need some warmth.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-34361017720065782052017-11-08T09:45:00.002-08:002017-11-08T09:45:45.742-08:00To (all of) youDevour my lips, but don’t trust the words that come from it. I am good with words. Like a spider, intricately spinning its web, with no other purpose but to catch a prey.<br />
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(Just because I’ve been on several dates lately. And I’m still afraid of what I’m capable/incapable of. *cue Robyn’s Hang With Me*)<br />
<br />somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-41139107790156284572017-02-15T00:51:00.000-08:002017-02-15T23:41:56.481-08:00FutileIn the early hours of the year, I told myself I will not salivate over unopened boxes of condom or envy the boy who tossed himself off to every man on the street. I said I will seek more meaningful sex; an adieu to the constant bullshit to seek attention through grinding with no single man. <br />
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It lasted for more than a month.<br />
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The night was majestic in Zambales. All the surfers were dead tired and the tourists drunk but the scent of the wind is inviting- salty from the waves pounding the shore, calming from the absence of pollution in the air. We were drunk, probably high. He grabbed me in the communal bathroom. I almost caved in only to be saved, thankfully, by a guy who only wanted to embrace the banality of the bathroom.<br />
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The drinking continued in the shore, where campers blissfully basked at the roundness of the moon; the heat that emanated from their bonfires only quelled by the more intense and parching craving of our bodies as he attempted to lure me with his boy-next-door charm. I refused to be sucked in. I told him we should probably wake a drunk friend so he can move to his bed and get a better sleep.<br />
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I diverted my attention further; joining, instead, a group of fresh college graduates playing cards. He was just sitting there, in the corner of the common room, pretending to tinkle with his phone even though he knew, and he knew that I knew, that he had no chance of getting a decent cellular connection in the area. After a few more games, I bid the night off.<br />
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At two in the morning, probably three, he was already at the foot of my bed. Resistance was futile. Only covered by cheap mosquito net and thin fabric to serve as curtain while I pretend to end the day with a sober sleep, I was too transparent. <br />
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That is how the year ended. Another crooked one. Or maybe, it's another start; another chance to forge a make believe shift to the good side when all I along I cradle the darkness of the night.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-16521188335093141282016-12-09T12:10:00.002-08:002016-12-09T12:27:35.467-08:00Reflections after dawnIt's five in the morning. I have been in my phone for hours now, stuck in a loop of aimlessly playing songs that got me through the lowest points in my life. It's scary how clearly I can remember the moments when I sought solace from them. Now, I mostly find comfort in their familiarity, how they make me feel like I'm back in 2009- erratic, illogical, as if my life was not in the verge of collapsing before my eyes- yet still conscious of the solitude of my current detachment from the world knowing that I already took the wrong turns though with a clearer understanding of the disasters that still lie ahead. But, god, there are nights, like tonight, when I am just unconsolably sad and these songs just tug me back to a place I find peaceful; when it hits me that the best days of my life were defined by melancholia and mindlessly playing on loop songs that instill an illusion that I am still alive.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-85636547493169756932016-11-01T23:43:00.005-07:002017-01-05T00:00:10.760-08:00A metaphorThe other night, I was cleaning my closet when my younger sister pointed out the obvious-all my shirts look the same and my closet only has three colors- as if I was never aware of it or took some late night reflection to question my choices. She, coming from a date, wearing some sunny dress inappropriate for the cold weather, thinks I should wear a different shade for once.<br />
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The thing is, I never wear print. I cannot remember the last time I wore something with a bold color on it. When I go shopping, to the disgust of my younger siblings, my feet would march straight to the section where the store displays its plain, mono-toned shirt. Stripes are okay, as long as it's still blue, black, or white(or maroon, because, yeah, school pride). But always the bland style, the same boring color that already permeates every corner of my closet. I never entertained the idea of wearing anything other than the colors and hues that I have now.<br />
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But once in a while, when I have the time to spare or the sweet scent of capitalism takes over me, I take a trip to the other aisles- where the colors flow, the prints cheer in zest, and the bold makes a statement. Most of the time, I like what I see. I'd think of my friend Andy who would look great, in his own flamboyant way, in a bright pink shirt while strutting the streets of Taguig on the way to his work. Or Jan just chilling by the beach with a button down with print of coconut trees and the sun. Or Louis and his penchant for hipster prints and bright shorts. In my head, it will fit them, or some other friends or that random guy I met on a social networking app who wears floral cap; the boldness of the print and the mania of the colors would fit the array of hues and images they collect for themselves, proper for their personalities or whoever they pretend to be. It would look great on them.<br />
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But not for me. I cannot even remember the last time I consciously bought a shirt with color outside my usual spectrum. Loud colors and print don't drape me the way I want to be clothed. Once, I took a chance and tried a yellow shirt with prints in some clothing store's dressing room. In a second, it's back in its rack, ruffled and unappreciated. The intense hue and daring print and I don't complement each other well. <br />
<br />somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-52717900725555255472016-08-03T23:55:00.001-07:002016-08-16T22:59:00.812-07:00Keep your hands to yourself when you follow me home.<br />
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Sex has turned into a chore lately, a forced combustion of two heated bodies, desperate for a five-second release to fill some vapid void in time. The aftermath- the constant ringing of my phone from random hook-ups who, for some reasons I cannot fathom, think I might be interested in whatever dreamy and starry-eyed episode might come after orgasm- has left me dog-tired the only recourse left is to block them from my phone and forget they never existed. Except I cannot get myself to do that. I need the validation, the gratifying satisfaction of knowing that someone out there yearns for me and seeks for my solicitude- whether it's just for another quickie or a cup of coffee.</div>
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Maybe its envy, or just some evanescent pang of want to be needed, like the curves of your body craving the fit of my hands, but I look at people holding hands in the gym , the park, the inconspicuous alleys of Malate, and think of all possibilities.</div>
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But no. I cannot get myself yet to enter another passage of early morning texts and irresolute caring where I am stuck in some maze constantly trying not to sate myself from all the dissatisfaction of this world. This is the biggest crack in this plastered and self-bandaged persona I construe as my self. I can hold your hand when we fuck, whisper breathy incomprehensible words in your ears while I caress your back, look you in the eyes when your tongue explores all the nerves and edges of my dick, smile at you when I know I hit some banal spot which your moans cite. But no, I cannot, I am not able, not now, maybe never, find myself satisfied with this fleeting moment and be compelled to bottle the woes and discontent intrinsic in my fucked-up mind just so I can have the pleasure of being affirmed by this society as whole, as normal.</div>
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It's no longer a constant tug-of-war between black and white. The greyscale does not even seem to be a perfect spectrum to stay. I don't know what I want anymore.</div>
somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-65653547092654506972016-03-30T21:33:00.002-07:002016-04-01T02:50:17.648-07:00Not there.Yesterday, my youngest sister finished junior high school first in her entire batch. A few months from now, she's going green, heading to that bourgeois university in Taft- all smiles from the ecstasy of moving to the city, leaving traces of wasted youth, yet still carrying the burden of proving herself to the people she will eventually leave behind. There's this certain pressure, so haunting and skin-deep, nobody talks about in the family. To parents, relatives, family friends we only know by face, church members who think they know us because we used to sing to gospel, and even random strangers who my parents used to teach- we are trophies. We are but self-operating robots surrendering to the ons-and-offs of the makers, subjected to their will.<br />
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At 8, after Sunday school in the church, people would flock over Jay and his treasured achievements while I sit in the corner being asked questions about him in class. On the way home, comparison was inevitable, and I crumble deep inside only to mask the frustrations and agony by watching a quiz show on the television until the maid calls me for lunch. At 12, when people started realizing I have something ahead of me, I expected a truce, a plateau. Instead, I get more of the shitload. I only got a runner-up trophy in a provincial competition when last year, the school's representative won the grand prize. That's great, you were good, not just good enough. At 15, I wanted to take film, but no, there's no money in that craft. No one is spending thousand of crap for an art so unappreciated in the country. You're wasting your life, they said. I can always shift, I said. There was negativity in the air, coming up with the compromise that I take a course they want, in turn I get the electives I prefer.<br />
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Ten years ago, I left the silent, suffocating sanctuary of my parent's home for the city. But the lingering echos from all the talks and expectations still resonate from one hundred miles away. It was so ingrained in my system, and it seems that there's no escaping. I used to ask my sister every end of the academic quarter her standing in class. Now, the question, rather, focuses on what she did not get. It is easy to blame my parents, all the shitty people who made me feel worthless, who instilled this self-imposed mantra of always proving myself better than what a crappy cousin said a few years back. But at twenty five, there should be no excuse. <br />
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Two weeks ago, both my grade school and high school invited me to give their graduating classes commencement remarks. I gave the lamest excuse- taking advantage of this new job, the pesky persistence to please the new boss, to blend with the crowd. But I know. How the heck can impart wisdom to the unadulterated yet stubborn minds of today's youth when I am on the peak of questioning the decisions I made in the past, so abrupt and uninspired, that make me doubt whatever glint of prosperity possibly lies ahead. No, I cannot move others when I am stuck. And the pit is so deep, it will take a miracle to get out of this hell hole. somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-49928130818487927772015-11-11T23:32:00.001-08:002015-11-11T23:32:28.984-08:00An attempt at austerity I cannot even maintain this blog. But hey, I made a new one where I attempt to review movies, television shows, books, music, and whatever that has gay content in it. This is an attempt to deviate from the usual lawyer life I am on right now. So there, visit containsgay.blogspot.com if you have time.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-56751480600118767212015-05-01T03:20:00.003-07:002016-04-01T02:52:36.571-07:00Unfolding.I am good. Except for the sore throat and clogged nose, I feel no The Little Prince as the pale red shadow of the setting sun cover my view. I am crossing the roads of Batangas for a weekend with the family, a task I find no optimism and thrill. Work has been pushing my limits lately I crash when Saturdays and Sundays come.<br />
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The last post I did was January of last year, almost a year and a half. Back then, I was seeing this college guy from my university, cramming my law school thesis, and navigating the in betweens of solitude and panic.<br />
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Now, college guy is already happy with another guy from his field. We are still good friends contrast the cliche ending where we should probably just forget each other and move on with our lives. I won't go as far as saying the five months with him were full blast love affair. But it was a good time.<br />
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I graduated from law school, something my parents expected. I don't have an elbow room for failure, something my parents imposed. But at least it was over. I went through the grueling six months of bar review. I go from full blooded bar reviewer to full time slut at night. I am not proud of where and who I've been during the period, but all is well. I took the bar and passed. (Ah, short and sweet)<br />
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I am still my usual self: broody, something Plath and Van Gogh would make their art from. Nothing new. I am seeing this guy for seven months. I started working for a law firm. I am unfolding a new chapter, one may say.<br />
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But I am good.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-38882186685528828192014-01-26T07:44:00.000-08:002014-01-26T07:45:04.789-08:00Hiccup from hellIt was the confirmation that I needed. All the emotions and possibilities and longing cramped inside of me for so long that when I actually found someone to whom I feel I can really pour myself into, the word and actions were so rusty and ugly and feeble and meaningless from all those years of isolation. Why was I even shocked?<br />
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<br />somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-49940138386882404142014-01-21T22:40:00.001-08:002014-01-21T22:47:43.520-08:00Typical maladyIt was a constant reminder that we are irrelevant, one minute piece of convoluted atoms. My ridiculously weak, uncoordinated body has taken its toll. The schizophrenic weather, so apt for Janus, the two faced creature to whom this month is named, affirmed my theory that I get sick when the all exams are set and all papers and pleadings are due.<br />
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The thing is, for eight years, I've been getting by on my own. If I hadn't called my mom when I was sophomore in college, I wouldn't have gone to the hospital to find out I had dengue. But it has always been a thing of mine. I get my semestral dose of coughs and colds without me caring anymore. Once the symptoms kick, the slow burn reaction seems fine. I take, with utter disgust, a combination of doctor-prescribed medicine and herbal dose courtesy of relatives' insistence on a natural way of living. A few blue days of rest on my own, with rolls of tissues not just for jerking off; gallons of water consumed. All the shit. It was inevitable, and it is in this predetermined fate, that made me prefer the burden alone.<br />
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Contra to my sister's case, who unfortunately acquired the remnants of the pesky viruses that once insulated my body. We were always taught, intricately raised by our parents, to survive without relying on others. But not last night. The lights were turned on at one in the morning, the uninvited sound of kettle brewing, and a few minutes after, of her girlfriend forcing her to take a dose of some medicine while patting her with warm towel to ease the burning temperature. A completely different picture. The cynicism in me will never leave, but there was relief in seeing the comfort, the affection despite the glim conditions of the room.<br />
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The sentimental dose was luckily interrupted by the my earphone, streaming Looking, the latest venture of HBO on gay-themed show (And yes, Sex and the City is gay.). It is, as the story progresses, to be a tale of being gay in the warm atmosphere of San Francisco, the psychotic circus of finding a significant other, the struggle of keeping one when found. The first episode was promising, probably because it was familiar. Or probably because I marvelled over the previous work of the director and producer. Or maybe because I think it's time to step away from the malady that is self-despair and over-thinking, the consciously inflicted isolation. Hopefully, tonight's dinner is step one.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-86307131368329892342014-01-13T06:32:00.004-08:002014-01-13T06:40:15.547-08:00Turn on the lightsIt has been days of dreamless trance, of waking up without any hint of erratic make-believe worlds of my soulless state. The universe, echoing through my existence, calling for an escape from the living behind the dark curtain of the night, and condemning me to stream through conscious existence.<br />
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I turn the light's switch on. Waking up on a Monday morning has been easier for the past two weeks with the prospect of live-streaming Sherlock at four in the morning. It wasn't too much; most won't probably understand the ridiculous amount of time I spend on my fandoms and the gaiety they bring. But I am on my happiest, without the thrill of alcohol and the shrill tinsel joie de vivre of last night's party, I am alive for these moments.<br />
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The inevitable, today I went to San Sebastian College to enrol for their bar review classes. My parents, the consistent pressure they were, initially insisted I remain in UP, like I have not spent the past eight years in its embrace. But like any personal decision I have made prior, I have to soberly argue my case until they cave in to the obvious logic of my choices. This living has to be mine.<br />
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The day couldn't have been better: cold January breeze, the sun bashfully peeking behind the white sheet slits of the clouds . I equally gloat and suffer for this kind of days: cold breeze like a warm chocolate drink-topped with marshmallow I could not drink. Walking the dirty, crumbling on its own filth, streets of U-Belt, I thought I saw my life finally branching out before me, like the complicated and twisted pavements and mud I was traversing. But it was too early to say, the day almost too perfect to rationalize dispositions. Tough, the next few months will be.<br />
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The nauseating abundance of drama of the past weeks was luckily hyped by the season premiere of Girls. I refused to go to work today with the prospects of making some time for myself. It was a compelled triumph with the company of Lena Dunham's brilliant, erratic but most often than not's slap of reality. There is comfort in watching, whether it is a film or a television series, lives reflecting your dull own, lest with more poetic arguments and color-coded sequence.<br />
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I gave up doing my thesis a few minutes ago. For someone facing a deadline at the end of the month, this baneful attitude of self-doubt is killing me. Outside, the moon with less than its majestic full self compensates the black robe of the night with its crowning halo, something the scientific mind would see as a premonition of glim days ahead. But for tonight, I will let it shed light on whatever darkness that sleeps in me.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-75767598175902536492014-01-05T17:33:00.001-08:002014-01-21T23:07:54.548-08:00PassingI have been a negative of a person lately. That unending feeling of hollowness, all black, silence. The effect of the past days of festivities had me jumping from being constantly active and broodingly sad, with no established point of origin or end, perpetually alternating driving me mad. At night sometimes, I just feel the need to have someone to pour myself into. But I have been burning a lot of bridges lately. A psychologist I worked with a few years ago suggested I should go talk to a doctor. But I am not wise and rich enough to take pleasure in the luxury of science. I have hopes that the end of the festivities will cure the old brag of my existence. Day six.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-61252838772819935812014-01-01T00:41:00.000-08:002014-01-26T23:55:23.528-08:00Breaking back: a review of 2013 gay films<div>
Overall, 2013 was a good year for gay film. From Soderbergh's swan song to books-turned-movies to a change of tempo for more renowned directors, the past year saw peaks and heights and presented the world with handful of films to watch.<br />
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First, my favorite gay film of the year. I have to hand it down to Michael Mayer's middle-eastern drama <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99XxMLgE3AM">Out in the Dark</a>. Palestinian psychology student meets Israeli lawyer; typical boy meets boy right? No. With the current Israel-Palestinian conflict as its center, the film's appreciation of love amidst societal prejudice made Out in the Dark a compelling drama. </div>
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Now, to the drill.</div>
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The year opened with Soderbergh's<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQ9OgbLCsUM"> Behind the Candelabra</a>. The award-winning made-for-television film tackled the life of famed Liberace; and with an all star cast lead by Douglas and Damon, the film was a worthy end to Soderbergh's lustrous career. With a great opener, the year was on firre.</div>
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The big three film festivals, as usual, gave mostly ground-breaking and more familiar avenues for the cinephiles. Cannes gave its highest honor to Kechiche's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RuYnkOtFP8w">Blue is the Warmest Color</a>. Yes, this may be a cheat since it is a lesbian film, but Blue is one of the best movies of last year. You have to stand 30 minutes of gratuitous girl-on-girl sex scene, but the emotional turmoil of identity confusion and heartache was easily universal. The other lauded feature was Guiraudie's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PgcEGKn7waI">Stranger by the Lake</a>. Combining early remnants of the pure cinema movement and Hitchcockian psychology, the movie may be a test for those unfamiliar with the genre, but the result was a satisfying and perplexing mystery thriller. Berlin and Venice produced Szumowka's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aaURXAqVg6k">In the Name of</a> and Kyu-Hwan's<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=noGUrcocXk8"> The Weight</a>, respectively. I still have not seen both films but the general consensus has been favorable so far.</div>
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Independent film festivals also did not disappoint. Sundance showed Krokidas'<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t6i4XR5Z4lU"> Kill Your Darlings</a>, one of the most anticipated film of the year. With Daniel Radcliffe as beat generation founder Allen Ginsberg, the film surrounding the murder by Lucien Carr was easily one of the audience's favorite this year.<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74AnBwNJoVk"> Interior: Leather Bar</a> was James Franco's take on the missing clip of the 1980 ground breaking film, Cruising. Copolla's The <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4c6hmrwba0">Bling Ring</a>, which started in Cannes, went on a well deserved film festival spree. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RKLXDk4NFrA">Una Noche</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tY6yLzp9GZA">Pit Stop</a> and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_xVX9PRatI">Snails in the Rain</a> also made some buzz from film festivals all across the globe. </div>
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Though no Weekend(the best gay romantic film ever made), romance was also in the air. Lacant's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kjIRxfbWIQ">Free Fall </a>about a married policeman who found himself attracted to a man, was dubbed as Germany's answer to Lee's Brokeback Mountain. Though not as brilliant as the latter, Free Fall stood on its own as a tale of isolation and prejudice with a common yet engrossing relationship on its stand. This is the same premise of Wasilewski's<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=II0q_mMAIKs"> Floating Skyscrapers</a>, except in this one, the girl clung on the swimmer guy. Berger's<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DU0qmw2Ct0o"> Hawaii </a>is one for the hopeless romantic.The Argentinian film was about two childhood friends who met again after many years and the rekindling that came thereafter. Fox's follow-up to Yossi and Jagger, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LUOBN_uahrI">Yossi</a>, followed the titular protagonist years after the ending of the former film, coping with love lost and search for one in this age.</div>
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Gay in film cannot be discussed without mentioning Pedro Almodovar. In 2013, he gave us the funny, raunchy and fabulous <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-jrAaDPWR94">I'm So Excited</a>. For a fan of his works, his latest was a break from his usual dark and dramatic pieces. The flight attendants may just be a classic in Almodovar filmography.</div>
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One of the better emerging director (probably the hottest, too), Xavier Dolan went for double this year. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YjIWEky81M">Laurence Anyways</a> was given a worldwide release establishing Dolan's name as a force with his two other films, I Killed My Mother and Heartbeats, on his back. His epic-length third feature film tackled a man on his way into becoming a transgendered woman. The other film, expected to have mainstream distribution this year, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KH-I2ta24x8">Tom at the Farm</a>, will be Dolan's first venture into the psychological thriller and for a fan, I couldn't be more excited.</div>
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2013 also saw popular books turned into films. David Sedaris, one of the best essayist of today, had one of his essay turn to the silver screen. Alvarez' <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUMWeeyDafA">COG</a> was adapted from Sedaris' experience when he worked in an apple orchard. Out actor Jonathan Groff was brilliant. Hartinger's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhcaYaNdsWY">Geography Club</a> became Entin's in the cinemas. </div>
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Unfortunately, 2013 saw the dearth of Asian queer films. A few years back, a lot of independent filmmakers in Thailand, South Korea and Taiwan pushed for more active worldwide release of films, showing a different perspective of gay culture. Now, except for The Weight, the only East Asian movie that made buzz was Chen's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eMIEViDfd0">Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow</a>, which is not even a good film in my books.</div>
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Since we are talking about the negatives, let me say the bad films did not disappoint. Though I tend to stray from critically panned films, usually ignoring tla releases, I managed to squeeze a few, in case I disagree (note: The Rocky Horror Picture Show, now a classic, was then a lambasted film in the 70s). Porn actor Sean Lockhart's Triple Crossed, much like his previous attempts and contra his great performance in porn, was lazy and pathetic. Galea's Monster Pie and Orlean's Capitol Games seemed like a fan-made fictions taken from an internet forum. Evan's The Happy Sad was trite. I was ambiguous towards LeMay's Naked As We Came.</div>
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Queer scene in this country became visible, I will hand that positively. Vice Ganda on the peak of her career, the popularity of My Husband's Lover and probably an attempt to attract a new market, bigwigs produced several gay-oriented films. Now, I am not saying the films were good, because they are not. Girl Boy Bakla Tomboy and Bromance: My Brother's Romance, both by the Wenn Deramas (whose name is synonymous to garbage in my dictionary), were an attempt to milk out more cash, as with Tom Rodriguez's Gaydar. Low-budget, machine acted, and cheap films still continued to play in cinemas in Quiapo and Cubao. But on a bigger picture, I think it was good that there was more visibility. Don't get me wrong; I bet there are good films. Cinema One's 2013 winner, Bukas na lang sapagkat gabi na echoed more of Thailand's Weerasethakul's revolutionary plot, including homosexual practices in communist groups. There are possibly still more films there, but my interest in Filipino films this year has admittedly dwindled for valid reasons, so spare me any elitist comment. </div>
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I still have a few films to watch. Vallee's Dallas Buyers Club, with all its Oscars Buzz, is still waiting release here in the Philippines. Plus, 2014 is here with a lot of prospects from the biopic of Alan Turing to Ira Sach's return to Sundance to HBO's adaptation of Larry Kramer's play The Normal Heart. So here's to another year! Cheers!</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*Titles are linked to youtube trailers</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>** Writing this entry is like a breathe of fresh air for this blog. Haha.</i></span></div>
somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-76094214552983389702013-12-26T08:27:00.001-08:002013-12-26T08:53:42.092-08:00Drunk conversations"You should meet him. I swear you'll like him," she said while on the verge of crying, mourning a recent love affair lost in the inevitable pit fall of long distance relationship.<br />
<br />
"I do not do blind dates," I repeated, for the seventh time. It was a slow ill-starred night, no tense, no rebellion, probably because it was not even seven in the evening. Our company had settled with early drinks recently, always eager to find empty comforts in our beds and the uneasiness of the coming work and school weeks.<br />
<br />
"They always end up to be some horrible one night affair for the less adventurous. 95% of the time, I will tell myself that the other person, completely devoid of information about me, relying on sweet talks from you or whoever has set us together for a lame dinner too expensive for a student, is too good for me. I will always think he's too good for me because he probably is. And as for the other guys, I will feel pity because I will never be into them as they are, I presume from their attempt to converse film by immediately mouthing Citizen Kane, into me. Either way, I always end up feeling bad and depressed because it makes me realize I can't get the love I want," I continued.<br />
<br />
She's on another bottle of alcohol. The slow tedium of the night was being filled with the sentimental songs playing in the bar. Not the best drug for the malaise of the heart.<br />
<br />
"Maybe you should look for the love that you need, not the one you want," she said before taking a long, deep take on her cigarette. "We are not getting any younger, optimistic."<br />
<br />
"That't bullshit. You know more than to settle for a yearning so shallow," I rebuked.<br />
<br />
She just shrugged her shoulders. Maybe all the heartbreaks, so tender yet inevitable, was consuming her body, her existence. Or maybe it was just the alcohol.<br />
<br />
"I'm not becoming some incurable romantic, but you should hear me out. The problem, I think, is that we settle for the love that is convenient, something that does not wake you up longing in the middle of the night, but rather, I don't know, just when you are taking a piss or folding your sheets, you're just 'Oh, this love is enough, I'll take' but you know deep inside it is not the demand that would preoccupy your days and nights with burning friction. If you capsulize love into just receiving, the needing, you are not doing yourself or the other person a favor," said the alcohol, which made me go in a law student rant marathon.<br />
<br />
The place was getting crowded, under the pretence of false cheerfulness from the yellow lights and random cut-outs and memorabilia on the cluttered white wall. Our phones ringing from detached pieces of our lives, unaware of our agonies. The night sky outside stingily black from the lack of stars and the dirty pollution.<br />
<br />
"We are supposed look for love that would make our hearts leap just by the thought of the other person on the other side of the room, probably just shaving his week-long stubble, which is not even at all, not a tad romantic, not because you need some stranger to leave unwanted hair on your bathroom tile but because that is the intimacy that you have always wanted. You gush over the fact that you are not just close, but ductile. Something, someone that makes you ravenous, so hungry you cannot even remember what it feels like to be void, all those years of being on the edge gone," I made my final case. This is not my spotlight. <br />
<br />
"You want or you do not want at all," she muttered under her breathe while she drowsily grabbed her bag and motioned for me to do the same. If only I weren't so tired and full of feathers from the vodka, I would have insisted we drink our bodies to Pompeii. The night time is worst now.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-60035897889707068812013-12-24T09:30:00.002-08:002013-12-26T06:33:00.172-08:00UnnecessariesThe neighbourhood's glee, or whatever remains from all the years' exhaustion, is taming down in somber. It is getting late. I am on my second bottle of wine and will probably be up for more. The heads of the house, though groggy from the day's work and the alcohol that flowed as early as six this evening, are watching a sermon on the television, rather lackadaisical.<br />
<br />
I do not get the festivities in my veins, cold and blue and battered from all the years of expecting and never having, rather getting the undesirable, the throw-ups. There must be a few things drunkenness can remedy, but like the merriment of the holiday season, all the past gulps had made its present effect spiritless. Even the presents seem lackluster, transfiguring into a query of budget and sucking up to some higher up.<br />
<br />
So while the rest of the world is opening their presents, I cannot help but contemplate on things given I so long wanted to disregard, take back from its trashed gift wrappers and ribbon and seal again, never to be pondered at.<br />
<br />
One. I need no pressure more than what I bear now. I have walked this life in constant fear of shamelessly disappointing, crumbling down to the anchors on my feet, boulders on my shoulder and thorns in my head. Yes, it is the last year of law school; the prospect of wearing sablay, then a glint from afar, seems restlessly nearer. "Your younger cousins look up to you," you always say but you never wondered, or if you did you never cared, how I always have to look for some platform to stand on.<br />
<br />
Two. Spare me the pity. I do not need those uneven, enigmatic looks from you. I fell into this pit of unrequited, disgusting appetite for you. And the hell, I was left all bruised in the rut. So stop.<br />
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Three. Cut the crap on your personal issues. I know I have always been the go-to guy in our group when personal drama strikes. But I can only bear much, especially if you were the last person to be seen as the blessed fuckin virgin innocent mary in your life. Stop the everyday text message, facebook chats and constant bickering. I told you before I wanted to slap you, but you took that as something metaphorical, an attempt on my part to create an illusion of hardness so you could be tough. No, I really want to take a hit on your face, so reality can take one after.</div>
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Four. No, I am not half-done for being single. Rub the presence of your significant other, bath in the glory of waking up every morning with an early morning text message from him, create the illusion of being complete when with him, but please, do not attempt to generalize the world as wanting, abominably desperate for another human to consummate his existence. I am cozy and gratified in this aloneness and you should respect that.</div>
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Five. I do not need this negativity. But I live in this gift I have fed my own for the past few years now. The trouble was, I had been this man all along, I simply hadn't though about it. But an escape plan would be nice in the future.</div>
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I take it back. The wine has taken its toll. I am now alone in my room. The silence is depressing me. I'll just probably shut my eyes so the world will drop dead.</div>
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PS. I really don't know what I want for Christmas. A complete early version of Proust's In Search of Lost Time has been in my mind lately. Also, I may be drunk so pardon this piece of shit entry.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-49713792479721844462013-12-15T05:58:00.000-08:002013-12-15T05:58:35.987-08:00HungerIt’s not even about sex. I don’t care about the sex. The forced thrusts, the musk of inert heavy male flesh; at some point it gets weary. What’s important is to wake up with someone. To spoon with that person. That’s what matters, the spoon. You wake up not with the cold draft of the deadly early morning air but the steaming twitch of drying cold. A warm belly, the one who loves you breathing against your shoulder, perversely and obstinately endearing.That’s it, the spoon.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-50098554905427634742013-11-28T08:58:00.002-08:002013-11-29T21:14:21.786-08:00ThrowbackI have an ambivalent attitude about my childhood. There are memories that leave a hint of smile while some glimpse I view with remorse.<br />
<br />
There used to be a storage house in our backyard; the roof I used to climb so I can be be left in peace, find solitude in the midst of screaming children getting charged from the momentary freedom from school. I would spend the afternoon in the comfort of the cold steel roof underneath; the lush leaves of the mango tree served as a screen from the heat of the summer sun, with a tattered copy of Les Miserables from a neighbor's garbage pile. I have always associated those hot summer noons as a marked fragment of my childhood, salient and earnest. It was how I wanted my childhood to be remembered.<br />
<br />
To say that I yearn for my childhood is an overstatement; to say I detest it is a hyperbole. I have an equal share of nostalgia of playing patintero with only the full moon as the guide; going to the nearest creek with friends who knew how to swim just so I could paddle my feet against the cool of the rushing water; playing fantasy power ranger/ghost fighter with wooden sticks and kitchenwares as weapons; making excuses not to go to church just so I wouldn't miss the Sunday morning cartoon shows; creating lousy bubbles from crushed gumamela flowers; getting chased by a pack of dogs.<br />
<br />
I am often struck with how much memories of those younger days I can still remember. I recall getting my first copy of the unabridged Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale book, where the little mermaid did not get the man of her dreams, rather dissolved into air and how ostracized I felt when my playmates won't trust my early take on literary criticism. <br />
<br />
But then, children's literature is always taken with a pack of sugar. Some things become bitter as one grows up. I realized, the games played weren't always fascinating since my lousy eye-hand coordination made the team lose, much to despair and annoyance of Salome who has captured the enemy's base for the tenth time; the creek wasn't always pleasant to those who could not swim; make believe worlds were often crushed by wounded knees, betrayals, and friends turned enemies for life; cartoon shows were filled with lives I cannot live because our parents would get angry if we didn't get to read the assigned pages in the encyclopedia for the day; the neighbors shouting, cursing for picking the best gumamela in her garden.<br />
<br />
The last time I went home, I walked over to the vacant lot we used to go and play. There were still a lot of kids there, sons and daughters of those who I have probably played house with. I found myself suddenly jealous of the time when things were as simple as running in the fields, catching dragonflies, and the slow and deep breathes in between. There was no hope, and there was no regret. There were just me and the little world we played in. I was once one of those kids. And someday, one of those kids will probably be in the same shoe I am now, miserable, too critical of even my own happiness.<br />
<br />
But for now they have the disheveled playground, the rusty meat loaf can for tumbang preso, the wind brushing through the gaps between their fingers, the sloppy necklace made from santan flowers. Those are enough. Because the curse of being a grown-up is not actually about losing the carefree days of the past but finding out that some things you thought you knew was so completely different from what you had always believed in.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-65553496135489703452013-11-21T07:13:00.000-08:002013-11-21T07:21:07.090-08:00No bridegroomLast year, I cried, definitely bawled, when I watched a youtube clip titled "It could happen to you." More than a year later, now a full-length documentary, I may just have wept like I never did before.<br />
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The internet can probably give a better summary of Bridegroom than I can. You'll probably see its accolades and some critic reviews over the web. But scrap the things you will read online. Go watch the youtube video. Then, watch the documentary. Show it to your mom, to your partner, to your friends. Because there are stories meant to be told. This is one of them.</div>
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somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-70405512325073412142013-11-20T19:08:00.000-08:002013-11-28T10:04:37.467-08:00Small thingsPeople always say it will go like this: you stay up until the wee hours of the night, hurting; you will probably wake up at three in the morning with the sudden urge to just scream into your pillow; or grab a tub of ice cream, wait for the pizza to be delivered and start the first few minutes of Before Sunset only to realize you have memorized the film by heart.<br />
<br />
But sometimes, it's somewhere between nine or ten in a Sunday morning and you're standing by the sink waiting for the boiling water to make your tea to ease last night's hang-over; the neighbor's children starting to play outside; and the smell of dusty metropolitan sunlight and the earl grey tea makes you think of him, and the sudden realization that you could be preparing hot water for two, while he is waiting in your bed, in your old shirt; and that makes you like him more so much you don't know what to do with the cup in your hands.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-16284645999578926462013-11-01T06:07:00.002-07:002013-11-01T06:24:11.033-07:00That which haunts usEvery year, my father would end our visit to our late grandfather's tomb
in a certain tradition. A few minutes before we leave, when the rest
are packing empty plastic containers and discarded cola bottles, he
would go to the back of his father's tomb, light a candle, and, from our
point of view, talk to the dead. And it
has always bothered me. If indeed it was a one-way conversation, what could my father be saying to his own
father; what untold stories could he be carrying for two decades now?<br />
<br />
My father is not a very vocal person. It is very seldom
that you see him show emotion, very rare to see him talk about his personal
circumstances. If any, he is good at showing disappointment. He is a
very stiff man, known in his school as an authoritative figure. I cannot remember a conversation with my father where we were even barely open and vulnerable. Aside from law school questions,
recent political issues, and how-to's of eating healthy and staying out
of trouble, I barely carry a fatherly conversation with him.<br />
<br />
But
I guess what bothers, or probably fascinates, me the most is the chance that, in all these
years, my father has been confiding with someone who has already crossed the other side; speaking of words that he
never had the chance to say when lolo was still alive; or telling tales of his personal demons which came after lolo's death he can never tell a single living soul. While I will probably never hear the other end of the conversation, there is a certain sadness, or fear, that I might end up like him. In thirty years, I don't want to come out, introduce a better half, tell stories I should've told when possible, to a piece of cement with a name engraved on it. I don't just want to seek peace with the dead; but to be in the same thread as every breathing, aching, hoping humans.<br />
<br />
It has always reminded me of the last scene of Wong Kar-Wai's In the Mood for Love. Whispering secrets in a hole in some sacred temple in Cambodia, covering the same thing in mud, and forever sealing those words, hoping that by finally getting those words out of the system. all the sadness and aches will subside, trapped in the holes forever. Only the walls of the temple know the secret, of the longing that comes with it, the horror that comes with longing. Long after the person has died, after the secrets are no longer of importance, the mud which held the secret will continue to cling in those small pockets of air trapped, as if holding on to prevent the gloomy forebodings from winding its way back.<br />
<br />
Sometime I wonder if he got the act from my
grandfather. Did lolo do the same act of seeking peace with the dead?
Are there so many lives we hide from our loved ones that we, when the
other end is dead, seek peace by bursting with all the words that we
should've said when we had the chance? Are we so deprived of meaningful connection with the living that we need the illusion of another side to unburden our chests of whatever weights it carry? Do I have to do the same when the
time comes? Is it some kind of family tradition to hide things? Or is it human
nature to not act when needed, not speak when necessary, and pretend the world is breathable despite our chests tightening from all the emotions held from within? <br />
<br />
My father always reminded us not to be afraid of ghosts and ghouls. But he never mentioned that it is those unspoken words and unreleased tensions that will haunt us until the end that we should be afraid of.somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6433115530396467857.post-27525446020047101342013-10-23T23:49:00.003-07:002013-11-01T06:08:27.393-07:00Infinite booklist: best gay-themed novelsHere's one thing you have to know about finding a gay-themed novel in the Philippines: you have more luck finding a manual on how to make meth ala Breaking Bad.<br />
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I have previously talked about frustrations growing up to be a bookworm without a fictional character I could fully relate to, that is, as Martin Sheen in Masters of Sex said, deviant. I can still remember the day I asked my mother to buy me Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited; or the day I carefully paid for Orosa-Nakpil Malate so no one could see. Now I have around 50 books in the bookshelf.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfWQXLJHXhCuS4PoXw2zDQ-H9dhbJdMmL9DVuH0Nm_FbG9XMhjdbcQ3PLt1rSdZluIc6yFpwgUTRQltH2i8BxgkpMaD782dOqafCQQZ3RhYGbo6PmV_Hkt1FIHRGw4wnrpfL7xckK9Q4y/s1600/photo(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfWQXLJHXhCuS4PoXw2zDQ-H9dhbJdMmL9DVuH0Nm_FbG9XMhjdbcQ3PLt1rSdZluIc6yFpwgUTRQltH2i8BxgkpMaD782dOqafCQQZ3RhYGbo6PmV_Hkt1FIHRGw4wnrpfL7xckK9Q4y/s400/photo(3).JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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So without further bullshit, here's a list of my favorite gay-themed books, so far. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNm1p3rsR9cB2z4RM-G8BXEpFmA4N86bBgUxk4uEWLY32A-9RGGmkzsQsIztxWSPBz9IRhu3xcyxahnMv9upby8HHhozOB7I6WmRr2KOmvCS4ZTgtg1tj4v-PKXEhb8eL4tCbZQLcNobem/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNm1p3rsR9cB2z4RM-G8BXEpFmA4N86bBgUxk4uEWLY32A-9RGGmkzsQsIztxWSPBz9IRhu3xcyxahnMv9upby8HHhozOB7I6WmRr2KOmvCS4ZTgtg1tj4v-PKXEhb8eL4tCbZQLcNobem/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Call Me By Your Name</b> by Andre Aciman<br />
“Did I want him to act? Or would I prefer a lifetime of longing provided
we both kept this little Ping-Pong game going: not knowing,
not-not-knowing, not-not-not-knowing? Just be quiet, say nothing, and if
you can't say "yes," don't say "no," say "later." Is this why people
say "maybe" when they mean "yes," but hope you'll think it's "no" when
all they really mean is, <i>Please, just ask me once more, and once more after that?</i>”
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<b>Maurice</b> by E.M. Forster<br />
"They slept seperate at first, as if proximity harassed them, but towards
morning a movement began, and they woke deep in each other's arms."<br />
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<b>The Line of Beauty </b>by Alan Hollinghurst<br />
“The pursuit of love seemed to need the cultivation of indifference.”
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<b>The Song of Achilles</b> by Madeline Miller<br />
“I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind,
by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know
him in death, at the end of the world.”<br />
<br />
<b>We the Animals</b> by Justin Torres<br />
“We hit and we kept on hitting; we were allowed to be what we were,
frightened and vengeful — little animals, clawing at what we needed.”
<br />
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I have a love-hate relationship with YA novels. There are moments when I could read straight; there are times I could not bear its angst and abrupt cheesiness. <br />
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<b>Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe</b> by Benjamin Saenz<br />
“For a few minutes I wished that Dante and I lived in the universe of boys instead of the universe of almost-men.”<br />
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<b>The Vast Fields of Ordinary</b> by Nick Burd<br />
“I think some love you can stand to let go of because it's ultimately
for the best, but other types you have to stick with until the day you
die even when it's hard.You have to think about that before you run away
from wherever you are. And then when you know, you either stay or you
go and pray thatyou're making the right decision.”<br />
<br />
<b>Hero </b>by Perry Moore<br />
“I caught myself thinking about falling in love with someone who I hoped
was out there right now thinking about the possibility of me, but I
quickly banished the notion. It was that kind of thinking that landed me
in this situation to begin with. Hope can ruin you.”<br />
<br />
<b>Don't Let Me Go</b> by J.H. Trumble<br />
“It's still not perfect, and maybe perfection isn't all it's cut out to
be anyway. But it's good. It's really good. They say you can't always
get what you want. But sometimes you can, and you do, even when you
don't deserve it.”<br />
<br />
<b>Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You</b> by Peter Cameron<br />
“I often feel like I want to think something but I can't find the
language that coincides with the thoughts, so it remains felt, not
thought. Sometimes I feel like I'm thinking in Swedish without knowing
Swedish.”<br />
<br />
There are also a lot of novels, though not entirely gay-focused, that have a strong gay presence, through characters or plot. For example, Colm Toibin novels always have a gay character but the focus is never on the homosexuality. <br />
<br />
Cloud Atlas<br />
The Slap<br />
The Mysteries of Pittsburg<br />
The Amazing Adventures of Cavalier and Clay<br />
The Perks of being a Wallflower <br />
<br />
There.<br />
<br />
I know I still have a lot to read. Most classics (Giovanni's Room, A Single Man, Dancers in the Dark etc) are hard to find and when ordering online, I tend to go for more contemporary novels. And it doesn't help that I don't read electronic books. The smell of a book, whether newly opened or from a long storage, is still the best aroma in this world.<br />
<br />
I will be updating this entry once in a while or whenever I stumble upon a book worthy of the world's attention. And if you are from the Philippines, a book club wouldn't hurt, right?:)<br />
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<br />somelostboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05134397000316356962noreply@blogger.com2