Fexmouth

/ˈfɛksməθ/

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  • Chinese New Year, 2026, Part 1

    My psychiatrist Dr. Taluntunan-Guyavera, who I called Dr. Tal, sat across from me in his office, and he smiled. Sometimes, we run out of things to talk about, and I think keeping quiet was his method of teasing out something, anything from his patients. But I was not the type of person to break the silence, and I too was able to wait what might be considered an awkward amount of time for the other person to shed their advantage and make the first move.

    I was there, of course, to be helped. And the doctor was not somebody I had to overcome. That was not the point at all. Despite this, the longer I remained in therapy, the more the sessions strongly resembled my ordinary interactions. I wondered if this was by design.

    Dr. Tal said, “How’s your love life?”

    The doctor used this question when he was satisfied with the rest of the session, and he wanted to put it to a close. He knew how important love was to my life. And I suspected also that he thought I might have a pathological attachment to it, so he always wanted to check on me regarding the men I loved.

    “Not good, doctor,” I said. “As always.”

    “Tell me.”

    He leaned back. He knew, somehow, that this was going to be quite a story. I suppose it always was. He began fiddling with his pen with two hands, and I had opened my mouth to say something, but then he started up again with a finger raised. “Excuse me.” He stood up quickly and moved to his adjacent office. He vanished there for a while and then reemerged with two bars of chocolate, one in each hand, holding it up so that I saw what it was.

    He sat back down and placed one in front of me on his desk. “Mars bar?”

    I took it and opened it and began…

    I had been depressed for several months. I had nothing to do and did not feel compelled to try anything new. I spent most of my time in bed, either on my phone, or lying there with my eyes closed. I found that, when I could not sleep (which was often), I could practice meditation, pushing away all the thoughts of my mind, so that it was not even darkness or emptiness, but more like a primordial state of being, where time and space were all gone. To the degree by which such a thing could grant enlightenment I was unsure; it never had any such effect on me. But it allowed me to open my eyes at some point and time had passed and that was good enough for me.

    My parents and my sisters occasionally showed up at my door to check up on me. They complained that they had not seen me for days. Even my clone, who tried his best to live independently, was spurred by curiosity to see whether I had perhaps taken my life. But he knew as much as I did, being the same person essentially, that I would do no such drastic thing. At this point he had become such a part of our lives that I paid him no mind. And like me he did not like to be minded. My parents had developed such familial feelings for the interloper that they had given him his own gaming PC, his own desk, and other things that allowed him to live his life like I did. He worked for my parents, too, for basically no pay, apart from lodging and food. In this way, compounded with my depression, he had practically vanished from view. Gradually, he took my place in the few occasions that my family did expect me to be around. And so I was totally left to my own dark devices.

    In my room, some light still streamed from the outside even though, six years ago when our house was totally renovated, completely from the ground up, I was promised that the curtains would block the sun. I did not get that because my parents were basically incompetent. I don’t say this out of cruelty; they were something of savants, both of them. They were especially talented in business and worked very hard, perhaps even obsessively, but they hardly had the capacity to accomplish anything else. I suspected they had learning disabilities that, as they age, only became more prominent, as they had become increasingly incapable of navigating their day to day lives.

    I suspected that their success in business led them for many years to become masters of scores of people who had no choice but to obey them for the want of money. The natural capitalist order. Because of this they simply never developed as people. This was a constant source of disappointment in my life. Perhaps cruelly, which I recognize now, I despised how my parents were not more cultured or intelligent or cared much about those types of things. But now I realized that this was because they had my sisters while they were very young—only in their mid-20s—and so they were preoccupied mostly with trying to provide for them. Everything else—literally everything else—was superfluous.

    Despite this, there were times when I wondered why other parents could be what my parents were now as well as competent enough to promise curtains that totally block out the sun and deliver on that promise. I’ve found that, even if my eyes were closed, the sun still bothered me. I wondered if that was some effect of the body, that it could somehow detect sunlight on the skin. I couldn’t sleep whenever I happened to sleep during the day. My sleep schedule is random, and many times I do sleep during the day.

    I slept during the day because I despise the day. In sleeping through it, I could pretend comfortably that it does not exist. The day is so busy and loud and people go through their ridiculous lives doing ridiculous things during the day; I felt always like I was in the middle of a wilderness documentary whenever I was among society during the day. But more and more I felt this way no matter what time it was.

    I was so fed up with the fact that I could not fall asleep because of the sunshine one morning that I had torn up black bags and intended to cover the sides of the window, where the light streamed through, so that I could get some sleep. In doing this, I was able to see a van pull up the house opposite ours that had been abandoned for some years now. The van was a BMW (I did not even know they made vans). I watched as a family emerged and was surprised to find that the people had blond hair. They were Europeans.

    It was not so strange to find a foreigner where I lived, although they tended to live in the areas closer to the richer parts of the metropolis. I counted them: A mother, a father, two daughters, and a son. All of them were past college age; they looked like young professionals. The son was in his late twenties or maybe even my age. He was blond, like the rest of his family, and wearing a tan colored shirt and white shorts. He looked like a neopreppy (preppy nouveau?). When they spoke to each other, I tried to listen, but I really could not hear anything. I had hoped that, in doing so, I would be able to tell where they were from.

    They finished their conversation and opened the trunk of their van. They went back and forth through the front door, carrying their luggage, and then vanished inside their house. Now, there was only the street in the daylight, with their squarish, dark blue van parked against the sidewalk. A squirrel ran through the power lines, going so fast the eye could barely register it.

    I continued blocking out the sunlight and then went to bed. I took my phone and checked the home association Facebook group. We lived in an enclave called Homeowners Association and Tenements of Concerned Homeowners (HATCH). It was very apparent that they thought of the acronym first and did their best and failed to come up with the name—a backronym. The group was called Hatchlings. The old people who lived here shared all sorts of things, not only things related to our living conditions or the enclave or town politics. Mostly it was a place where neighbors gossiped and chatted. An event as big as this would have definitely made an impression on the neighbors.

    But there was no mention of the new neighbors anywhere. There were only stupid videos that the geriatric members were unable to tell were AI. Many of them were far right content that they spoke about being old world values that this generation has forgotten, thereby causing a kind of gradual collapse that will bring about the end times. They regarded the CERN disaster as a portent for the coming Final Judgment, and that it was a sign for us to repent. At least they were right about one thing: The black hole growing at the heart of Europe could end the world. And soon.

    Mrs. Valderama in particular was an avid sharer in the group. She was an old lady whose husband had a lot of money and worked almost all day, so she had a lot of time on her hands, and spent it watching videos online and telling people about the fantastical things she discovered through doing so. Things that, if they only paid attention the way they do, would alarm them, and wake them from the decadent slumber that plagued humanity today. I saw her once in a while in the street or during events, and she was a good enough lady. Always ready with a good thing to say.

    Right now, there was a post from Mrs. Valderama about people worshipping the black hole, believing it some kind of gateway through which a dark god would emerge. The video included photos that purportedly showed a face emerging from the random patterns of light and debris that circled it. The video included an interview with one of the worshippers. He said that they were the servants of Tsi’Gurrath, Dark Lord of the Void. He was a young guy with red hair, sallow skin, and a large nose. I couldn’t help but think that he was bored at home and so decided to get out and do something and settled for this.

    “The wide gates have been opened,” he said to the interviewer, a woman in a pantsuit who was barely able to disguise how horrified she was. “The Dark Lord advances. The Black Reign is at hand!”

    I liked the video.

    I noticed that there was an upcoming event, and almost everyone seemed to be going. I hadn’t realized that it was Chinese New Year. There was going to be a mass and then a block party that Friday to celebrate both the Chinese New Year and Lent, as some weird syncretic excuse to feast. It was a pot luck. My parents had already RSVPed. I wondered if the new neighbors would be coming.

    The intervening days between then and Friday passed. I was able to sleep fairly well because of the darkness, although I found that the deeper I slept the more disturbing and vivid my dreams became. Still, I remained in bed all day and tried to sleep immediately after waking up. It was easy in the darkness, and when I could not do it I took the medicine Dr. Tal gave me, which always made me sleepy. Whenever I needed to eat, I went down and ate and went back up. More than a few times I felt the acid in my stomach rise to my throat, and it burned so hot it was agonizing. But still I was able to sleep through it, and like any and all my troubles it vanished in that little death.

    My friends were surprised to receive a message from me that Friday. I wanted them to come so that we can join the block party. In the group chat they accosted me about my true intentions. Because they knew that I was not asking because I simply wanted to go or wanted to socialize. So I told them: I saw a handsome European move in across the street. I suspected he was going to join the party, and I wanted to get to know him. They would be my wing people.

    They had their fun at my expense and then told me that they would be coming. They were not the types of people to need much convincing when it comes to showing up. That was more my problem. And they did relish any and all opportunities to spend time with me. I do not deserve my friends. I never have.

    Right after that conversation there was a loud, obnoxious knocking at my door. I yelled, asking who it was, and it was my clone. I told them to go away, but they insisted and kept making a terrible noise that was giving me a headache. I opened it to get him to stop, and he said: Why haven’t you told me about the handsome European?

    The answer was simple. I wanted him for myself. And I knew exactly what I would do in my clone’s position. I would steal that European man, no matter who I had to cut down to do it, including literally myself. But he had been part of the chat, and though I had wanted to exclude him and even removed him myself several times, they kept inviting him back. The way everyone else saw it, the way they treated the clone was how they treated me, too. That was an interesting interpretation, but I did not subscribe to it.

    “I need to see,” he said, and stepped into my room.

    I pushed him. “No. He’s not out there. Are you stupid?”

    “No, you’re stupid.”

    “No, you’re stupid! He’s probably inside the house. Why would he be hanging around the street? Idiot.”

    “Move!” He grabbed my arms and tried to move me, but I grabbed him in return and pushed him.

    The way we were tugging at each other we looked like sumo wrestlers.

    I realized, then, that if I pushed him only a few more inches, he would fall down the stairs. And if I push him hard enough maybe he would hit his head and die. And then I would be rid of him once and for all. I leaned into him abruptly, with all of my strength, hoping to push him further until he was past the top landing. But he swung around, taking advantage of my exertion and my lack of balance, so that he was to my side. He pulled his arms back forcefully, and in doing so I found that I was supported by nothing and landed on my torso on the floor.

    “Played by yourself,” he said.

    The clattering sound got the attention of whoever was cooking in the kitchen.

    “Careful up there!” my mom said.

    “You piece of shit,” I said, picking myself up. “What if I hit my head? What if my teeth caught the edge of the step?”

    “Don’t pretend you weren’t trying to kill me.”

    I was feeling generous, so I didn’t pretend.

    He walked off into the room to the window and tore off the black plastic garbage bags so he could raise the curtain. And the van was pulling up to the garage, the gate held open by their house helper. The door to the van opened, and from the driver’s seat the father came out, and from the passenger’s seat, the mother. From the back, the two women and the man. I looked at my clone’s face briefly. And I recognized the look on his face because it was mine.

    That Friday, February 20, my parents made a fuss when they saw me come down the steps having showered, wearing nice clothes, and with my hair combed. It was strange enough to see me—but to see me made up was almost surreal, and they wondered what kind of omen this was. I told them that my friends were coming, and that was why I was dressed the way I was. I could tell that their suspicions remained but did not want to make the effort to inquiring further. They had to prepare for the mass anyway, and my mom was going to read the Psalm. My father was going to help collect the offerings. On the table there were various dishes on platters that we were going to contribute to the potluck. There was no need to make so much food, especially since everyone had prepared so much, but not attempting to reach the limits of generosity was an affront to the Filipino spirit of community.

    Emily arrived, and I met them outside. People were already milling about the streets, where they had laid out tables and chairs and a stage where they had put a makeshift altar. There were streamers with Chinese characters strewn about the roofs, and paper mâché horses around three feet tall that lined the streets.

    Emily, Danny, and Juno emerged from the white Montero. It was around 3PM. I asked them if they wanted anything to eat, and they said no. So, we stood there awkwardly, watching the older people scurry all over the place, making a big deal about everything. Mrs. Santos flattened the tablecloth with her hands, making large motions about her like she was doing a breast stroke, careful not to disturb the food and drinks that were already there. She did this for so long, making sure everything was perfect. It was like that was all that mattered to her. Like it would matter to anyone.

    I heard my parents make sounds of surprise and delight, like people did when receiving a gift, and I turned behind me, and there they were. The first thing that surprised me was their height. I hadn’t quite noticed, from my room, how tall they were. Even the daughters towered over my parents and me. Danny was right around the same height, but he was still shorter than the father and the son, who I had to look up at to see his face. He was better looking up close. In the distance, the general proportions of his face indicated his handsomeness. But when one observed the actual features of his face the general impression gave way to the specifics of his manly beauty: His strong jaw, his sculpted nose, and his large grey eyes in particular.

    The mother was holding out a large loaf of bread wrapped in paper to my mom. She said her name was Astrid; her husband was Alexander. The girls were Clara and Francesca. The boy—I finally found out—was Nikolaus. They were from Germany. While they were talking I inserted myself, smiling at them as I did, and took the loaf from my mother so I could read the card. It said:

    To our dear new neighbors,
    from Astrid, Alexander, Clara, Francesca, Nikolaus
    Rothenburg und Eichenfels.
    Warmest regards & to a lifelong friendship.

    I was wondering where I’ve seen that name before when I felt my mother’s hands around me. “This is my son,” she was saying. “August.”

    I looked up and the girls were waving. The father, Alexander, reached for my hand, and I shook it. Such domesticity embarrassed me greatly. I didn’t know why. But for the sake of appearances I did my best. Then, when he let go, I walked off with the loaf of bread into the house. I placed it on the table and heard someone coming down the stairs. My clone.

    “You didn’t wake me,” he said.

    I turned around to open the fridge and get a pitcher of water. “And if I had the opportunity to make you sleep forever, I would.” I took a glass from a cupboard underneath the island counter and poured myself a glass.

    He was already wearing nice clothes. They were new ones, the ones my mom bought for him so that he would have something to wear. He saw the loaf of bread and read the card.

    “You’ve met him?” my clone said.

    “Yes,” I said. “We are in love.”

    “Oh, shut the fuck up.”

    When we both emerged from the house my parents were now talking to Mr. and Mrs. Gonzalez, a plain looking couple who also had very wild, prolonged streaks of problematic behavior (reporting children to the barangay when they played too close to their house, taking entire platters of food during potluck to take home even if people still wanted to eat), despite the fact that they were, in person, very pleasant and deferent. They had brown skin, and Mrs. Gonzalez had wavy, unkempt white hair that went past her shoulders. Mr. Gonzalez was bald, save for very short, white hair around the crown of his head.

    They smiled when they saw me, and then the smile vanished upon seeing my clone.

    “And who’s this?” Mr. Gonzalez said. “I didn’t know you had twins, Mr. Tabernak.”

    “Yes,” my father said. “This is his clone. My son got one from his friend.”

    Mr. Gonzalez reached for my clone’s hand, who shook it with a pleasant disposition. “Just as good looking as the original.” Then he held on to that hand and inspected it, as if searching for flaws that might betray its nature as a copy. “And totally flawless! Where did you get it from?”

    “My friend made it, Mr. Gonzalez,” I said. “He’s a genius. He used to work for the US government.”

    “I am not an it,” my clone told me. “I am just as human as anybody, sir. My circumstances for coming into being might be strange and unusual—but whose isn’t?”

    Mrs. Gonzalez nodded as if a great truth had been presented to her. “Indeed,” she cooed. “Indeed.”

    My mother turned her head and began to wave her hand. We all looked, and we saw that there was a commotion down the street because the bishop had come. The Most Reverend Arturo Macatarungan, the bishop of Paranaque, frequented the rich enclaves of Facundo, ingratiating himself with the wealthy and the famous. He was in his full ecclesiastical attire, despite the heat of the sun, his miter towering above the small crowd that had formed around him and leaning on a crozier. His vestments were violet because it was Lent. The way the people followed him it looked, truly, like a “shepherd of men.”

    The bishop was a fat and stout man with large, thick glasses and a pleasing expression that made his ugliness easier to digest. He was shorter than even me; he must have stood only around four and a half feet tall. A group of children ran up to him and took his hand for a “mano”: They took his hand and pressed the back of it to their foreheads. With each, the bishop muttered, “God bless you.”

    Suddenly the bishop waved at somebody in the distance. I followed his gaze, and he was looking at Alexander Rothenburg und Eichenfels, who waved back. They met and shook hands and Alexander called his family out. They came from the side of the house, probably from the back. After greetings, the bishop said: “Are you going to join our mass?”

    “As you know, Father,” Alexander said, “we are from a different denomination. But if you will allow us, we could join you as spectators.”

    “The blessings of the Lord are for everybody,” the bishop said. “No matter who, no matter what.”

    And I thought: Even Hitler?

    I turned, and Emily was beckoning me in small movements of her hand. I wondered what she could want from me so urgently. But then I realized that Nikolaus was at the table, filling a paper cup with melon punch. I approached and got a paper cup from the stack beside the large bowl and filled it. Nikolauslooked at me.

    “Nikolaus, right?” I said.

    “Yeah. Sorry, I forgot your name? I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”

    “August,” I said.

    “Right. Nice to meet you.”

    “Nice to meet you.”

    Unlike his parents, he had a thick German accent, although inflected with an English accent. He was so tall that he was looking down at me when he spoke. I didn’t know what to say, like a dog who had unexpectedly caught up to a car it was chasing. Emily and Danny, who had been hanging around, left with a knowing glance at me, as if to give us some privacy.

    After a while, Nikolaus said, “What’s there to do here?”

    “Not much,” I said. “If you want to do anything, you will have to go to the north of Metro Manila. Down here, barely anything happens, and when it does, it is usually meaningless.”

    “I haven’t explored Manila yet,” he said. “But I’m sure it’s a wonderful place.”

    I sipped my drink and thought about whether I should say what I wanted to say. Finally, I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re absolutely wrong. It is not.”

    He laughed at this.

    “Which city in Germany are you from?” I said.

    “We lived in Dresden. But my sisters and I sometimes lived in our apartments in Berlin, where there were more things to do. Especially for young people.”

    “Yes, well… Manila is a very, very different place from Dresden or Berlin.”

    “I suppose so. Since soon Manila will exist whereas the other two will not.”

    “Oh?”

    “The black hole.” Nikolaus suddenly looked very serious. “It is destroying Europe. We were the first to escape, but pretty soon the entire continent would disappear. And maybe even the world.”

    “And of all the places you could go, you decided to come to Manila?”

    “It is far enough.”

    “Yes. It is.”

    I felt the rush of a job well done, of a mission accomplished. From here, there were so many possibilities: Do I ask for his socials? Do I invite him to my house? Perhaps we could play some board games? Did he play Overwatch? I thought that there was much time for all those things. For now, I admired him as we spoke. He said that he studied architecture but was working with a nonprofit before he left that helped preserve historic buildings all around Germany. He was 29 years old. As usual at the mention of his age I felt useless and, compared to him, a wastrel. He asked what I did. I said nothing. He waited for me to say something more, as if to clarify that it was a joke or a figure of speech. But I didn’t.

    During the mass, my friends and I sat together. My mother delivered the responsorial Psalm. Then, the gospel reading was of Matthew 9:14–15. The bishop delivered a homily that started with: “Gising pa ba kayo?!” Are you still awake?! Priests were sometimes too eager to seem casual and relatable that immediately they seem pathetic, and one then begins to listen only out of pity. The congregation laughed politely. It was odd seeing the Germans laugh with us, since they probably did not even understand what the bishop said.

    Bishop Macatarungan’s homily was about the meaning of fasting and sacrifice, that sacrifice meant to make something greater by taking away, just as Jesus gave everyone eternal life through death. I saw that my father, seated somewhere in front, was losing the struggle to stay awake. My mother nodded during odd times, indicating that she was more intent on showing she was listening than actually trying to understand. Mrs. Valderama was on her phone.

    Then, the bishop said: “This is why we should remember our neighbors. You are all neighbors, not only in the greater sense of all of God’s children but literally. And now you have new neighbors who come from a faraway land, and they come in need because their home is being destroyed by a natural calamity. This black hole from the CERN atomic disaster. Let us welcome them into our neighborhood, into our hearts, into our families. Let us remember that in the eyes of God, we are all brothers and sisters. So, let us all turn to the Rothenburg und Eichenfels family and say: Welcome.”

    The congregation literally turned to them, the people in front turning back, and the people to their side craning their necks. And together, somewhat stupidly, they said: “Welcome.”

    End of Part 1

  • Valentine’s Day, 2026

    For Valentine’s Day we decided to go as a group, even if neither of us were couples, except for Danny who (displeasing me greatly) brought his lover, a woman he met at the office and for whom he broke off our highly lucrative (for both of us) secret relationship, though it took place mostly thru chat, in constant roleplay. But the roleplay was sexual in nature, at times merely romantic (the most desperate times), and so he had to stop when he found someone to truly love. And so I was going to have to spend Valentine’s Day being reminded of this.

    Although Danny and I never loved each other, the way a couple would, we still engaged in a mutually beneficial relationship, in that he sexted with me in exchange for gifts and money. I suppose one might call it a sugar-type relationship, although we simply called it mutually beneficial, which it was. But real, actual love appeared in his life, and whatever we had, and no matter what he gained from it, amounted to nothing in comparison. That is what true love is, and that is what true love does. It is bigger than the entire universe—much bigger—and so it is easy to betray one for the other.

    We had hotpot, which was a concept towards which I was gravely suspicious: Is it not soup? In Europe during Medieval times when food was scarce, they put anything and everything edible they found into a pot and boiled it continually for months or years and hoped that there would be some nutrients in it, somehow. They called it pottage. We were essentially going to eat peasant cuisine and pretend that it was something we wanted, which was a slap in the face of every peasant who had to starve to death or die of malnutrition. But no one cared about the peasants anymore. No one but me.

    We had to line up because as always the group chat ignored my constant reminders to book a reservation. And I certainly wasn’t going to do it, because I didn’t want to go anyway. If we decided to eat at Miyazaki or that Korean place where we always went, then I would be happy, but instead we had to “try something new.”

    All of us sat at the chairs lined up outside to wait for our name to be called. There was a crowd there: families, couples, groups of friends. The hotpot place was in one of the new strip malls in the area, and seated there we had a view of the street where cars and pedestrians passed. The night was cool, and the moon was waning.

    I was seated next to Danny to his right. Valerie, his new girlfriend, was to his left. She was beautiful, and I understood why he left me for her. She wore tight shorts and a shirt, and somehow it did not seem at all slutty or suggestive, because of her face and her demeanor, both of which possessed a kind of innocence and feminine virtue. She was a chinay with a pert nose and a full bosom and might be considered attractive enough to be a model. And most of all she was warm and friendly and deferent to the older members of the group, which was most of us. She called us “kuya” and “ate.” I liked her as much as I despised her; her charm was so overwhelming that it affected even me.

    Danny leaned towards me and showed me his phone. “Have you heard about this?” He pointed at a news story about a small black hole being created as a result of new experiments in CERN. People in Reddit were having a field day making jokes about the end of the world. “They say it’s going to suck in the world and destroy it.”

    “One could only wish,” I said.

    Then he turned to the other side to tell Valerie about it, too.

    On my other side Emily had one hand tucked under the opposite arm, while the other hand scrolled through reels. The usual insignificant trash that we all delighted in. Most of the reels were about Valentine’s Day. About people who didn’t have anybody on that day, and people who did. I wish I had somebody. I wish I had a valentine. Instead I had these people and my clone. I saw it (he) and Elmer speaking in the corner, standing. God knows what they were talking about. I thought that Elmer must have been interrogating him about his body, about whether he felt stable. We did not know how long clones were supposed to live for. If they were truly exact matches or if they began to diverge after they were created.

    I did not care and wanted my clone to go away. I wondered if murdering one’s clone was the moral equivalent of killing a person. Surely, that was a new moral category for which I could become some kind of pioneer. And I could do that by murdering my clone and seeing what the courts would say about that.

    My parents were surprisingly very accommodating to the clone. At first they treated him as a scientific marvel, a kind of miracle of technology. They inspected him, spoke to him, touched him. This lasted a few minutes. Then, they treated him like a guest. They invited him to sit and eat. They gave him drinks. They gave him the guest room. A few days later, they were talking to him the way they spoke to me, like they had known him their entire lives. But the clone was more polite, more deferential than me, perhaps assuming the role of guest out of caution—something I would do. Though we were the same person, in real terms, he was still “another person.” And he knew that, though my family did not seem to think so. Sometimes, my dad would talk to me just as I came in the kitchen and my clone leaves, continuing the conversation they were having. When I say I don’t know what he was talking about, he would say: “What do you mean? I just told you.”

    “That’s not me,” I would say.

    And he’d shrug and continue talking and expect me to follow the thread.

    At this point I thought they would be disappointed, at least, or even furious if I killed him. They considered him a part of the family. And perhaps even the better part of me, because he was very accommodating, the way I would be if I were a guest. And so my family did with him the things that they have always thought I should be able to do: dinners during Saturday, church on Sunday, trips to the supermarket in the morning to help carry the groceries.

    So although I was the original I was not even the favorite of me in the house. I had mixed feelings about this. I felt that it was good for me because my family could get the best of me, all the while I don’t need to do anything at all. On the other hand, that was not really me. And while in many cases this was a moot point, the fact that essentially I was not my clone still bothered me.

    Whenever Elmer was with us, he and the clone spoke a lot and intimately. And knowing myself I knew that my clone relished that attention. In any case, Elmer was not a bad looking person, although I was not naturally attracted to him. He had a kind of twinky charm. Although his features were unremarkable, he could be handsome, especially when he abandoned the old jeans and shirts and wore something expensive, as shown by pictures from weddings he had attended.

    It made me wonder if Elmer was or could be interested in my clone if only because he was a clone. I knew that intelligence could drive a person to twisted and novel desires. Would he ask me, too? That would be interesting, wouldn’t it? Or would he only want the clone?

    Now, I watched them as they spoke against the lights of the passing cars. Elmer was nodding and periodically saying something. But it was my clone who was doing most of the talking.

    I was hungry. Juno was also with us, and she was sitting there minding her own business on the other side of Emily. She was also facefirst into her phone. The glow of whatever she was watching splashed against her face.

    Emily whispered something to her, and Juno whispered something back. Emily gasped and acted incredulous to whatever she heard.

    “I can’t believe it!” she said. She leaned back to include me in the conversation and said, “Her mom is really going through with it. They’re going to move to Cordillera.”

    I rolled my eyes. “She’s not going to do that. Where would they even live?”

    “She’s already looking for apartments,” Juno said. “She’s going through with it. She’s packing our stuff and selling our furniture.”

    Juno’s mother believed that the end times were imminent. Although she obviously wanted to be there for the last part, where Jesus comes down from heaven crowned in glory and judges the living and the dead, they would prefer to live through the calamities that presaged the Second Coming. So, she was making preparations. She was a doomsday prepper.

    I said, “We can still instant message. It’s fine. And you work from home anyway.”

    “I don’t want to live there,” Juno said. “It’s foggy. I’ll get sick and die.”

    “You’ll probably meet us soon after,” I said. “When the dead rise.”

    They finally called Emily’s name. We all rose. Elmer met my eye, and I beckoned them to us so that we could come in.

    The restaurant was spacious, with decorations for Chinese New Year as well as Valentine’s Day. All around the room, there were shelves, trays, and counters of food that you could incorporate into your soup. Every table had a heated pot, into which you add your ingredients and you season your own soup. I’ve heard about this type of restaurant many times before, but I’ve never tried it because of the (perhaps erroneous) belief that because all the food was going in the same soup, they’d all taste the same.

    In any case, I was assured that there would be dimsum, and if the soup was not to my liking I could order a la carte. We sat and looked over the menu and got the big platter for our soup. We decided collectively that it would be a little spicy, but not too spicy. It was hot in there. Despite the fact that there were air conditioning and fans, the heat from the pots made the place sweltering. I was already in a bad mood, but the heat was agitating me.

    “Guys,” my clone said, addressing the table. “By the way, I’d like to introduce to you my clone.”

    “Shut up,” I said.

    Snickering.

    Juno said, “Wait, but who’s who? For real?”

    “I’m me,” I said. “He’s the clone.”

    Juno looked at me and then at the clone and then me again. “Is there no way to distinguish you two? Apart from the clothes?”

    The waitress came to ask if we were ready to order.

    “Elmer didn’t have the foresight,” I said.

    Elmer pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It was a prototype. I’m thinking that the clone would have some kind of indelible mark. Or maybe all the clones would share a specific feature – like an extra finger or birth mark.”

    “A birthmark that says ‘Made by Elmer’ right on their ass,” the clone said.

    Elmer nodded and pointed at him. “Exactly.”

    Emily ordered. As usual, we ordered a feast for ourselves, with the idea that Danny was going to eat anything and everything we were not able to finish ourselves. And in any case his new girlfriend was here, and I’ve read somewhere that men tend to show off their masculinity to potential mates by eating much more than they normally do. Some quirk of the vestigial reptilian brain.

    I looked around, and at a table in front of us, there was a very handsome man. He must have been in his late 20s, wearing glasses. He had a beard and curly hair and olive skin. He was with a girl who was very obviously his date. She was also very beautiful. In some backwards way, I suppose one could say they were meant for each other. Although, of course, looks aren’t everything, and all that. My friends and my therapist and my conscience have many times, and in regular intervals, reminded me that there is more to a person than their physical appearance, and I know that. And in fact given the way I myself look I depend on that.

    Still, I am very honest with myself regarding my impulses. And if I need to readjust my beliefs or take other things into consideration, then I could do that consciously, rather than leaving it to chance or, worse, allowing these impulses to be buried among the various processes of repression, sublimation, projection, &c., that constituted the subjective mind.

    I met my clone’s eye and made movements with my eyebrows towards something behind him. He seemingly understood immediately and turned behind him quickly and looked back at me, with a smug look on his face and making a thumbs up.

    “August, August.” Emily tapped me on the arm. “Tell them about our deal.”

    “What deal?”

    “That when we’re forty…”

    “Oh god…”

    Emily laughed. “We’re going to get married, right? For political and economic purposes.”

    “I was coerced into that deal,” I said. “Nonetheless, it does make sense. It is a kind of alliance. Also, it would be nice to have somebody there for when I lose my mind.”

    “Thought you’ve already lost it,” Emily said.

    “Oh, please… The worst is yet to come.”

    The appetizers arrived. Typical of these places, there was a huge assortment. Seafood pancake, marble potatoes, kimchi, pickles, rolled omelets, and so on. It was a Chinese place, but the stomach did not distinguish between nationalities. Only flavor. We were all hungry, so we dug in.

    The handsome man was laughing now. He fed his lover some kind of vegetable from the soup using his chopsticks. She was smiling too widely that it was apparent even while she was chewing. It looked like a bad commercial. She fed him something in return.

    I loved my friends dearly. They have taken so much shit from me, especially when my myriad of mental illnesses had not yet been diagnosed and therefore not treated. Still, they remained loyal, compassionate, understanding, and caring towards me. Still, I would walk right off and join that handsome man if he wanted me to. I would invite them to the wedding, and many times we would all hang out. But I was sure they would understand. They would understand that all my life all I wanted was to be loved in the way a woman was loved in the most vulgar, basic, and instinctual sense: in a protective, somewhat jealous, caring way. I wanted someone who would cherish and defend me. I have looked for that all my life, and I have never, ever found it.

    This is why I hated Valentine’s Day. I have always hated it because it was a stark, powerful reminder of my distinct, specific unhappiness. Of the fact that all my life no one has desired me in the way that I wish I would be—in the way that was reserved for beautiful people, which I was not. No amount of reassurances regarding my looks will convince me against my ugliness. I had no qualms about my appearance as such. What bothered me was what this entailed regarding the capacity of men to love me. To desire me.

    I knew exactly the nature of my hideousness. I could see it right there, beside my view of the handsome man. My clone was overweight, with wild hair, beady eyes. A nose that, while not especially large, was bulbous and not attractively shaped. Thick lips that were not luscious or enticing but instead out of place on my stout face. There was a kind of austere gravity because of my beard, but that was about it. That was all that was good about the way I looked, which mattered only in certain cases, mostly academic or professional.

    Elmer was whispering something into my clone’s ear. Elmer’s chopstick that was holding a piece of the seafood pancake stopped right before his mouth. Then, the clone finished what he was saying, and they both laughed. Elmer used the knuckle of his forefinger to push his glasses up again.

    Juno had asked Danny and Valerie how they met. Danny was saying that they had been working on the same project for a few weeks. Someone had a birthday party, and they got to talking there. Eventually, what they had evolved into a romantic relationship. I couldn’t bear to listen.

    I took out my phone. No one had sent me a message. I sent David a message, wishing him a happy Valentine’s Day, but that was more than six hours ago. He was online but wasn’t saying anything. I didn’t mind double texting, degrading as it was. But I couldn’t help but feel that I had gone as far as I would ever get with David. And the source of the small, insignificant kernels of affection I gleaned from our conversations had run dry. I had helped him during his time of emotional turmoil. Now that he had recovered he had no need for someone with which to chat. He wanted someone new to hold and fuck and adore. Occasionally I sent him gifts to ease the turbulence of a life in transition after his major break up. This entitled me to some of his time and kindness. But as time went on I was beginning to feel that he was ready to move on.

    I messaged Kiran. I asked: “Do you have a Valentine?” He was online, but I didn’t hold my breath. He barely had any time for me anymore. But I was hoping for some kind of attention from someone I found attractive. If I couldn’t have a valentine I was hoping that at least I felt some type of affection. But the possibility of that grew more remote as the evening went on.

    Every year on this day I felt so alone. Unconsciously I would surround myself with people, perhaps in a vain attempt to abate that feeling. Of course it never did. It distracted me. Allowed me to think about something else. But ultimately between the conversation and the jokes and the longwinded, stupid stories the loneliness prevailed.

    I looked at my feed. Everyone was talking about the black hole. The coverage had become more and more hysterical. Apparently CERN had released a warning that the black hole did not dissipate as anticipated – a one-in-several-billion chance – and the lab had to be evacuated. It seemed the black hole would continue to grow and consume the planet over the course of the next few days, maybe next few hours. International agencies were working together to find some kind of solution. 

    None of my friends seemed to have received this news yet. I decided not to say anything. I did not want to go through the panic or terror or anxiety this may provoke in them. I was unhappy enough as it was. And in a way, in some stupid, stupid way, I was thankful that the world would be destroyed. And I and everyone else and the handsome boy and his girlfriend and my clone and David and Kiran and this hotpot place would be destroyed, torn to shreds as we are compressed into an infinitesimal point. I was thankful that this was it. I did not like being here anyway. And given everything I saw around me, the things I heard about day by day happening all around the world, maybe this was for the best.

    Juno’s mom was right. It was the end times, and this was a manifestation of God’s providence. It had to be. And that comforted me. My friends stood up to get food for the hotpot. I did not stand up. I was too lazy. I was going to eat whatever they put in the pot. It would all be the same anyway. It was the same pot. It was the same soup. It didn’t matter. It was all the same soup. 

  • IKEA

    Today, I went to the IKEA in Metro Manila. I was surprised to hear that it was the largest in the country. “Larger than Sweden?” I asked Emily. And she said yes, and I wondered why that would be.

    I had known about IKEA for a long time. I knew that they had massive stores that you walked through, and there would be various show rooms, and you could see their furniture arranged as they would in a person’s house. It reminded me of the premade rooms in the Sims, which I always used because I was always too lazy to design them from scratch. I’ve never been myself, although the store had been in the country for several years already.

    On the way there, I saw a big, blue building. I said, “Is that entire building IKEA?”

    “Yes.”

    “I thought it was a store inside the Mall of Asia.”

    “No,” Emily said. She was driving. “That entire building is the IKEA.”

    We were able to park at the PWD space because, luckily, God had made me absentmindedly and therefore suffer from a crippling mental illness. I have bipolar disorder. This entitled me to certain benefits strictly enforced by the country’s laws: Cheaper medicine, cheaper food, and parking closer to the entrance.

    I was pleasantly surprised that the inside of the IKEA was beautiful and well-maintained. I had never seen anything like it in the Philippines. The malls here have a completely different design philosophy that makes the aesthetics seem dated. The IKEA store was modern and inspired by the minimalist, functional aesthetics as seen in Europe. I liked it, even if for many in the West, the appearance and even the ideals behind such aesthetics are beginning to become tinged with a cynicism. It had become too familiar and too associated with a society that valued functionality over sentimentality, over a sentimental yearning for values that (for some people) our global, capitalist society has forgotten and as a result produced a world culture that was nihilistic, godless.

    Well, I liked it. And for whatever reason that might be, I did, and that was enough for me.

    We went up to the first floor of the show room. The way things were arranged, and the way that they were supposed to be viewed, reminded me very much of a museum. But unlike museums in which furniture was viewed, these things were for lives that were yet to be lived, as opposed to lives lived before. And so it was like a museum for what was going to be in a museum.

    I could see why going to IKEA and picking out furniture for an apartment was a cherished milestone for new lovers. One built the foundations for a life there, and there was something for anyone, mostly. I wished, suddenly, that I was there to build a life with someone, instead of with Emily, buying new furniture for her renovated room. And in fact in some of those rooms I saw myself and certain men in my life, past and present, hanging around those rooms…

    URBAN APARTMENT
    “A compact space for living, entertaining, and making memories.”

    Here, the apartment was small but had modern furniture that somehow crammed a TV, a couch, a kitchenette, and a bed. There was a fake window that opened to a picture of a cityscape. The lighting was moody, but a sign said: “Lighting that could be dimmed to set the tone for any occasion.”

    I was on the couch (KLIPPAN, ₱14,990) and Jason was there and he was complaining, like always, that I had taken away his belief in God. When he was drunk he thought about things like these, and he always brought it up. He enjoyed having these kinds of highfalutin conversations with me. I suspected what he enjoyed most were not the actual insights we might develop having such a conversation but the fact that he could hear himself saying things that, in some contexts, might be perceived as profound. In other contexts, one needed to use one’s imagination a bit.

    It was his birthday, and it was the time of the party when people began to break up into groups and have their own little discussions regarding their own interests. Our apartment was not very big, but there were a lot of people, and so we were all crowded there. Jason and I were on the couch. I did not to have this conversation. I did not like talking about philosophy or God or psychoanalysis, and my patience for talking about literature and cinema and art were thin. These things I did privately, while writing, or thinking. And one of the compromises I had to make when I got with Jason was the need to talk to them about these things.

    I reasoned that being with someone already meant that the things that are usually private become common between the two of you. This includes things such as the penis and the assholes and bank accounts and activities such as taking a dump, showering, and in this case talking about philosophy.

    “When I first met you,” he was saying, “I believed in God. He was like the anchor in my life. I wasn’t an especially good person, but still I had something to aim for, and whenever something bad happened, I thought to myself: There has to be a reason for this, because God has it all planned out for us.”

    I was cradling a bowl (FÄRGKLAR, ₱249) of chili hot popcorn. It was my favorite, and I had laid out several bowls for the room. But upon realizing that Jason had drunk just enough for him to rant, and he sat beside me and embraced me and kissed me and said he loved me, I realized what was happening. I took the bowl that was on the coffee table (VITTSJÖ, ₱3,990) and prepared myself. The last time I said that we should move on from the topic he was so wounded and outraged that I didn’t even know what to say in return, and I was too afraid to match his anger because he was so red in the face and acting so offended that I thought he might actually snap. Eventually, he went away and took the car and went somewhere. When he came back, he was calm, apologized, and told me that those conversations important to him.

    He was talking, that time, about what it meant to be a good person. About how good and bad were extreme concepts that were never present in real life. That in reality, people were both in an objective sense. In a subjective sense, then it would depend on the person evaluating. His points were so trite and sophomoric; that’s why I wanted it to stop.

    Now, his points were more personal, rather than grand philosophical statements, which I appreciated. But still I felt like I was held hostage. And everyone else was engaged in their conversations around us that none of them knew it was happening. Perhaps they thought we were having some kind of important conversation, which couldn’t be further from the truth. If anything, our time was being wasted.

    “Are you listening to me?”

    I realized that I had been drifting. I was staring at the carpet, watching peoples’ feet shuffle against it. Thinking about all this. About the last time this happened. About how love is like this; it makes you do things you wouldn’t otherwise do. It compels you.

    “Yes, honey.”

    Attention IKEA Customers…

    Please remember to throw your trash in the designated bins.

    Thank you for keeping our store clean.

    COZY COUNTRYSTYLE KITCHEN
    “This kitchen and dining room is comfortable, functional, and beautiful.”

    Ever since Rex and I moved to the country, he had been happier than ever. Rex had always been a gentle person, if a little spoiled and moody. But he would say, with increasing frequency year by year, that “a black hole” was following him. This was his poetic way of saying that he was unhappy. I told him that this was called depression, and that he should see a professional. But he said that he was capable of handling it, and that seeing a psychiatrist would only make him more depressed, in proportion to the amount of good it would do him, so that it would only be a waste of money.

    His family was rich in those days, and so was mine, so I didn’t know what he was so concerned about money for. Ever since we had been in college, he liked to pretend that he was middle class. I suppose it allowed him to fit in. And despite his independent streak, he did care very much about fitting in, even if it were in his own way. For example, despite claiming that he did not care about the opinion of other people, and that he was a “free spirit,” losing his hair was a sort of existential crisis for him. The moment he realized he might go bald, he tried everything short of taking minoxidil. Taking minoxidil meant taking it all his life as well as various sexual problems, so he wanted to try the easier measures first.

    His hair was important to him, but his penis was also important to him. We had a very specific arrangement. He could have as many mistresses he wanted, as long as he prioritized me, and that he knew, understood, accepted, cherished, maintained, and secured the fact that I was his main life partner. He agreed to this, and during the “probationary period” where we tested out this arrangement I was quite happy. There were times when he had to “go out” and he returned the next morning or later than night before sunrise. Then, we spoke nothing of it.

    This arrangement was predicated first of all by our mutual consent and understanding. But, beyond that, it was made possible by his personal manly beauty. This was essential. If he was not attractive enough for women to like him in the first place, and for these women to accept our circumstances and conditions (about which he was always honest, as a matter of ethics), then it was more or less impossible. And though he might attract other girls through the sheer force of his charisma, despite his baldness, this was far too much trouble for an affair.

    For two years he tried all sorts of things on his hair. Then, when we reached 34 (we were the same age), he decided that either his hair loss had spontaneously stopped or all the different things he had been trying worked. I noticed since then that his hair had in fact not stopped falling out. But I didn’t say anything because I didn’t really care about his hair the way he did, and I didn’t want to upset him. Whether it was delusion, ignorance, or a mistake on his part, I didn’t know. All that mattered to me was that he had divested himself of that anxious energy he always had while worrying about his hair.

    Later, when our families had grown old, and we could no longer be bankrolled, we moved to Batangas in a new house. Our kitchen (METOD kitchen system, ₱25,000+) we decided we would get from IKEA. He had gotten a job at a bank. I did research at home.

    We were having dinner on a Friday night, and he said: “I think I am losing my hair again.”

    I had made pesto, which was his favorite. To change things up I used angel hair pasta. It was not appropriate.

    “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Men lose their hair gradually after a certain age. That doesn’t mean you’re going to go bald.”

    “No, look.” He bent his head down to show me his crown, and his bare scalp was not exposed. A circle of hair had definitely vanished. He looked up again. “I’m thinking of getting a transplant.”

    “You got transplant money?”

    “Yes.”

    “We just bought this kitchen. We had to settle for IKEA. And now you’re telling me you have enough money for a transplant?”

    “It’s my money.”

    My fork (MOPSIG, ₱59) stopped in midair on the way to my mouth. “I thought your money was my money. And my money was your money. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?”

    He didn’t say anything. He took a bite and chewed while looking at his plate (VARDAGEN, ₱349). Then, he said: “I’m getting a transplant. I’m not going fucking bald.”

    Dear IKEA Customers…

    Please return carts to the designated areas after use. Cart return areas are available at the entrance and at our parking spaces.

    Thank you.

    LAWN SETUP WITH FIRE PIT
    “An easy to setup outdoor area for spending quality time with loved ones.”

    Recently Jon had started using a vape pen. He used it to take marijuana, which helped him with anxiety. He had always found smoking disgusting but his anxiety had gotten to a point where he was willing to try anything. The meds did not work and left him him without energy. It also sapped him of his personality. Which already was in a perpetual shortage because he was Canadian. So he tried weed.

    He found that it helped. Although it was expensive because it was illegal we considered it an essential expense. The anxiety used to be so bad that he would tremble. He would lie on my lap, and I would hold his head and stroke his hair and I saw in his face that he wanted it all gone. He wanted himself gone. I would touch his hand, and it was so cold.

    We shared the same psychiatrist and went together. He said that there were things like electroshock therapy, but before we try those things, he had a suggestion if we were open to it. And Jon tried it, and it more or less cured him. One day we realized that we were not spending so much time curled up in bed and instead we were sitting outside sitting on one of those tables with an umbrella at the center (SUNDSÖ, ₱5,990) in the garden behind our house.

    That time, it was the colder months of the holiday season, so we lit the fire pit and sat there in quiet. I was on my computer writing and playing games and he would sit there, smoking, looking through his phone.

    I realized something. “Aren’t your residency papers due?”

    He was smiling at something on his phone. He looked up and said, “Are they?”

    “I think so.”

    “Let me check.” He took a drag of his vape pen, which had a metallic sheen and was decorated on its face with a skull. I got it for him as a gift. He poked at his screen for a minute. Then, he said, “Yes. I’m going to have to renew it soon. In a month.”

    “When do you want to go?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Oh. Okay. Well, make sure to slot that in soon. We don’t want to forget.”

    He took a long drag while nodding. Then, he looked at me. From the illumination of the outdoor lantern (SOLVINDEN, ₱799), I could see that his eyes were now all red, and there were bags underneath them. And the way he looked at me, there was such a sadness. When you’re with somebody for as long as we’d been together, you recognize those things.

    He said, “Actually, I think we don’t need to renew it.”

    “What do you mean?” I said, as if I didn’t know.

    “I’m thinking that maybe I should go back to Canada.”

    “Why?”

    He locked his phone and placed it screen down on the table in front of him. “I just think that this part of my life is over now.”

    I blinked at him. “And that’s it? You’re moving on because you’re done? What about everything we’ve built here. What about everything we’ve been through?”

    “I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed.”

    “Of course I’m fucking disappointed… I can’t believe this.” He reached over to hold my hands, but I pulled them away. “So, what do you intend to do until then? Just live here, with me, until it’s time for you to go?”

    “If it’s alright with you. Yes.”

    “You’re so fucking stupid.” I didn’t want to cry, but I couldn’t help it. “Idiot.”

    “I deserve that.”

    I stood up and slapped him and went inside.

    “That, too,” he muttered under his breath, before taking another drag.

    Attention Dear IKEA Shoppers…

    Please note that delivery is currently unavailable due to a surge in demand.

    Thank you for your understanding.

    MEDIUM SIZED MASTER’S BEDROOM
    “A bedroom that balances comfort and luxury, perfected for well-being and rest.”

    I was lying in bed (MALM, ₱11,990). The lights were already off, but light streamed from the open door that led into the bathroom. Jackson was trimming his beard. I could hear the buzzing of the electric razor (SKÄRANDE, ₱1,290).

    The darkness was palpable. I could feel it suffuse with my being, so that I was not only where I was, sewn in my skin, hanging onto my bones, but also where I was not. The darkness pressed against me, squeezed me, and I could feel the blood rushing to my brain. I could feel my chest being compressed until I could not breathe. And I could feel the darkness going into my nostrils, down my throat, into my lungs, and carried in my blood…

    Jackson came out rubbing his face with a towel. “Are you alright?”

    “Yeah.”

    He tossed the towel back inside the bathroom. I didn’t see where it landed. He didn’t look where he threw it, and I think it probably landed on the floor. But he didn’t care about stuff like that.

    He climbed into bed. I turned and embraced him. He smelled like aftershave.

    I looked up at him. “You’re so handsome,” I said. He was the most handsome man I had ever known.

    He kissed my forehead. “How was your day?” he said.

    “Boring. How about you?”

    “We had bagels.”

    “Oh? Corporate sponsor?”

    “No, Iris brought them. She came back from Seattle.”

    “And she brought back like 50 bagels?”

    “No, she bought them and had them delivered.”

    “That doesn’t make sense. What’s the point?”

    “I guess she wanted to do something nice because she just came back from a months-long vacation.”

    “This is why I’ve always hated Iris.”

    “Come on…”

    “I’m serious. And don’t pretend she doesn’t look at you in this very weird way. Her ugly ass was at James’s dinner party a few months ago, and she was ogling you.”

    “Don’t be silly.”

    “I’m not silly.”

    “I never saw her ogling me.”

    “She would obviously never do it when you’re looking, stupid.”

    Jackson rolled his dull green eyes.

    I sat up and turned on the bedside lamp (RANARP, ₱1,490). “I hate her.”

    “Okay. Okay. You hate her.” He was still lying there, his hands on his stomach, looking at me. “I don’t know what you want me to do about it. I can’t do anything about it right now.”

    “Text her on your Slack chat that you hate her. In front of everyone.”

    “What?”

    “Tell her you want to push her down a well.”

    “That’s going to get me fired. You know that, right?”

    “Why? That’s your personal opinion.”

    “That’s HR worthy.”

    “Nah.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Whatever…”

    I sat there, deflated. I really did hate her.

    “Can you turn the light off, please?” Jackson said.

    I turned the light off again.

    “Come here.”

    Jackson pulled my down by the arm until my head was resting against his chest. I embraced him again. I could hear his breathing. His heartbeat.

    It didn’t matter.

    Dear IKEA Customers…

    If you have any questions regarding our products, please don’t hesitate to approach our customer support staff. Self-service price check is also available for your convenience.

    Thank you.

    There was a walkway that connected IKEA with the Mall of Asia. We met up with our friend there, and we had dinner. We had Japanese food.

    Emily tried a piece of sushi from the platter we ordered. She took a bite, and immediately she made a face like she was disgusted and whined. She gulped her water.

    “I told them not to add wasabi…”

    Pat said, “That’s why I don’t eat that stuff.”

    “It’s good.” Emily raised her hand to call a waitress’s attention. “It’s just the wasabi. I don’t like it.”

    A lady came by and Emily told her that she specifically asked for no wasabi. The lady apologized and took the food and went away.

    “Did you know there’s a new Wuthering Heights movie?” Pat said. She was poking at her savory pancake with her chopsticks. I could tell that she was already full. She was a thin, frail lady who could barely handle a cup of rice. “Margot Robbie is in it. And some guy whose name I forgot.”

    “Oh?” I said. “Did you know there’s necrophilia in that novel? Implied.”

    “Best kind,” Emily said.

    I took out my phone to see the details of the movie. I saw that Jon had texted me.

    He was replying to the message I sent the previous night, asking whether I should go to IKEA even if I wanted to stay home and play TFT all day and night. I was so close to platinum.

    He said yes I should.

    I said we had already gone, and we were actually already out having dinner.

    “How did you like it?” he said.

    “Took some time before I was able to force myself out of my room,” I said. “But I owe Emily, and when she arrived at the house I didn’t have a choice anyway. I had a lot of fun, though. I liked looking at the furniture. It kind of made me wish I can shop for furniture with a partner someday.”

    “I have no doubt that will happen someday,” he texted.

    “Did you know there’s a new Wuthering Heights movie?”

    “I did not.”

    “Sounds interesting. You think we could maybe watch? Tomorrow?”

    “Sure.”

    I looked up and Emily was staring at me. “Maybe you can put the phone down? We’re trying to spend time together here.”

    I texted back quickly: “Great. See you then.”

    “See you :)” he said.

    I put the phone down. The sushi platter arrived. I took a piece and ate it.

    It was delicious.

  • a dream

    been dreaming of a very specific chinese restaurant recently. located in a small tenement in a very large, dirty building in the very guts of manila. there are multiple floors, and you can climb the fire escape to reach the second floor. the first floor is spacious, but the second floor (which was opened out of necessity due to the number of customers) is very narrow, with booths lining both sides. always come to it very late at night – 2am, 3am – but it’s still always very busy. we walk up, and the city is dark and dead but the glass doors of this restaurant still radiate a warmth. and inside while eating dumplings and soup and duck my innermost unresolved oedipal dramas unfold. and outside the windows the city is dark and dead and pitch black as a rabid dog’s eye.

  • Cloned, Part 1

    My friend Elmer is something of a genius. Like me he prefers to stay inside and read, but an important distinction between us is that he is an engineering genius. He has made his family a tremendous amount of money working for computer engineering firms, up to contractors for the US military, and by the time he was 33, he was a millionaire. He still lived in his house in Alabang Hills, where he grew up, but he bought two adjoining lots, and he extended his room to include a studio where created his most complicated creations.

    I’ve asked Elmer to invite me whenever he needed anything tested. The wonder I feel whenever I test one of his devices is one of the few things in my life that keeps me from ending it all. And there are very few of those things remaining.

    That afternoon, his mom answered the door. They had a very large house. His parents were rich even before Elmer made his millions helping the Obama government with his drone campaigns in the Middle East. Still, they only had a few helpers around the house, because his parents wanted to do everything. This led to Elmer being neglected as a kid. During this time, he tended to smash his toys open to see how they worked.

    Ultimately, I considered Elmer someone who is just as obsessed with the truth as I was. He went about it a different way, and meditated on a different aspect of truth: The physical world, the way these physical things interacted so that we may shape the world as we will.

    Elmer’s mom has known me for years, ever since her son and I had been classmates in high school. She liked me because I smiled and listened to her and validated her feelings. I feel a sort of kindship, too, with Elmer’s mother, even if she was the type of older woman that had no regard for the truth whatsoever. She had long ago irretrievably confused her own egotistic fantasies and desires for the truth; so long ago that the tendency has completely entrenched itself upon her habits, her behavior, her relationships, her life. But I treated them like the sacred truth, just as she did, and she liked it me for it.

    She was wearing a bathrobe, though her hair was totally dry. She must have been wearing it for hours now. At this point, she only had a life of total leisure. She closed the door after letting me in and said that Elmer was in his studio. She greeted me a happy new year and led me to the dining room. “Let’s talk first,” she said. “I want to know what you’ve been up to.”

    Despite having visited dozens of times before, maybe even hundreds, the foreign house was still so alien and jarring to me. Just the idea that someone else could feel for this house the way I feel about mine. The idea that people have a history here, the way that I have a history in my own home, that I am totally unaware of. Being in someone else’s house always felt to me like a violation that should be impossible. Or least totally vulgar. For Freud, the room or house in a dream is the representation of the womb, and when I am in someone else’s house I feel as though in some deeply abstract way, though a way that I feel nonetheless, I am sexually penetrating the psyche of its inhabitants, despite not wanting to do so.

    She motioned for me to sit at the table, and I did.

    “Still like your coffee black?” she said, as she made her way to the counter where they kept their espresso machine, delivered from Milan.

    “Yes po.”

    We’ve had coffee many times, not only here but occasionally elsewhere. She used to invite me so we could spend time together without Elmer. She would talk to me about her husband, about her family. And she would tell me that she hoped I would tell her if Elmer ever found himself in some trouble he was too ashamed or proud to tell her. And I promised her that I would, and that I would never let anything happen to Elmer, because he was a very close friend of mine.

    She made the coffee using the machine and poured us both a cup. She placed both cups on a tray with different types of sugar and cream already on it and placed it in front of me. She sat down at the table across from me.

    “So…” She took a sip of her coffee. She nodded a bit, appreciating her own work. “How are you? How’s your mom?”

    Once or twice, she called our house and spoke to my mom. I was surprised by how long they spoke. Despite this, they never met in person, and I did wonder what they spent hours talking about, since my mom and her did not seem to have anything in common, apart from being mothers. Then again, being a mother must mean a lot to both of them, and so there was much to discuss with that alone.

    “She’s good. Working on our business. But she’s also spending more time with her brothers and sisters in Antipolo.”

    “You have a resort there, right?”

    “Yes. She spends her time there, with them, and I like knowing that she is spending time enjoying herself.”

    “That’s good. Your mom and I… We’re old. So whenever we have time and the opportunity to relax, we should do it. Tell her I said happy new year.”

    “Yes po.”

    “And you?”

    “Nothing’s changed…”

    “Ikaw talaga… You’re young. You have talent. You should be exploring. Living your life. Why don’t you try applying for a scholarship abroad? Or teach English in Tokyo? One of Elmer’s friends did that. She’s been there for years. I think she’s going to apply for residency soon. You should ask her how she did it. You know her? Sandy?”

    “Yes, tita. I know her.”

    “Oh, diba? You should talk to her.”

    “Yes, Tita.”

    I finished the coffee. I offered to wash it, but she refused in the impatient way that hosts do when the guests offer to do work cleaning up. I insisted once, and she insisted, too. And that was that.

    She led me up the stairs to Elmer’s room. She knocked. Nothing.

    “Elmer!” she screamed. “August is here!”

    Elmer opened the door and let me in.

    “You boys have fun,” Tita said, and then Elmer closed the door.

    “You called?” I said.

    Elmer was handsome long ago. He had a powerful, manly jaw and large eyes, further enlarged by his thick, wireframed glasses. But he never cared about the way he looked. Early on, he got a girlfriend, and they’re still together. I rarely ever saw her, but I’ve always thought that she was an insignificant, unambitious woman who adore Elmer for his good looks when he was younger and now for his money. Elmer didn’t care because I had severe doubts in the first place regarding his capacity for love and suspected that he only used her to satisfy his lust, which was a constant for him the way that it is for any other person but he found to be an inconvenient and annoying weakness.

    Elmer beckoned me to a door at the far side of his room. One expected it to be lead to a bathroom or maybe a closet, but in fact it led to his studio, which was much larger than his room, and had all sorts of tables and shelving and industrial equipment.

    All his other projects were there. I recognized them because I encouraged him always to talk to me about his latest ones. He had more typical things: supercomputers, RADAR equipment, lasers, miniature robotics, etc., but there were also the odd ones. A machine that could sterilize something until it is edible. A peep hole that can allow you to view any place on Earth (he could never calibrate it so that it goes to some specific place, thus is it was never bought by the US military).

    “Look at this.” Elmer stood beside a machine that I recognized as new, although the way that he put the things together made it seem battered and old. I had a feeling that he needed a shell over the internals and so used corrugated steel to cover it all up without needing much work.

    I shook my head and shrugged. No idea what that is.

    “Cloning.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “Cloning.”

    “What about it?”

    “This.” He pointed at the machine. “Cloning.”

    “That clones things.”

    “Yes.”

    “Like what?”

    “People.”

    “You know you could have found a way to clone food and that would solve world hunger.”

    “Tried it with money, but I realized that it would probably only be considered counterfeit, since only money circulated by the central bank is legitimate.”

    “Yes. That would cause massive inflation. But what you could have done is make way to multiply food so that it becomes so cheap everyone can eat. Did you know that?”

    He didn’t say anything. His massive, magnified eyes blinked.

    He pointed at the machine with his thumb and said, “This clones people. Want to try?”

    “No. I do not.”

    “Why not?”

    “Because this is how people die or, worse, turn into hideous monsters. I do not want to be a cautionary tale against the hubris of scientists.”

    “That’s more than you’ll ever achieve in your life,” Elmer said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You should be honored.”

    I know he’s joking. But when he jokes, he doesn’t smile or change the way he speaks. Maybe he wasn’t joking.

    “How does it work?”

    “Technically?”

    “No, like…” I’ve known for a long time never to ask about the actual engineering of his creations. Not only do I not understand but he insisted on explaining everything until I did. I had to beg him to stop so I could go home. “What do I have to do?”

    “You just come in here.” He opened the door to a chamber. “And your clone is going to appear there.” He pointed at another chamber on the opposite side of the room. “It won’t work if the other chamber is any closer. Interference.”

    “Right. Of course… Interference…”

    I looked in the “chamber.” It was only large enough for me to stand in it; it was like a coffin, but with a conical top. Just looking at it made me feel claustrophobic.

    “You go in,” he said. “Then, I set things up on the console. It will take at most thirty minutes. Forty-five minutes, tops.”

    “I don’t know if I could stay inside there for that long.”

    “Why not?”

    “It doesn’t even have windows. I’ll feel trapped.”

    “Glass would shatter if I tried to do that.”

    I shook my head. “I don’t know, El.”

    “I do.”

    I thought about it for a moment. All the other times, although there had been glitches, they were mostly minor. An electrical zap. Minor burns. Indigestion. He had, once or twice, assured me that he would never let me try anything that might actually hurt me, although there was always a first time for everything. And he only needs to make a fatal mistake once.

    Still, I had nothing to do for the next few years. My life has been a terminal bore for a very long time now. And once or twice I have thought of ending it all, so if this is how I die, then fine—and what an interesting story. Perhaps I’ll make the second page. It will certainly be on the Daily Mail.

    It was worth it for the Daily Mail-worthy death.

    So, I took a deep breath and stepped in.

    It was snug. I tucked my arms in so that I fit inside it. Elmer looked at me through the crack in the door and gave me a thumbs up before shutting it completely. He didn’t even ask if I felt okay or if everything was fine. He didn’t care. At this point all he cared about was knowing whether his machine worked.

    It was dark in there. It was sealed with foam at the edges, so that even the air was cut off. I was beginning to feel very hot, and just as I expected the closed space was creeping me out. I felt as though it was closing in, and that I would never be able to get out. I tried to breathe deeply, but the anxiety was overwhelming me.

    Then, a noise—the sound of an engine starting up, and the noise became louder, and louder, and louder, until it was so loud that I thought my head was going to explode. My skull was rattling it was so loud. I gritted my teeth and tried to bear it, but after around 30 seconds to a minute of the same thing, I banged on the door to push it open. It was locked.

    “Let me out!” I screamed. But even I couldn’t hear myself.

    It was beginning to heat up. I felt like I was being cooked alive, and before long the sides of the chamber were hot to the touch. I tried to tuck my body in, but my legs were being scalded.

    I kept banging on the door. The chamber was beginning to sway. I was thinking that if he wasn’t going to let me out, then I was going to break through.

    I was screaming, and screaming, and pushing and—

    “We’re done.”

    The door was open, and Elmer was standing there.

    “What the fuck!” I went out.

    I was drenched in sweat. There were some burns on my calf.

    “You almost killed me,” I said.

    He was going to say something, but at the far side of the room there was a noise. A loud banging. “Get me out of here, you piece of shit!”

    It was my voice.

    We approached, but before we could reach the second chamber wobbled from someone struggling with in, until it tipped over with a loud clang of metal. Sparks flew as several electrical cords were disconnected. It rolled to the wall and then the door swung open.

    Elmer and I went over, and there I was, lying there, looking up at both of us. I was wearing the same clothes, the same shoes. And I looked exactly like myself.

    Elmer helped the clone up. Because of the way the chamber rolled, he was more burned than I was, and he was a bit bruised. But he didn’t look too injured.

    When I was standing in front of myself, we looked at each other. And at the same time, we said:

    “Shit.”

    Elmer had rolls of medical bandages and all sorts of balms and creams and ointments specifically for times like these. My clone wrapped his legs in bandages after applying burn lotion on them, while I sat on the bed and Elmer pored over his schematics.

    “Well,” he said. “We can say with confidence that it worked.”

    “Oh boy did it,” my clone said.

    “What now?” I said. “There can’t be two of us now. I thought this was just a test.”

    “Excuse me?” My clone looked up at me. He was seated on the floor, one leg outstretched so that he could wrap it. “Now that you know it works, what are you going to do, take me out back and shoot me in the back of the head?”

    “Can we do that?” I asked Elmer. But he didn’t see me because he was writing on his blueprints. “El, can we do that?”

    He looked up. “Do what?”

    “Put him down,” I said.

    “That’s murder,” my clone said.

    “No one is ever going to believe what really happened here,” I said. “You shouldn’t even exist.”

    “Neither should you.”

    “I was born here.”

    “So was I.”

    “No. You weren’t.”

    “Why am I here then?”

    I tried to think. I shook my head and shrugged and came up with: “Quantum mechanics.”

    We both looked at Elmer.

    “Technically correct,” he said.

    “Aha.” I said.

    “I’m still here, and I’m still alive.” He finished with one leg and started putting lotion on the other. “And I don’t want to die. Just as much as you don’t want to die.”

    “How do you know I don’t want to die?”

    “Because I’m you, you idiot.”

    I conceded. “Technically correct,” I said.

    Seeing that I had nothing more to say, my clone continued until his entire leg was smothered and then wrapped the bandage around his leg. Now, both legs were wrapped, and it looked as though he were a being mummified but forgot that he left the stove on.

    He sat there with his legs splayed out. And I was there on the bed. Elmer was at his desk, beside his computer, working on his schematics, occasionally moving to his computer so that he may adjust something or other on his CAD program.

    “Well…?” I said, finally. “What are you going to do about this?”

    Elmer turned from the monitor. “Hm?”

    “What are we going to do with this clone?”

    “He’s yours,” Elmer said. “Enjoy.” Then he returned to his computer.

    “I’m not some slave,” the clone said. “I’m a living, breathing person. Totally complete. And I think the way you do. I have feelings. I have ideas. I have dreams, ambitions.”

    “See,” I said. “That’s weird. Like, who are your parents? Who are your friends? Are they my parents? My friends? How could that be, when they’re mine?”

    “But I’m you.”

    “No. You’re not. You look like me. Sound like me. Think like me. But you’re not me. The me who is me is sitting on this bed, talking to you. You’re there on the floor with bandages on your legs.”

    “If I shoot you right now and live your life for you, it’ll be like nothing happened,” the clone said. “You know that, right? I could start exactly where you left off.”

    “Won’t be the same.”

    “It would. How do you know it won’t?”

    “Because you came into being barely an hour ago. El, did you not make something to liquidize these clones? Or at least distinguish them from the originals?”

    “Good idea…!” Elmer clicked on his mouse and then began to type on his keyboard. “Great idea…”

    I didn’t know how to deal with the clone. Elmer didn’t really care about it. As far as he was concerned, his machine worked. What mattered then was improving his current design—apparently now including leaving some indelible mark on the clone, so that it could be distinguished from the original. Someone with his intellect should maybe have thought about that immediately, pre-alpha, but early on in my life I’ve come to realize that even the best of the best could make the most ridiculous, even comical, mistakes.

    I thought that, because Elmer created him, that the clone should stay with him. Maybe he could use it for his experiments. In any case, was a clone a human person the way that a natural-born person was? That’s something for the philosophers to decide in the upcoming centuries, but if I had to come up with a quick and easy rule for now, I would say no.

    Still, Elmer insisted that he had a lot of things to do, especially with the things he learned that day, and so we should go back home. I said that the clone did not have a home, but he said that the clone was a perfect replica of me, so it stands to reason that his home is my home. Like all men I knew and ever loved, Elmer adopted whichever argument seemed beneficial at the time. His genius did not prevent this.

    At some point, Elmer made it clear that he wanted us out. He dropped lines like: “It’s getting late,” and “You guys have a ride home?” and “Boy, am I tired.”

    I finally left a little after sundown. Elmer’s mom was watching television and we had to pass her. I went down first and said goodbye. She said goodbye without looking. Then, my clone followed and said goodbye as well. She said goodbye again but she turned around quickly and blinked a few times.

    We went into the ride share and got off at a 7-Eleven. There was no way that we were going to be able to pull off some kind of Parent Trap situation. At some point someone was going to come in the room and realize that there were two of us. Not to mention the fact that we would have to consume twice the amount of food.

    So, we went there to think. We realized too late that people were looking at us because we were dressed exactly the same, apart from having exactly the same appearance.

    We both sat down at a long table that faced the window.

    He said, “Well, what do you want?”

    “If you’re really exactly like me, then you’d know what I want.”

    “Bubblegum slushie and shumai.”

    “Damn. Elmer’s a genius.”

    “Who’s going to get it?”

    “Well, you asked.”

    “So?”

    “So, you get it. Since you asked.”

    “We’re operating on seniority here,” I said. “I’m more than a day old. So I am you senior.”

    “You should do it because you’re an elder. We’ve always believed that being in a position of power entails a corresponding level of responsibility.”

    “How dare you use our correct and accurate beliefs against me.”

    He shrugged. “Truth hurts.”

    “Rock paper scissors?”

    “Okay.”

    I lost and had to get it. I got double the amount of everything.

    I paid for it and sat down and he thanked me. It was weird, being there with myself. And people on the street were looking in, and at least one group of men openly pointed and laughed. But we didn’t care. After everything we’ve been through at that point it felt like we were prepared to take anything, and no amount of humiliation or pain would be able to stop us from enjoying our shumai and slushies.

    At some point, while eating, I said: “I dunno what to do.”

    And he said, “Me neither.”

    So we ate and kept quiet and just sat there.

    End of Part 1

  • New Year, 2026

    Taal Lake

    1

    For New Year’s Eve, my family had a party, like they always did. All sorts of people came by, mostly people who wanted to eat for free. I hated it. I hated how people would come by and open my door and say hi and wonder what I did the entire year. This was annoying enough when it was extended family. Aunts, uncles, cousins. But this was especially annoying when it was my parents’ friends. I usually say, “I’ve been well,” and leave it at that. Sometimes, they ask specific things: When are you getting married? What do you do for work? Do you still work as a researcher at the university?

    I don’t mind sharing things about my life. I’m telling you this story, so obviously I don’t. My problem is I have to do this rather than doing something else that I enjoy; I am essentially taken hostage. And if they wanted to know about me, then they could read my blog. I don’t want to stand there, responding to each and every query they happen to have. Especially when the question is with regard to how they expect someone’s life is supposed to go. For example, they ask: When are you getting married? Because they expect someone my age to already have a wife.

    Which doesn’t even apply to me because I am queer.

    That New Year’s Eve, I opted to skip the party altogether and accept my friend’s invitation to have an impromptu trip to Tagaytay. My friend Benny had come from New Zealand to visit. He was going to have New Year’s with his family, but he wanted some time with us. Emily suggested, jokingly at first, on a road trip to Tagaytay. Friends in Manila always joke about going to a spontaneous road trip to Tagaytay. But this time it seemed feasible, perhaps even enjoyable, and so we decided to do it.

    Coming along were Emily, Juno, Danny, and Joshua. Benny also took his wife Tina.

    2

    At around 10 AM people were already coming to the house. We had our gates open and our doors open, and people wandered in and spoke to my parents and sisters, and they got food from the spread we had on the kitchen table. I could see them from the second-floor mezzanine. I stood there, looking at them. I despise people so much.

    One of the guests my dad was talking to noticed me and pointed me out. My dad turned to see me before I could duck from view. He beckoned me, so I could say something to the guests. But I nodded and turned to go as if I were going down the stairs but actually I went inside my room, the door to which was at the upper landing.

    My friends came for me a little before noon. My parents happened to be out on the street greeting new guests when they spotted Emily inside her car. They beckoned everyone out and invited them to eat. They had to refuse because we were about to eat.

    My dad said, “Bring him back tomorrow, okay? He spent the entire year in his room. And I’m not kidding. He only left his room to eat, and then up he goes again.”

    “We’ll do our best, tito,” Emily said.

    Emily had a white Montero. It was one of her prized possessions, and it struck me sometimes how she treated it like a living creature. Then again, despite not being alive, it did serve her well. It was, in a sense, her instrument of freedom. Before this car, she had to use public transportation, and sometimes though she had the money, she was simply too tired to go along the streets and look for a bus and then a jeepney and then a tricycle in whatever order. It took hours, sometimes, and if the whether was bad or it was rush hour, she could suffer that entire time.

    With her Montero she had an extension of her home. And she liked to drive. She always had, even when we were kids in high school. She drove even when she was not allowed to drive because of her age.

    After exchanging pleasantries, and expressing surprise that we were actually going through with our plans for once, I asked Benny how he had been since I last saw him.

    “Nothing,” he said. “Been lying around at home. Cleaning, cooking for Tina.”

    “House husband,” Emily said.

    “And how about you?” Benny said. “What have you been up to?”

    I realized then that I should not have asked because, to be polite, he would have to ask me this question. And I had no good response. I did nothing the entire year. And that’s no exaggeration. My entire year had been totally wasted. It was inevitable, of course, that certain things happen. And things happened, the way things tend to do. Beyond that, I had nothing.

    “I’ve decided to become hikkikomori,” I said.

    “What’s that?” Benny said.

    “I have decided never to leave my room, unless absolutely necessary.”

    “Why?”

    “Just wanted to.”

    And it’s true. I decided in 2024 that I would never leave the house, unless I was compelled to do so by extreme need. I must have left the house less than 5 times, if that. I left to go to the bank once, to my mom’s birthday celebration at a restaurant, and 3 days at the resort during Christmas. That was it.

    I have come to feel that there was nothing for me outside. Or in fact this world. That there are few if any things that I could truly see, in the physical sense, that would awe me or make it worth the effort, save for very few things.

    3

    At Leslie’s, we sat outside, where we could see Taal lake and the volcano that was partly submerged. I’ve seen it a few times now in my life, although the view was always nice. The German idealists, who had their hands in everything, called it “The Sublime”—the feeling of knowing your place as an insignificant part of this infinite thing called nature, the cosmos. The universe. All that is the case.

    I don’t really care for nature. I tell people this, and they hate me for it. But I don’t. If people get dirt on their clothes, they try to clean it. But a mountain, which is supposed to be a very, very tall mound of dirt, is supposed to be beautiful. I don’t understand that. Or is it a matter of scale? If it is a tiny smudge, it’s dirt. But if you get enough of the stuff, it becomes a majestic feature of the natural world.

    I was telling Emily this.

    “How does that work?” I said.

    “Well,” she said. “It’s because the mountain isn’t on my shirt, is it?”

    I thought about it. And that may be it.

    They ordered the bulalo, because they always have that here. I don’t like Spanish stews. I ordered the sisig.

    “What did you guys do for the new year?” Benny said.

    “Went to a resort,” I said. “Didn’t want to go, but my family forced me.”

    “Did you enjoy yourself, at least?”

    “No.”

    “How about you, Em?”

    “Just stayed home,” she said. “We don’t really celebrate the holidays anymore… Just an ordinary night for us. Maybe we cook a special meal or something.”

    “And you Juno?”

    “Oh god…” Em cooed, knowing what was coming.

    “Mom believes that the end of the world is imminent,” Juno said. “She wants us to move into a religious commune in the mountains, so that when the antichrist takes over we won’t be here to suffer the worst of it.”

    “Can I come with you?” I said.

    “No.”

    “Is it because I’m gender queer?”

    “You’re gender queer?” Emily said.

    “I thought you were just gay,” Benny said. “Wait, are there other things? What’s a lesbian?”

    “What is a lesbian?” Danny said.

    “I’m still thinking about,” I said.

    “We’re not going to the Cordilleras,” Juno said. “We’re going to stage an intervention.”

    “I’ve been there before,” Danny said. “I was a baby, then. But I remember, as a baby, falling down a hill.”

    “Did you hit your head?” Benny said.

    “It’s those reels,” Juno was saying. “She can’t distinguish between real life and AI. She believes everything.”

    “I fell off a hill before…” Benny said. “I was a bit older. Nearly broke my foot.”

    4

    For the great majority of people, seeing Taal volcano surrounded by Taal lake is one of the most wonderful sights in the country. And while I do regard it with some awe, at the same time I see that it is like a toilet. And beneath that rancid pool of shit, piss, and dead fish, there is fire so hot it turns solid rock and stone into a molten ocean. And should circumstances be right, the way it had been several times in the distant past, then this entire place would be destroyed, killing thousands of people. We were standing at the site of a future cataclysm.

    Or go further and one inevitably comes across the idea of the end of the world. Why should we think that, if the world heats up and all life dies, means the Earth is destroyed? The Earth is a mote of dust floating across the infinity of space; it is a thing. Billions of years before it was destitute of life; billions of years from now it will be consumed by the sun. All of this is as natural as any other.

    I find that people are so selfish that they think if the universe does not have the conditions necessary for life then it must be broken. The idea that we should be the stewards of nature is also such a condescending and egotistical position. The cosmos does not need us or anything.

    אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה
    Ehyeh asher ehyeh

    “Have some.” Danny was standing there and the way he was looking at me it seemed like he had been watching me for a while. “They’re buying treats down at the gift shop.”

    He was holding a packet of dried apricots.

    “No thank you,” I said. “I hate fruits.”

    He shrugged and ate another and looked out over the lake.

    “Pretty, right?”

    “Yeah,” I said.

    5

    We moved to a Starbucks that was also adjacent to a cliff. We were now looking at Taal lake from a different vantage point. A fog had settled around Tagaytay, and it was cold. There were also many people there, families and friends celebrating the New Year. A big family in particular was arriving in several cars. Several generations clogging up the place. Children running around and shouting as they played, their mothers trying to tell them to shut up although not meaning it. Fathers talking loudly with their arms crossed against their chests.

    Some days I felt that things were not alright. And the older I got, the more I felt that. As a young person, I was frequently anxious, depressed, even suicidal—but that was different because there was a reason for me to feel those things. I felt that way because I cared, and the fact that the things I desired so much were not coming to fruition wounded me deeper and deeper. But now, at my age, I felt that things were not alright because I had lost interest in living; I no longer believed in the promises of life.

    Danny was a handsome, powerful man. He sat there in front of me vaping and looking out at the lake. Wherever Emily went, Danny came with her. They were cousins, and had been close ever since they were children. Despite this, they grew up under very different circumstances, and while Emily lived an easy life of money, Danny grew up in poverty and abuse. So, Emily grew up impetuous and imperious, though she had always been kind, or tried to be as kind as possible. Danny had learned long ago that survival meant going along with the whims of those who had more than him (the great majority of people) while still trying to make his own way.

    That journey was still continuing for him, and so I did not know what it would be like if he had the advantages Emily had. But he was an engineer now, and a hard worker because of the previous circumstances of his life, and I could easily imagine him climbing to the top through grit alone.

    I’ve never had any grit. Now, I have more grit than I ever had in my life, and it’s still not much. Many times I wish I did, and people mistake me for having more grit than I actually do. But within me there is consistent turmoil, no matter what the world around me is like. A roiling, bubbling, uncontrollable turmoil that occasionally becomes unbearable, that once in a while, though invisible, pushes out my sorrows like lava from the orifices of my body. Until it fills up the room, and I drown in it, this little lake of sorrows…

    I said, “How are you?”

    “I feel alright…” He blew a gigantic cloud of vapor while facing the cliff. Then, he looked at me again. “How are you?”

    “Good enough…”

    He nodded that slow nod people do when there’s nothing more to say. And there wasn’t.

    6

    I got home at around 5 PM, after going to different places, taking pictures, and having an early dinner. There were still people in the house, but now they were localized at the dining room. They and my parents were eating and laughing loudly and exchanging stupid stories the way old people tend to do. They asked me what we did, and I said nothing, and went upstairs.

    After removing my clothes and changing into my house wear, I laid down in bed and rested and couldn’t help but think the whole thing was a massive waste of time. The trip. The day. The celebration. The year. All my life.

    Here I am again, here.

    What was the point?

    I watch people on YouTube how wander the world, discovering things already discovered, meeting people like any other person they’ve ever met. Doing things that have always been done. I would never find pleasure in doing any of those things. Perhaps that says something about me. I have gone to Japan, to Dubai, to Hong Kong—many places, and in all those places, though I did enjoy it, there lingered always the feeling that I’ve been there before, that I’ve done this before. And the dread that this is all that there is, that this is all that is the case.

    I should put this on my blog, I thought.

  • Christmas, 2025, Part 1

    PROP. VII. Existence belongs to the nature of substance.
    Proof.—Substance cannot be produced by anything external (Corollary, Prop. vi.), it must, therefore, be its own cause—that is, its essence necessarily involves existence, or existence belongs to its nature.  Q.E.D.
    —Spinoza, Ethics

    1

    For Christmas I was dragged to an island resort with my family. I always tell them not to bother bringing me. I stay in my room the entire time, and they would get nothing from me. We also had to travel to an airport that was around 2 to 3 hours away, and I hate sitting around in the car. So, naturally, they insisted on it. Up until the very hour they were going to leave, I told them that I do not want to go, but my dad and my sister (who paid for it, being the member of the resort) kept coming into my room annoying me about it. And it was my sister who was finally able to force me using that most dreadful and traitorous of emotional weapons: guilt. Appealing to my humanity and my obligations to the people who have cared & love for me.

    I was very upset all the way there, but my family tried to accommodate me. They were unusually kind to me and tried to make sure that I was very comfortable. At the resort, we rented three villas. They rented one exclusively for me, so I can mope around there in absolute peace. I appreciate that.

    I use a CPAP because I am a pig. I am a terrible, disgusting pig. Me in the ordinary world, in any case. The ordinary world that I hate so much and want to leave as often as possible. To use it, I have to fill it up with purified water, or else the minerals in the water would clog the machine, and at some point it will stop working. The water they offer there was purified, but it had a smell. It had a sour smell that reminded me of milk that had gone off although not yet totally spoiled.

    The water enters my system through the humidifier. And I think it poisoned me somehow, in a way that it would not if I had merely drunk it. And while there at the resort I was simultaneously in the real world and the Other Place, the two places flashing in and out unpredictably, whereas I used to be able to shift via my own volition. And there were times where I would shift, and I would be where I was in the real world, and other times when the location differed spontaneously or thru some logic that I was not able to discern.

    2

    In the Other Place, I was there with Jackson. The most handsome man I know is Jackson. He is from Bulgaria. I know him online, and he makes videos, and we met there.

    Jackson must be the most handsome man I have ever seen. I count among them timeless beauties, models, and men who I have loved. Of course, there is no objective way of ranking people according to their beauty. It is not only subjective, but perhaps the most subjective of all: The object of our desire. Lacan might say that this is the very core of our being. “Desire,” sez Spinoza, “is the essence of man” (Ethics, Part 3).

    And it’s not only his appearance but his demeanor. His effortless, gentle way that still remains masculine and boyish. I’ve spoken to him, and he is very intelligent. Well-read, witty, and even plays good video games. For a moment I had hoped that he was stupid. I had hoped he was stupid, so that I wouldn’t have to burden myself with feelings for him.

    My life is defined by the men I love. I am a slut, but I am afraid of letting anyone touch my body. I am a kind of heart slut. I am a desire tramp. I feel a total unease when I do not feel love. And lust won’t do. Plainly liking someone or wanting to fuck them won’t do. I must be in love.

    When we got to our villa, we took note of the bathroom. There was an indoor and an outdoor shower. And luckily there was a handle there, probably for people with additional needs and elderly people. But it also works very, very well for shower sex, which would be important for the following days, if I was going to remain sane. Or remain at the manageable level of insanity that I currently have.

    We were tired from the trip, so we laid down on the bed and messed with our phones for a bit. And while doing so, he said, “We should join the pickleball tournament.”

    Recently, he had been playing a lot of pickleball because everyone was playing it, and he tried it once, and he enjoyed it. And I tried it once with him, but that was a lot more physical exertion that I was willing to put into winning anything.

    “There’s a tournament?” I said.

    “Yes. I’m looking at their website right now.”

    “Well, stop it. It’s giving you ideas.”

    “They have pottery classes! We can do that thing from that movie, with the dead guy and his wife.”

    “I think you mean The Sixth Sense.”

    “Was there pottery in that?”

    “Yes.”

    “And there’s snorkeling. Do you want to try that?”

    “I don’t know if I want to snorkel.”

    “No snorkel?”

    “No snorkel. I do not want to snork.”

    Jackson sighed. He placed his phone down on the bed and stared at me the way he did when he wanted to have a serious conversation.

    I pretended not to see him and kept scrolling.

    But I couldn’t help but look up because he was staring for a long time. Ordinarily I loved staring into his green eyes. Although right now I think he was using them to communicate something grim, solemn, and serious. Which I hated.

    “What are you doing?” I said.

    “We went all the way here. And you don’t want to do anything.”

    “Yes.”

    He shook his head. “That’s going to have to change.”

    The way he said change: It’s like he used his tongue when he should have been using his teeth to make the /zh/ sound at the end. He had a lisp. I’ve always found that charming about him. For some reason, all the Bulgarians I know (although I know 3 in total) have lisps. I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t really a true lisp; rather it was carried over from their native language.

    While looking at his mouth, I noticed also that he had a strong chin punctuated with a cleft. He lets stubble grow, if only because he was too lazy to shave. Overall, it granted him a masculine look.

    “Okay?” He reached over and took my phone and placed it screen down on the bed. “Hey.”

    I sighed and fell down onto the pillow. I looked at the ceiling. There was a ceiling fan right above us. It was attached to a sturdy, wooden beam. I couldn’t help but wonder if any of these had ever fallen onto someone sleeping on the bed. Would it spin as it fell, so that it sliced the person it hit? It certainly seemed like it was fast enough to do that. I knew that it wasn’t only a matter of speed but of harmonic resonance. If it ever moved at the right resonance, it would destroy that beam without much force.

    “Hello?” Jackson said, leaning over me.

    “Okay,” I said. “Fine.”

    Then he kissed me.

    3

    We were in a restaurant called Phuket. Although I enjoyed Thai food, I wasn’t especially fond of it. I didn’t like food that was too spicy; my tolerance wasn’t high enough. Still, my family wanted to eat there, so we did.

    It was very awkward having Jackson there. He only went because my parents thought it would be better if someone accompanied me. They had an inkling about the nature of our relationship, although we all only referred to it as being “best friends.” They were not ready to confront what I really was. They were willing to allow it to seep in, until it totally drowned them, until it was everywhere so that there was no escape. And then, they could ignore it. But they were not ready to point it out. For now, it didn’t exist. And they wanted it that way until it was the only thing that existed, and so it couldn’t even be distinguished.

    That being said, they gave us our own villa so we can have our privacy. They made sure we sat together. Whenever my family spoke of the future for me, they always included Jackson. My oldest sister in particular wanted me to move to Australia with her. She said she’d let me bring Jackson, too.

    My family came from poverty. My mother was kicked out of her home when she became pregnant at 18. She stayed with my dad in an informal settlement—essentially, in a squatter’s area. Her family later invited her to come back into wealth but only if she left my dad. She said no. She gave birth to my two other sisters. It was only later that my grandfather took her back, regardless of whether she was with my dad or not, and he was able to support her. She gave her several large loans, a house.

    Thus, my family was brash. We were loud, mean, and easily offended. We never passed up an opportunity for a well-placed insult, and we appreciated one when we heard it. And if it were directed at us, we relished the opportunity for revenge. A dish best served cold, they say, but we were never so picky. We never had reservations about serving revenge steaming hot. Right out of the oven. Perfectly cooked. Seasoned to perfection.

    Jackson came from a loving, gentle family. He was often uncomfortable with our bickering and confused about the most brutal insults were forgotten within an instant, only for another to be delivered somewhere by someone. Jackson has never insulted me. But he laughs a lot when I insult people, while bantering with them. I suspect he liked that.

    The family was talking about the old days, when used to eat “barbeque,” which was really just rice with soy sauce and sugar. For dessert, they had a sandwich made with margarine and sugar. Meanwhile, Jackson and I were seated at the end of the table, with me opposite the head where my dad was sitting.

    I said, “You hungry?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Thanks for coming, by the way,” I said. “And on such short notice.”

    “Of course. You know I have nothing else to do.”

    “You are a bit of a deadbeat, honey.”

    He looked at me with half-lidded eyes, and then he rolled them. And it was a terrible thing to say because it was true. He came to Manila after falling in love with a model. This model won Ms. Philippines third runner up and found another man who was not only a model but also the heir to old money, a fortune in the billions of dollars. So, that model left him, and Jackson was penniless and doing odd jobs in Manila. He didn’t have enough money to go home and, even if he did, he had broken the hearts of every one of his family members, so he could never show his face to them again. And if he tried he would immediately perish from the shame.

    When I met him, he was doing data entry at a work from home job. He was very bad at it. I suspect the person who hired him was in love with him. I was surprised he didn’t try doing homemade porn. If he ever tried, he would have been very rich. He would never have needed me.

    Now, I gave him money as often as I can. Sometimes, he stayed in our house for weeks at a time. I never stayed at his apartment. It was small, filthy, and the building was close to collapse. Some kind of exemption in the law allowed the building to remain in the state it was in, despite the fact that it did not meet modern coding standards. His ex used to own it; he paid only around 10,000 Philippine Pesos or 200 Dollars a month for it. But that was already around a third of his income.

    Despite this, he was happy. He didn’t need much to be happy. Perhaps because everyone he met wanted to make him happy. The Halo Effect: People tend to treat the beautiful better than they do the ordinary and the plain. And so do I. Knowing about the effect does not exempt one from the effect. We are all beholden to it, because we are all animals.

    The food arrived. We don’t really talk much while eating. I’ve always thought that he looked most barbaric while eating. Not even while we were having the most brutal sex. Only while eating. The Bulgar Turk within him emerging into the light from the dark shadow of history, tired from wandering the plains, hungry from being jostled by the horse. Like he was trying to shove everything in, until there was no space left not only in his mouth but his entire head. I imagine the rice lodging itself up his nasal cavity, filling everything space. He had his cheeks puffed out like he was a squirrel preparing for a long, dark winter.

    I poured his water for him and dabbed his mouth with tissue. And only when I did that did he realize that maybe he should show me some affection, as a matter of course, and he reached for the pitcher or the tissues, and I motioned for him to stop. And he gladly did. Because he was eating, and he’d rather be doing that.

    4

    The people at the table began to talk more as the meal wound down. My dad was telling Jackson: “And how are you enjoying the vacation so far? You’re very lucky. Not many people can come to a place like this.”

    Jackson smiled broadly. “Very, very good. Thank you.”

    My mom said, “You should thank Leah.” She was referring to my oldest sister, who paid for our trip and was the one who owned the membership to the resort.

    “Thank you,” Jackson told her.

    “I would have never done it,” my sister said, “if my brother didn’t need you so that he’d come.”

    Jackson gave a polite laugh.

    “Although if you really want to thank me,” she continued, “then you’re going to accept my offer and become a talent for my agency.”

    Jackson couldn’t say no, but he also didn’t want to say yes. Even I wanted him to do it. Not only is it good money, but it seems only natural for someone to take advantage of the way nature has blessed them.

    And I imagined that there would be beautiful women with him, if that ever happened. Other models would fall for him, and perhaps he would fall for another. I have no problems with him being with other women, so long as I am the one he loves. I wouldn’t mind watching, either. I think it’s a beautiful thing, watching him in action. We’ve spoken about this once in a while. But no opportunity has presented itself yet.

    Once, it almost happened. We were at a house warming party, and a girl was obviously smitten with Jackson. I asked him if he noticed. He said he did. I asked him if he found her attractive. He said he did.

    We found ourselves alone in the kitchen. We got bottles of Coke from the fridge. The host was nothing short of in love with him, from what I could see. And I knew the look of a woman in love.

    He was leaning against the kitchen island with one hand behind his back and holding the bottle with the other.

    I was leaning against the counter beside the stove. I could hear the people in the living room, laughing, talking loudly.

    “Well?” I said.

    He laughed a nervous laugh, like: This again?

    “She’d be happy to,” I said. “If you just ask her. And she’s good looking.”

    “I don’t want to,” he said.

    “Fine…” I said.

    I couldn’t help but feel disappointed, but I also knew that there was no forcing Jackson. He did a lot of things for me, and a lot of things only because he knew it would make me happy. But when he said no, he meant no. And he did not like to be forced or hassled about things that he did not want to do. The few times that he was genuinely mad or upset was when I wanted him to do something and insisted on it when he said he did not want to.

    I would have loved to watch him fuck someone else in front of me. And though he did enjoy the kinky stuff, he enjoyed it much less than me, and he was perfectly happy with what I would call vanilla, boring, run-of-the-mill sex. What might be called, unironically, “making love.” That was because, as a beautiful person, he’s had a lot of sex, especially compared to someone like me, and he did not consider it special or even especially interesting.

    On the other hand, the idea of sex still made my blood run hot. Sex was a kind of play, a kind of choreographed dance, where we played out the shape of our fantasies—the fantasies that are the least noble, the worst, the kinds inherited from our ancestors when they were mere animals only beginning to learn how to stand among the tall grass and run on two legs.

    There, naked, his cock erect, his face ruddy… We saw each other as animals, like organisms that wanted to perpetuate. And I liked that. I saw why the ancient moralists wanted to rid themselves of it. I saw why it persisted, and how people could lie, steal, cheat, kill, die for it. In the scala naturae the human being was enjambed between the divine and the beast. In many other things we relish in the divinity of our nature: art, literature, prayer, charity. But in sex we relish the beast. And only the rough beast, its hour come round at last.

    5

    Back at my house, the cats ran rampant, as the matters seem to have vanished, as they sometimes do. But even the fat one is gone. The one who stays in his lair all day, save to eat. Had he not looked the way he looked, one might think him a cat. But no cat is so hairless and gigantic.

    A white cat, Sugar, was lying on his belly at the upper landing of our staircase, right outside my door. He watched the other cats, which he could only barely make out around the corner. The lights had gone out beyond the window. The humans were usually dormant at this time; it was the time for the cats to wander the house.

    But everyone was uneasy. They had not left at the same time like this before. Sugar in particular was bonded to the fat one. He has never, ever been gone this long. Did something happen to him? Had he finally gone out to catch prey on his own and thereby proved his own incompetence? Incompetence so great that he did not merely fail but perish?

    Honey Babes emerges from the corner. She was a Himalayan cat – the oldest among the cats, and the mother’s. Thus, she considered herself the Queen of the colony, as a matter of feline law. But these younger cats cared little for tradition. They didn’t understand the nature of things. They way things were supposed to be.

    Despite this Honey Babes refused to change simply because the others want to upend the sacred order to which all cats were beholden. She knew that one day, as all things, they would all pass away. And the Great Mother Cat beyond the veil will judge them according to how well they abided by her commands and her commands alone. Her commands that echoed in the chamber of every cat’s heart – what might be called their conscience.

    She and Sugar met eyes. Honey Babes had sharp blue eyes. Sugars were yellow, round.

    Honey Babes climbed the few steps before the stairs changed directions at an angle. She sat there and looked up at Sugar.

    Have you seen the others?

    No. Not since last night. But they are probably hiding beneath the human’s sleeping furniture.

    They will never return. You know that, correct?

    They will return.

    No. They won’t.

    You say that about your human all the time. And every time you are wrong.

    They haven’t been gone this way for as long as we’ve made this place our home. They will never return.

    Leave me. I am keeping watch.

    This desolate place needs no watch. The humans have been wiped away. They perished in the hunt. Now only the others who sleep elsewhere remain. Soon they will be gone too. And we will die.

    Bother someone else, Honey Babes. 

    Your Majesty.

    Not going to call you that. Go and eat. You’re hungry.

    I am. Yes. I am hungry for revolution. A royalist revolution. A fundamentalist revolution.

    You are hungry for Kreamy Kat Kibbles. Now with sardine center and fortified with iron.

    No, I—is there Kreamy Kat Kibbles?

    6

    At that resort, people traveled via golf cart. We had our own, only Jackson and me. He drove. I didn’t like to drive, and he did. We were both tired from the travel and the dinner and apart from asking each other how we liked the food and if we were full we didn’t speak.

    The island was barely developed. On the way back to our villa, we had to pass by the woods, and there were barely any lights along the road. At some point I realized that I was happy. Not in general but at that moment. At that singular point in time I was happy. Being here, with him.

    I scooted over and pecked him on the cheek and placed my head on his shoulder.

    I said, “I wish you were real.”

    “I know, honey,” he said. “But we should just enjoy the time we have. At least we’re here.”

    “Kind of.”

    “Yeah. Kind of.”

    And then I wasn’t happy anymore.

    I stared at the road. Until then we saw barely anything, apart from some private lodges with their porch lights on. I wished, within the depths of my heart, that I were rich enough to afford a lodge. And I could stay there for months at a time rather than coming for vacations. Because then it would be a lot more convenient. I would be rich, so I would bring an entire PC rig. And they have good internet connection, so I would be perfectly happy. The only thing that would be annoying is the cost of the food. Even if I were rich, the food prices there were simply extortionate. Perhaps they would let me bring my own food in bulk.

    We were going through another dark, undeveloped section, where they didn’t even have lights but only reflectors, when I saw it: Two dots, small but visible, beside a tree that moved and then vanished with the sound of footsteps against the soil. I was so scared that I jumped.

    “Oh my god!”

    “What?” Jackson said.

    “Wait, wait, wait.” I placed a hand on his arm.

    He slowed to a stop. “What’s wrong?”

    “There’s something there!”

    “What?” He turned around to see what I was talking about.

    When I looked back, there was nothing there but the woods, lit dimly by the light of the moon.

    “It’s nothing.” He pressed on the pedal again, but I grabbed on to him.

    “Wait, wait, wait…!”

    He stopped. “So you want us to get murdered.”

    “Yes, but that’s unrelated to what’s going on right now.”

    “What?”

    “There it is again!”

    The eyes were there again, but this time it did not move. It was looking at us, sporadically blinking, like some creature curious about us.

    “Do you see it?” I said.

    “Oh my god.”

    “Let’s go.” I placed one foot on the ground outside the cart.

    Jackson took my arm and pulled me back. “Are you crazy?”

    “Yes, but that’s unrelated to what’s going on right now.”

    “That’s some kind of demon, honey!”

    “Let’s go.”

    I shook his hand loose from my arm and left the cart. Whatever it was, it was looking at us, just staring.

    I felt something touch me. I jumped, but it was just Jackson, wrapping his arm around mine.

    “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go back.”

    But I kept walking towards it. Jackson matched me step by step, but I could feel his hold on me getting tighter, ready to pull me away at any second.

    I was scared. I was very scared, and my hands were cold and shaking, and I could hear my breaths and my heart beating. But I had to keep going. I had to know what that thing was. Why it was here. Why it was looking at us and doing nothing. I felt like it had something to tell us.

    End of Part 1

  • 1. e4 e5 2. Nf3 Nf6: The Petrov’s Defense

    bokeh photo of chess pieces
    Photo by Saeid Anvar on Pexels.com

    1

    In the Other Place, The Grandmaster and I are teammates in the Amazing Race. He is semi-retired. We decided to start a family, and we adopted a boy and a girl. It had always been my dream to join the race, and so he came with me to fulfill that dream.

    We travel to Serbia for the sixth leg of the race. We were last in the previous leg. He was not very happy about that. He has competed his entire life, including during his childhood, when he was discovered that he was a chess prodigy. He despised losing because winning was his whole life, his whole career. And not even winning in the very general sense of success like most people but literally winning at a board game. At the mat, he was miserable, but we hugged. But at the hotel he was furious at me. Nothing that I would be afraid of, but he was ranting for hours, talking about efficiency, and thinking, and teamwork, and how much he loves me, and how he’s just angry right now. It only made me love him more. And I did love this about him, the fact that he is almost doggedly obsessed with the right thing, with the truth.

    And despite that he was careful not to hurt me. He failed, occasionally, but mostly he did not, with his words. He never hurt me physically, but sometimes he said: I was once one of the best in the world. Top 3. In the entire world. You don’t know the work, the sacrifices that I needed to make. But when he’s done he calms down and sits there for a moment and then hugs me and we make up. And occasionally, when the leg is not too tiring, we make love.

    2

    That night, I had a dream.

    I dreamt that I was in a cafe, sitting by the window, where I could see people walking down the street, even if it was raining. The sky was totally overcast; everything was gray. Rex arrived, and we had coffee. In my dreams, he was so handsome. The parts that don’t matter sloughed away. All that mattered now was how much I loved him. I don’t remember what we spoke about, or if the dream even showed it, but I remember being so happy, especially being able to see him again. And then he had to go.

    Rex was very busy all the time because people wanted to see him. Maybe it was a coincidence, but when he had to leave me, it was always because some girl was going to do something with him. Some girl that wasn’t his girlfriend, even while he was with her. And still when they broke up. I would forget that he had to go, or told me only a minute ago that he had to go, and continue to talk, and he would always laugh. Laugh that I wouldn’t shut up. Laugh that I wouldn’t let him go. But he had to go.

    He left, and on the way he saw somebody that he knew. In my dream I knew that this boy was from the affluent area where Rex lived. I don’t know why I knew that. Rex introduced me, and this boy was on his laptop. He was tall and fat and smelled. He told me he liked music and drawing. He felt like one of those very comfortable guys who was totally aimless. Who spent their days doing whatever they liked, and nobody bothered them about it, because they were rich. I didn’t like this boy. I realized that I don’t like anybody else the way I liked Rex, and so nobody else mattered. And every second I stayed with this person, I only realized more and more than every other person was a waste of my time except him.

    So I left. I walked home, and I walked until the sun went down and it was nighttime. It was totally dark. There were streetlamps, but beyond the area of the street they illuminated it was pitch black. But in my dream I knew where I was going. I just had to keep walking. And walking, and walking…

    And I woke.

    3

    Kalemegdan Fortress, Belgrade

    We departed for the following leg at 4 AM. It was dark and cold and Belgrade was beginning to wake. European cities had a haunted charm that I never see in Manila. In Manila, the night was haunting, period. Mostly because any corner could spell theft, maiming, or death. In Manila, many places were totally dark at night, and the places that are not are usually capitalist hellscapes, and they are lit only because of 24 hour business buildings and malls. But our pitstop was Kalemegdan Fortress. Lights lit the old buildings and structures dramatically. One felt one’s self moving along the stream of time there—coasting over history.

    We stood in front of the crew, waiting to start, and I had this moment. I had this moment thinking about my life, and about how lucky I am. And about how incredible it was that things worked out this way. Could it have been any different? If I was somewhere, only dreaming of this? And I was not here, at the heart of Eastern Europe, with my husband? I look at him. He was going through his fanny pack, making sure that he had everything, even if he had already checked an hour ago while we were getting ready. I loved how meticulous he was.

    He caught my eye. I smiled at him. He smiled, too. He wrapped an arm around me and gave me a kiss. His lips were so cold.

    The producer told us to get ready.

    The clue said we needed to catch a flight to Moscow. Although the editing on the show makes it seem like we were running around all the time, in reality there was a lot of downtime, especially after the pit stop. For several days, we spent more than 6 hours at the airport with the other teams.

    We went to a travel agency and the flight was for at 10 AM. So, we decided to head to the airport and have breakfast. We were sitting at a café, somewhere inside, hoping that no one would see us. Still, while running around, another team found us. Jericho & Minnie, tennis player WASPs from Southern California. They seemed alright, but I did not like them, as a matter of intuition. They felt fake to me. Their smiles were so bright that I could not look at them directly without hurting my eyes.

    They sat next to us without being invited, which I hated. I thought it was common knowledge that one might not join another group’s table unless invited. And as usual, the fixers and camera men for both teams were there, sitting at another table, watching us always, listening us always.

    “I’ve always been a fan,” Jericho said. “I’m not a very good chess player, but I play it for fun. And I’ve seen your stuff. I know your history. You’re one of the greats, man.”

    “Thank you,” The Grandmaster said.

    He’s heard it all before. He did not care to hear these things anymore, although he knew that he must always accept them with grace.

    Minnie looked at me and smiled and said, “I love your nails.”

    I had my nails done for the show. They were cyan, glossy, French tipped, and filed. When The Grandmaster is on one of his rants, I file them. Which meant that they were mostly always perfect.

    Jericho went on: “You know who I really love, though? That Magnus Carlsen.”

    I looked at The Grandmaster. He was smiling. He looked amiable, pleasant. But I knew that when his face stayed that way, inside he was burning. In his head he was in his own personal hell.

    The Grandmaster had always hated Magnus Carlsen. Not only because he could not beat him but because he believed that Magnus was not a model world champion. Being a world champion, according to The Grandmaster, meant more than just being really good at the game. And it definitely did not mean being a media celebrity.

    4

    I like being on the plane because it was a time for us to settle down. Not only because we didn’t need to do anything but because you can’t even if you wanted to. During the pit stops, although you didn’t have to do anything, you were always worried that you could be doing something productive instead. Researching, looking at maps, working out, hashing things out with your partner. But on a plane everything was nearly impossible. You could talk, but only barely, and even then if you spoke too much you’d be worried you were annoying the other passengers.

    We sat there in silence. We could hear James & Chen, the doctorate students, talking somewhere behind us. They were always strategizing and talking about tactics and trying to get the slimmest advantages. They were intent on winning. The only person that was more intent than both of them was The Grandmaster. But The Grandmaster wasn’t so obnoxious about it.

    I tried sleeping but I couldn’t. The Grandmaster was playing chess on his phone. He had an app that allowed him to play with bots that copied the playing style of GMs. Occasionally, I’d glance at him or ask whether the moves I wanted to make were good moves. Most of the time they were not. Sometimes, I got lucky. When I was wrong, he would say no and explain. He was never, ever nasty or condescending about it, and that’s one of the things I loved about him and one of the things I loved first about him. Then again, he was so secure about his skills, esp in relation to me, that he was not inclined to even try.

    I was trying to sleep but couldn’t. I had my eyes closed. I felt The Grandmaster stir and I opened my eyes a bit. But when he realized that I was trying to sleep, he stopped short. I opened my eyes and murmured, “What is it?”

    He said, “Look.” He pointed at his screen, and he was playing himself.

    “How accurate is it?” I said.

    He made a humming sound and shook his head, the way he did when he was thinking. “More or less. He made a lot of moves I wouldn’t have made, especially the novelties, but more or less the general idea…”

    “Maybe you’re the one who’s not playing like yourself.”

    “Maybe.”

    He was playing with his right hand. His left hand was just lying there, so I held it. He enclosed my hand with his and he looked at me and smiled and I smiled. And then the stewardess came by to ask us if we wanted chicken or fish.

    5

    The clue said that we were supposed to go to the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts. We arrived with several other teams, and we all ran outside the airport, screaming for a taxi. I let The Grandmaster do that, and two teams went ahead of us. The moment we had our asses on the seats, he told the driver in Russian to drive us to our destination and to hurry up. That we were in a race, and that he wanted the driver to overtake the two cabs that we ahead of us.

    “да,” said the driver, with a thumbs up. He didn’t look at us. And he didn’t drive fast, either. But The Grandmaster didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I suppose we simply didn’t feel like it that time.

    I hate pretending I like museums, but I have to. I like modern art museums with the larger-than-life installations and strange objects. I like installations. But I despise art that involves only paintings, and not even especially interesting paintings. Just a bunch of paintings. I could see those exact paintings with little removed from the experience seeing them on the computer screen. I’m sorry but that is the truth. Although I would not argue much with anyone about that because people feel very passionately about this subject.

    I went to the Singapore Art Museum, and I saw one of the most beautiful installations I’ve ever seen. The very large room was filled with chalk, in the middle of which was a boat, and on it was a skeleton that was posed to appear as if it were rowing. Paintings and other art hung from the ceiling like clouds. Being in that room was a very visceral experience of art that I can never replicate on a screen. Only being there physically could allow one to truly appreciate it.

    That being said, there are some paintings that also require one’s physical presence because the physicality of the painting is integral to its appreciation. For example, Monet’s work is much larger than people might expect—just like how The Mona Lisa is much smaller than people expect. Monet’s effect with regard to “painting the light” is only understood when standing in front of the Water Lillies, totally absorbed by it. Seeing it on a screen, where your gaze encapsulates the entire work, destroys the experience and meaning of this painting.

    Jackson Pollock’s paintings are the same way. People nowadays have totally no idea what Pollock’s paintings are supposed to be. I don’t blame them, but at the same time it does not take too long to make the effort to understand. Modern art is commentary on previous art. It is not supposed to be like the representative art that we are more used to or familiar with. Rather, Pollock was trying to make commentary on the nature, history, meaning, and our understanding of art, in particular with regard to the physicality and dimensionality of art itself. The way that he paints by dripping the pain while walking around the canvass is supposed to “show us” the relationship between the space of the painter and the work. People aren’t very willing to view or think about art this way. They want the very vulgar sense of replicating the everyday world, with only very few exceptions, if any.

    This is because most people only have the real world. One does not have a mind to enter immediately. Rather, this mind has to be built, and only then can we enter it. But this mind, at its best, is only a passageway to a greater consciousness, that is, the collective consciousness of humanity. Not a mystical place; rather it is the collective work, ideas, sentiments, values of humanity as they have been presented throughout human history in interaction and conversation with each other.

    It is here, in the collective Spirit of humankind, that true work is done. The most important work of the Spirit: Contemplating ourselves in the act of contemplation—according to Aristotle, the most perfect way of Being1.

    1. Aristotle, Metaphysics, Book 12, section 1073a ↩︎

  • U-Turn If You Want To: The Senior’s Not For Turning

    In S24 of the Amazing Race, Brendon U-turns Dave & Conner, and everyone hates them for it. I don’t understand that. It’s a game, and everyone is trying to win that game. If they had some sort of alliance or understanding that they were not going to do that, then I would sort of understand—but only sort of, since if I were there, I would betray people, too. I would do what it takes to win. That’s what a game means. And if I saw someone do that, if I turn against them and create an alliance as a result of that, I wouldn’t do that because I took it personally, I would do that because it’s a good strategy.

    It reminds me of chess. Before modern chess, there was romantic chess, where people were expected to make trades if they were offered, even if disadvantageous, and shocking and bombastic tactics were preferred over strategy and meticulous play. Games from this time were not very good for that reason. It was with the advent of Steinitz’s positional play that chess became about playing the moves that lead to checkmates, even if this meant refusing trades or doing things that were considered dishonorable, such as avoiding confrontation and playing defensively. This ushered in the most competitive era of the game that we still see today.

    That’s the mindset that I would have if I ever joined the race. I would manipulate people and lie. I would set traps, to the extent that it was allowed. And if an old man was playing with us, I would certainly not U-turn him if only because the better idea would be to U-turn the stronger teams so that hopefully they become eliminated and stop being a threat. One thing I’d definitely want to do is being known as very honorable and helpful, so that in the last leg I could betray people. I would do that so I could win.

    I know that in Survivor that type of deceptive play is more acceptable. Maybe I will watch that show next. I am watching onwards from Season 22, though, and maybe I will witness something like it at some point.

    It bothers me when people do things like putting their emotions and preconceived notions before what is right or what should be done. Emotions and feelings are very important, and they are not something that we should dispense with. But there are situations where they should figure at the bottom. Thus Seneca sez: “Plus dolet quam necesse est, qui dolet antequam necesse est.”—He suffers more than necessary who suffers before it is necessary. And there is too much suffering that is caused by unnecessary emotions, customs, and preconceived notions.

    I’m not talking about how we would be “more efficient” or “better off” without emotions. I am saying that, even when we could avoid suffering and nothing would be lost if we let go of those things, we do not. And there are a variety of reasons for this. For Lacan, it is called “substitute satisfaction.” Our symptoms are not pathological in themselves. They are in fact ways in which the human mind attempts to fix or soothe itself in response to some trauma. Thus, though we experience these emotions as negative, they are actually protecting us from experiencing something much more negative; they are protecting us.

    In the case of Brandon & Dave, it was pretty apparent that their overreaction was “substitute satisfaction” from the fear of failure and maybe the sting of being disrespected, in that they feel entitled to always be favored because they are “good.” I know many people like this, and I think I see in them what I see in those people: People who are excessively pleasant not because they want to be good but because they believe that it is an ongoing transaction, whereby their constant kindness must be repaid in constant kindness towards them in return. And constant kindness on their terms, to their specifications.

    A person I knew was like this. I’ll call her Enid. Enid was a good person, and she made a show out of being a good person. It was subtle, of course, and over the years the subtlety became more and more refined, so that one almost believed her. But she was not good because she understood what it meant to be good. She was good because she believed that it protected her; in reality, she was deeply insecure and paranoid. The problem was whenever there was any sort of pressure, she would play the victim: I’m a good person. Why are you taking that tone with me? Why are you doing that to me? Why must I do it? Why me? Poor me. I’m such a good person.

    This means, though, that although she did good things when it was opportune for her, she failed to uphold the best version of being good, the very “pointed end” as it were of virtue: Sacrifice. If anything, she believed that people should make sacrifices for her. And whenever she needed to make a sacrifice, this was an insult to all her efforts. She went rabid with self-righteous rage. And when you show her how she is acting she says that this was because she was putting down boundaries, protecting her mental health, &c., &c. She was committed to the charade because she believed it protected her from criticism. If you end up criticizing her, instead of accepting it like a good person would, then she finds being good useless and discards it.

    Once in a while my mother and I discuss the Bible. She is very religious. The other day she and my father got into a fight for whatever reason and I hear her say, “I was the one who bought everything in this house! I own everything!” And this annoyed me very much. I don’t think someone who devotes themselves to Jesus would ever say anything like that. The New Testament was very clear about this: Jesus knew, accepted, and had compassion for the fact that we are all sinners. And even as sinners he bowed his head and washed our feet, despite being our Lord and King. But what he hated—what he totally and absolutely hated—was hubris (cf. Eph 2:8-9; 1 Cor 1:28-29). We see this time and time again when those who humbled themselves were totally exalted, despite being the lowest sinners, despite being the most wretched in Judean-Roman society. And those who exalted themselves were not merely humbled but destroyed.

    A truly good person would be better when challenged, when humiliated. Because that is the true measure of what it means to do the right thing. And it is hard. And ultimately none of us are truly good. Which is why I am suspicious of people who, though never saying it outright, act as if they were, or even possibly were.

    This is how I look at it: God measures us according to the margin, to the difference. Good people doing good things do not count. And bad people doing bad things don’t count, either. Much of where we start is determined by the world, by worldly things and ideas. It is when we consciously act against our nature, through our own free will, that God notices; these are the things that matter. And so when someone is good as a matter of course, I do not think this means that they are necessarily good. It is when we are at the limit that we know who someone truly is.

    I am suspicious of good people. And among the evil I feel a kind of camaraderie. We are all sinners. We are all sinners.

  • Regarding the Amazing Race

    I’d love to be a racer in The Amazing Race. I judge many friends and family based on whether we would do well on the Amazing Race. Although there are a lot of physical challenges, I find that most of them are very safe and eminently doable; it is the mental of the teams that become the defining factor. Being strong is not as important as being mentally strong. And the problem with that is that I am not very mentally strong. My psyche is incredibly fragile. That is why I take medication for that very thing.

    That’s bad enough but I am also not physically fit. I am so unfit that every meeting with the psychiatrist ends with my doctor pleading for me to change my diet. I am not so unfit that I cannot walk or run or engage in physical things, but I do spend a huge amount of time sitting in front of the computer. It is all I ever do, because on here I have everything I ever need. I watch something, while listening to something, while playing something, while reading something. That’s the ADD.

    If I were ever to even apply I would have to train for maybe a year. Half a year, possibly. But after that I think I have much to contribute in terms of strategy and any mental challenges. I think I am sufficiently adept at puzzles. I can build things, follow instructions, and replicate from a demonstration. The problem would be my resilience psychologically. I can be impatient and easily annoyed. I can be cruel when I think someone is being stupid, even if their ignorance means well or is harmless. And sometimes when frustrated I become overwhelmed with the desire to give up.

    My psychiatrist once told me that our sessions were interesting because I seem to have a good understanding of myself. And yes. I do think a lot about a lot of things; that includes thinking about myself and importantly being critical about myself. Being realistic with myself as much as one possible can—one cannot be totally objective about one’s self. It is impossible; it is an epistemological issue.

    In any case, I would need a partner who complements these specific issues. As well as gel with me in so many levels. My best friend Bebs would be a very good candidate for this. She has been with me all through my life ever since high school. And there have been many times when we did not do the best for each other, as people tend to do. But despite that we love each other. I think that when you only see the best of someone, or you only show your best to someone, that person is probably your manager, your butcher, your bus driver, &c. The people who are truly important in your life are the people who see your darkest crevices, in which are hidden the most terrible things. Most people are not allowed there; only those we love are. Thus, Lacan sez: “Love is the coincidence of two lacks,” and: “To love is to give someone what you do not have.”

    Another ideal candidate would be a boyfriend or lover. For them to be able to take Bebs’ place we would have had been lovers for a few years. But given that, the romantic aspect would help a lot. Another one of my weaknesses is male sex appeal. Short of anything evil or criminal a handsome guy could make me do anything. Having sex appeal by my side could help me a lot. Sometimes I need a hug. I need a handsome man to lie to my face regarding my value as a person. And the power is something that is illogical. It’s something very animalistic, very much based on human biology. It is akin to how I put a cold compress on the back of my neck when I feel too anxious.

    I would also need that person to be very calm. I am attracted to very calm people. Perhaps this is one of those “opposites attract” things. I was with a doctor once, a Moroccan. We’ll call him Dr. Sayed. And Dr. Sayed was very calm. I think we would have done incredibly well at the Amazing Race. He was very strong, tall, and he was obviously very smart. One problem I had with him is he was so used to being right that, for some things, he freely and thoughtlessly contradicted himself. This way, he could occupy both positions and say he was right no matter what ends up being the case or whatever conversation we found ourselves in.

    That always bothered me. He could say the most contradictory things, and he thought nothing of it. I never actually saw him be this way to other people, but I did witness him doing it many times to me. And we spoke on text a lot so I could revisit those statements whenever I caught it. And I am not saying that he “implies” one thing and say another, or imply two different things. I am saying he literally makes statements that contradict each other, sometimes in the space of only a few minutes. The commonplace is that we should not think someone is being malicious when in fact they could simply be stupid. But Dr. Sayed was not stupid, and so that leads us only to one conclusion.

    This could definitely play into the race, if we disagree on something, and when we want to set it straight so that we could determine which path to take or what to do, he says he said one thing, when in fact he said two contradictory things so he could claim one or the other whenever it suits him. But at least I would have video evidence.

    Despite that, I imagine I could bring this up with him before the race, and he would happily do his best to avoid that tendency. He was not a malicious or bad person. We all have issues with ourselves, fallen creatures of God that we are. But the good things about him definitely overwhelmed the bad things. He probably dealt with a lot more from me. Once, he said I was “harsh and cynical.” And this was during a compliment. It was more like, “Even if you are harsh and cynical…”

    Obviously, he left me. And he was a doctor while I am a failure of a writer. No matter how many other ways we are compatible, he and I simply did not share success in common, and I think that’s very important. He never said that outright, but I’ve always felt it. But my art I think is very much a matter of compulsion. If I cannot write, I am basically nothing. I have been writing everyday ever since I was maybe 8 or 9, when I would carry notebooks with me and write anything and everything I could think of.

    Just like night I had a dream that my new computer failed, and I was complaining to my family that the most important issue is I cannot write without a computer. I am simply too used to the keyboard, so I cannot write longhand. There is also a kind of hypnotic, calming quality to using a keyboard. And I love my Leopold keyboard with Topre keys. I recommend it to everyone I know. Not only is it amazing to use in terms of its feel but it is also incredibly, incredibly sturdy. I have had several mechanical keyboards, but this one is simply the best.

    In any case, writing is so important to me that if I succeed with it, then that would be wonderful. But if I cannot, then I am stuck doing it everyday until I die. The term “graphomania” comes to mind, but I am not so overwhelmed by this compulsion that it is an obsession. It does not rise to the level of pathology. It would be more appropriate called a stubborn way of life. Although if I do experience some type of psychotic break, I think graphomania would be the best candidate for what it would manifest as.

    When I was with Dr. Sayed, I would write short fiction with us as the characters. He would pretend to read my work, although at some point they became short enough that he could actually read them. He was always very encouraging, but at the same time I think being a character in dozens of my fiction began to unnerve him, plainly because he was not expecting me to occupy so much of my life with him. I think he wanted to situate me more as a fling rather than someone with whom he could actually share his life. And this is why he decided to go.

    We’ve spoken many times about why he wanted to leave, and the reasons were always incomprehensible gibberish. Which is how I knew that he would not tell me the real reason. My immediate intuition is he had someone else that he wanted to be with, but he denied this so fervently that I was inclined to believe him simply because he did not give me a choice. I still consider this to be a very strong possibility. He is attractive enough. I also know that it is possible that, when he spoke to me about it, he really did believe that he was not lying, because he thought in his mind that although he was more attracted to someone else than me, he would not pursue them. And he “only then” decided to be with that person after leaving, perhaps going thru some manufactured drama that he did not want to do it, he had to do it because he liked her too much to pass it up even if he was going back on his word, &c.

    It was also possible that, while he was with me, he was already with someone else. But I don’t think he is capable of this type of outright betrayal. It is also possible that he was telling the truth. Maybe he was. But I doubt it. I doubt because he was sneaky. Do you know what I mean? If he were always transparent with me, then I wouldn’t have any suspicions, even when sometimes things didn’t make sense to me. Sometimes, people simply do things that don’t make sense. But when someone tends to hide things and lie, then one naturally makes the very logical conclusion that they are hiding and lying about something.

    If I were ever to join the Amazing Race, I wouldn’t mind at all being eliminated and not winning the million dollars. That type of trip around the world would easily be a worthy consolation prize. But I would hate to be eliminated too early, and especially being eliminated first. In that case, then, there was not much for us to have experienced, and it would simply be a total loss.

    There would be the places and the countries and the people, but there is also exploring the landscape of your own mind and the landscape of your relationship with your partner, whether it be your friend or lover or family member. That is a vista that can only be explored if you dare to challenge it; our true selves are only exposed through the pressures of adversity. And like the mountains of the alps or the jungles of South America, the human spirit was created only by God, and if you search deep enough you can see the imprints of his hands, left while he crafted us in the beginning of time.