And Hell Froze Over

Strange and curious things.


Just the other day two significant people from my past suddenly popped up in my portable personal electronic communications device (that's a cell phone, to the less-pretentious of us.)

From out of the blue was my ex-girlfriend. The one I ever truly loved. 

I know she's on Facebook and I had scanned her FB profile exactly once ever since she wisely refused my ideas of a life together. Instead, she relocated to Singapore, where we hugged in the train station very cinematically the first time I visited her. We spent a lovely day then at the zoo, neither talking about what had been but silently wishing each other well.

Two years later she upped and married a nice expat - whom I spent awkward moments with sharing thrill rides at some odd amusement park at the anus of Singapore while she grinned at us from the safety of the solid ground below - and had lovely children in the Caribbean.


"Let's have lunch!" she exclaimed over Private Messaging. "Come up to the house if you can."


Ah.


The house.


Where I stood awkwardly at her doorstep one evening, exchanging wordless glances with her ex-boyfriend, who was also there for Lord knows what reason.

Or maybe she was the reason. Not unlike her - with her flair for the dramatic - to have planned it that way, as the wide grin on her face revealed when she saw two young men after her hand standing in her doorway.

Neither of whom would win a life with her in the end, anyway.



The other blast from the past was my ex-BFF.

The one I swore never to talk to again until after our little unfortunate business venture was at an end.

Which did end: miserably, mercifully, finally, after seven arduous years.



For his part, he chose Viber to slither back into my life.



"Hey Rudi, how are you?"


I didn't see the message until late the next day.


"Ahhh hello," I responded at the unknown number. "And this is...?"

"Vincent"



I took a full 24 hours before I replied.


"And I thought the Apocalypse was a no-go."


Well. I did promise I wouldn't speak to him until after the venture was done.

And now that it's done, I am bound to my word. The same way I honored it by cutting off all communications with him for the past six years.


And while I'm musing, why would my ex-girlfriend want to have lunch, after all these years ? After I boycotted her wedding and missed every significant event in her life after that?


Like I said: strange and curious things.

Il N'y A Pas D'Amour Heureux

                                          Aragon et Nina Simone:Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux
                                            Vidéo fidjie sélectionnée dans Arts & Talents

Il N'y A Pas D'Amour Heureux was originally a poem written in 1943 by novelist and poet Louis Aragon. It was later revised and set to music by composer Georges Brassens. While the mood of both poem and song is melancholy and pessimistic, Aragon - whose work was deeply colored by his experiences of hardship during World War II - actually focuses on both the negative and positive aspects of love. His point, essentially, is that true love is not free from sadness or pain.


Hence, the titular "There is no (perfectly) happy love."

Rien n'est jamais acquis à l'homme. Ni sa force.

                                             Man never truly possesses anything. Not his strength.

Ni sa faiblesse ni son coeur. Et quand il croit

                                              Not his weakness nor his heart. And when he thinks

Ouvrir ses bras, son ombre est celle d'une croix.

Of opening his arms, his shadow forms a cross.

Et quand il croit serrer son bonheur, il le broie.

And when he tries to embrace his happiness, he crushes it.

Sa vie est un étrange et douloureux divorce. 

His life is a strange and painful divorce.

Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.

There is no happy love.

Mon bel amour, mon cher amour, ma déchirure.

My beautiful love, my dear love, my torn heart.

Je te porte dans moi comme un oiseau blessé.

                                                    I carry you in me just like a wounded bird.

Et ceux-là sans savoir nous regardent passer

And those who unknowingly watch us walk by

Répétant après moi les mots que j'ai tressés.

Repeat after me the words that I have woven.

Et qui pour tes grands yeux tout aussitôt moururent.

                                                And which have already died in your bright eyes.

Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.

There is no happy love.

Le temps d'apprendre à vivre il est déjà trop tard.

The time to learn to live is already long gone.

Que pleurent dans la nuit nos cœurs à l'unisson.

Our hearts cry in unison at night.

Ce qu'il faut de regrets pour payer un frisson.

What it takes in regrets to pay for a thrill.

Ce qu'il faut de malheur pour la moindre chanson.

What it takes in sorrow for the simplest song.

Ce qu'il faut de sanglots 

What it takes in sad tears

Pour un air de guitare.

For one tune on a guitar.

Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.

There is no happy love.

Unlike the song, the original poem ends on a more hopeful note, acknowledging that sadness, conflict and suffering are integral, unavoidable components of love. And yet,if we are genuinely in love with a person, all the unhappiness that accompanies love becomes worth it.


Supposedly.

Il n'y a pas d'amour qui ne soit à douleur.

Il n'y a pas d'amour dont on ne soit meurtri.

There is no love which is not pain.
There is no love which does not bruise.

Il n'y a pas d'amour dont on ne soit flétri.
Il n'y a pas d'amour qui ne vive de pleurs.


There is no love which does not fade.
There is no love which does not live from tears.

Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.

Mais c'est notre amour à tous les deux.

There is no happy love. 

But it is our own love.

The Tipping Point

When do you say "Enough"?

Many of us endure many things in the name of - ugh, just saying it makes me wince, but - love. But it need not be just about romantic affairs. We put up with many things in our varied relationships with family, friends, colleagues, and the general human race.

We forgive. We give second, third, fourth, almost unlimited chances. We turn a blind eye to the most obvious of deceptions and lies and somehow, deep inside, hope and hope that things will change, that he will change, that "love" is worth fighting for.

But to love is to be human, and to be human is to be fallible and weak.

And while love may start out strong, the erosion of eros starts silently, almost imperceptibly, until the cracks are too visible to ignore and the facade starts to crumble.


I've been an angry, angry man far longer than I care to remember.

And now I'm just tired.


Too exhausted to be sad enough to shed tears at a good-riddance good-bye I had known was inevitable.

Too worn-out to even reflect if I would ever regret the harsh but true words I sent.

Too weary to even worry about regret.


What a surprise.

Something as prosaic as fatigue turns out to be the tipping point.

Remembering The Forgotten

I've forgotten how to play backgammon.

I remember you taught me how to play, until I could beat you at it.


I've forgotten to read.

The last book I read - and the one I read over and over again - was the one you forgot to pack when you left.


I've forgotten pool since the day you said goodbye.

The red graphite cue stick you gave me to replace the one I had that you lost remains untouched.


I've forgotten how to play mahjjong since you fled.

Red wine sometimes brings memories of those Sundays we spent.


I've forgotten how to sing since the day I gave up.

I've ruined my voice since then, smoking my croon into a croak.



J'ai oublie comment parler Francais.

Because I chose to stay instead of joining you in France.


I remember you.


Do you remember me?


I wish you would.


We loved each other.


Once.

To You, By Way Of Pink

I've always liked this girl, because she's the type of girl I usually get attracted to. Tough and sexy, yet at the same time human and vulnerable.

It's no coincidence that her songs resonate with me, especially when I am in my angry/emo states - just like right now. She sings of love and heartbreak, betrayal and loss with equal measures of anger and hurt - just like I would.

This particular song and video - from her 2001 album Missundaztood - encapsulate how I've been feeling. For the past ten fucking years.

I can't stay on your life support

There's a shortage in the switch

I can't stay on your morphine

Coz it's making me itch

I said I tried to call the nurse again

But she's bein' a little bitch

I think I'll get out of here

Where I can run

Just as fast as I can

To the middle of nowhere

To the middle of my frustrated fears

And I swear

You're just like a pill

Instead of makin' me better

You keep makin' me ill

You keep makin' me ill

You keep makin' me ill.

Esposas, Posas

That's an old Spanish saying my grandfather was fond of reciting - usually when my grandmother was safely out of earshot. Then again, he lived a full century, while abuelita took advantage of the "till death do us part" escape clause at 87, so I guess he wasn't the only one chafing at the bit.

Making fun of my dead grandparents aside, I'm often curious and fascinated to learn about what it's like on the other side. No, not that other side - I mean what it's like being married. To someone whose genitals are different from yours.

We often work very late in my field, and while we have been doing this for years, it still amazes me when I overhear the production staff arguing with their wives on the phone over why he's still at the office and what time is he coming home and why,why,why does he have to stay so late. I'm pretty sure this is a conversation repeated ad nauseam all over the world, regardless of whether one is a garbageman or a senator - not that there's a world of difference between the two, except one takes out the trash, while the other generates it.

But I digress.

So during a smoking break in that recent all-nighter we pulled, I asked my PM and my editor this question: "What's the one thing you miss most after you got married?" Their answer was quick and it was the same: "My freedom."

Pressing further, I asked if they meant freedom in the sense that they can't see other people anymore. But then again, marriage vows have never been a reliable deterrent to extra-marital affairs, and men will always be boys. So that wasn't it.

An object in possession seldom retains

the same charm that it had in pursuit.

~Pliny the Younger, Letters

What they lost when they gained a family was the freedom that marks singlehood. The general kind of freedom to do whatever the hell you want, whenever you want, wherever you want, with whomever you want, as many times as you want. They lamented that even a totally innocent, stress-relieving couple of beers with the boys will inevitably become a raging issue with the raving missus. And it doesn't seem to matter whether the spouse is a housewife or a working woman, as their respective wives are. I imagined the stay-at-home missus, weary of being trapped at home living a life of monotonous domestic drudgery, would be the kind more resentful of a husband's relatively more colorful day (and occasional night.) But apparently, keeping tabs on a husband's whereabouts and demanding his soonest return to the coop is as hard-wired into a wife as the daily litany of bitching over the household budget.

Any intelligent woman who reads the marriage contract,

and then goes into it,  deserves all the consequences.

~Isadora Duncan

They shook their heads wondering what became of the sweet, understanding girl they once wooed, and why and how that shrieking harpy they wake up to in the mornings took her place. I wondered if this was a strictly-feminine thing, or whether it went beyond the battle of the sexes and crossed gender and sexual orientation.

That's the funny thing about what's meant to be a lifelong commitment. I don't think the guys understood that the person they made those vows to would not be the same person years down the road. She would become a mother, and her priority would no longer be them but their progeny. They themselves did not anticipate that they would not be the same person, either. From being carefree bachelors, they have chosen to fulfill multiple roles long played by many others before them : hard-working breadwinners, fathers, hen-pecked husbands, besieged son-in-laws. Marriage is certainly a life-changing commitment, but how dramatic - and acceptable - those changes might be is anyone's guess. Hence, the gamble.

When two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part.

~G.B. Shaw, Getting Married, 1908

We, on the other hand, rail on and on about why gay marriages should be allowed, but I've never been too keen on formalizing my relationships before Church, State, and Society. Neither am I eager to seek their benediction. The beauty of a gay commitment, to me, is that it is precisely not legal nor religious ties that bind you. It is not the power of Christ nor the edicts of Caesar that compel you to stay together and stick it out through thick and thin, in sickness and in health. You are bound only by your mutual, conscious, and voluntary decision to choose to stay with someone, tempered with the freedom to walk away any day with no guilt over collateral damage such as innocent offspring. This freedom to stay or go away on a moment's notice is also what makes a gay commitment a double-edged sword of Damocles. It hangs by the merest of threads, the strength of which depends on the commitment of the two individuals involved.

Marriage is a great institution,
but I'm not ready for an institution.

~Mae West

This is in no way an indictment of marriage. It's an enduring institution and by Darwinian law, there is a reason it has survived for millennia. But even the fittest institution is not fit for all. Not all straight men are the marrying kind. Some notoriously fear commitment. Some fear making a big mistake that would be costly and difficult to get out of - if getting out is an option at all. And others fear finding out that, after all's said and done, love may not be enough in itself.

At family reunions, whenever I am asked that inevitable "When are you going to get married?" question, I have found a new stock response: "Bakit ako magpapakasal sa isang taong di ko naman kaanu-ano?"

Marriage means commitment. Of course, so does insanity.

~Author Unknown

All our lovers began as strangers; I wish they would not end as such. When you wake up next to a total stranger and it's not a one-night stand, then you know your relationship is in trouble. And not all of us have the freedom to just walk away. It's hard enough to uncouple from a lover. With a spouse, the knot you have to untie is of Gordian complications.

But lest you think I'm such a jaded old sourpuss, let me just end this ramble with a final, uplifting quote on the ties that bind. It applies to us all - single, married, gay, bi, straight, man, woman, mineral:

Chains do not hold a marriage together.
It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads
which sew people together through the years.
~Simone Signoret

As you sew, so shall you reap.