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[jameslontoc]

I suppose it’s a writer’s dilemma to have a boatload of thoughts and feelings, but a famine of words to express them. I’ve suffered from this quite often in recent times but never thought too much of it; certain that the day would come when words will flow. Is today that day? Perhaps, perhaps not. Maybe this is just word vomit as a means to delay the inevitable drought. 

Words. 

Some would say that words are just words; enunciated, pronounced without much thought. Others believe that words hold power. “There is power in the spoken word,” the adage goes. I believe the latter. It’s why some words are hard to say; for me, saying something out loud adds a finality to it. Cancer, for example, is a word that many find hard to say. How many times have we heard “I have... ‘the c-word’.” Someone close to me was recently diagnosed with brain cancer, and it’s so shocking and painful that it’s hard to say the word. 

Words have power. The words we say have weight. So much so that in the book of James, we are beseeched to tame our tongues. When you say something, it’s hard to take it back. Words can build or destroy. Maybe, that’s why those who have much to say have trouble saying them. Or it could just be writer’s block. 

I love you.

Is there a sweeter set of words? Easy enough to say, but for some, impossible to utter. As I got older, the weight of these words became heavier. As my view of love and what it means to love matured, I found myself revering these words. You don’t just say it. You don’t throw it around. When you tell a person you love them, you bear that weight. I. Love. You. Touch move. If you have to take it back, don’t say it. If you don’t mean it, don’t throw it around. If you can’t live it...

You are the love of my life.

I love her. I didn’t love her from the beginning, but I liked her enough to know that I eventually would. Loving her was a choice I’ve made before I even knew I had. And boy, what a ride it’s been.  I’ve wanted to tell her. To look her in the eyes and utter the simplest, purest, three-word-plus-proper-noun declarative sentence: I love you, ----. But when? They say there’s no better time than now, but also that there’s a time and place for everything. It’s been half a year, and I was counting days...waiting for the time to come.

It did come and I knew I had to tell her. I love you, no take-backs. My dad made a joke about it.

Adam: “This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh...”

Adams: “When you can see your unborn children in her eyes...”

Over 40 kilometers away from home, at a shed. It had the makings of a Hayao Miyazaki special. A Ghibli film through and through. The trees and the morning sun. The hum of the wind and singing of the birds. Even the crawling of insects. 

I love you, ----. You are the love of my life. She said she did not feel the same. 

[jameslontoc]

I always stalk your writings. Gives me a sense of comfort. Please post more or publish something. -Your friend

Thank you, My friend. This truly warms my heart. I'll try to put my thoughts and ideas into writing more in the days to come.

[jameslontoc]

I used to like you. Why did we suddenly stop talking? Every now and then, I still wonder how you're doing. I hope you're well.

I wish I could give you an answer, but I don't know. I'm sorry though and I hope you're keeping healthy.

[jameslontoc]

To whom it may concern

Dear reader on the other side of the screen, anywhere you are in the city, the country, or the world, I hope that you are well. Sincerely, I do. “I hope this finds you well,” as the typical email would state, is very fitting. It’s been a wild 17 pandemic months, and hoping for someone’s well being is no longer just a ruse to avoid being rude and directly asking for an update on a thing that’s been due for weeks. Reader, stranger, friend. I hope that you are well. 

Today is August 1, 2021, just in case I come back to this entry in the far future and find a lack of a date it was published. Or in case I don’t publish it tonight, I know, we know, that I wrote this on the said date. August 1. As of now, my city is on the verge of another lockdown. Enhanced Community Quarantine S03EP01: Delta Variant. Queue in the opening track.

It’s going to be two weeks of staying home, and figuring out whether or not doing x or y or z is a breach of protocol. A fortnight of hoping that things get better than present, and praying that the lockdown does not extend past the declared date. In five days, Metro Manila will be on ECQ. I can already hear the collective sigh of dissatisfaction, and I can feel it to my core. It’s disappointing, but I’m just too exhausted to be frustrated. Like a child who’s run out of tears in the middle of a tantrum.

Today is my friend’s birthday. Happy birthday! She’s 30. I’ve known and worked with her for over five years, and we’ve gotten to know each other well. The other day, we were talking about how things happen so suddenly, and she said, “We should take better care of ourselves, especially these days.” She’s right, we really should. Let’s take the best care of ourselves. 

Earlier today as well, I met up with one of my closest work friends. We sat on park benches and park grass and just caught up. We talked like friends do, as if we had just seen each other days ago, instead of months ago, and many more months prior. We used to be neighbors aside from work mates, and when she moved she left me a letter. There she said something to the effect of “I know that adult friendships take a lot of work, but I’m sure that we’ll be fine.” She was right. There was silence between us for a time, but we are alright. 

When I think about it, I know I’ve lost much. I’ve lost friends and family. To covid. To other illness. Or just to absence. A lack of time and or will. Distance is in kilometers, but it’s also in presence. Close, yet apart. Distant, but together. Death is a loss, both physical and in memory. 

Yet. And yet. 

I have gained more. Friends new and rekindled. Time. With family, close and hours-drives away. Love. Growth. Hope. Hope that you have as well, gained much amidst the loss. Hope that you are in good health. Hope that this finds you well, even during lockdown. Take better care of yourself. Best regards.

[jameslontoc]

posted on facebook july 13, ‘15. written years prior

She sat lazily by the window, a silhouette against the light. I eyed her steadily as she breathed embers with such sophistication.  Smoke from her cigarette was spangled by a thousand grains of dust, highlighted by a shaft of summer sun. She was as beautiful as ever, as graceful as stars dancing at night and lighting up the monotony of darkness.

  She seemed to have the urge to cry, but pride held back the tears. Her expression was not frightened, unsurprised even. But she faltered. Her head dipped, hands shook, and her shape receded before my eyes.

Instinctively I came to her. Kneeling before her, I allowed her to placate herself. She clung to me, wrapping her arms around my neck. She had her chin on my shoulder, silently retching—completely oblivious to the world, the universe around us. She was a mess, swallowing each sob painfully and shuddering as she inhaled from her Esse.

  “That horrible message,” she murmured, clutching her iPhone. I stirred uncomfortably, too brusquely perhaps, and she flinched, hurt.

  “Why so cold?” she asked, glaring at me fiercely, desperately. Her brown eyes were swimming in tears yet to fall. I did not respond  but I stayed where I was. As she pleaded with me through the windows of her very soul, she fondled my hair and traced the lines and angles of my face. She threw her cigarette out the window, dropped her phone, and she kissed me, gently placing her mouth against mine.

It felt like cashmere. Her lips were smudged with a pasty, nude-colored substance, almost the tone of her wonderful skin. Her diamond teeth and lurid gums tapped mine. As the seconds ticked, I found myself being drawn into the sensuality of the kiss. My eyes closed from the sheer, raw pleasure of her mouth against mine, her body and her scent enveloping me.

My heart raged like an emperor’s war horse on the battlefield, but I hesitated. I loved her so much and I wanted to enjoy eternity with her but I knew that I could not and should not and this was not supposed to be happening. I hid in my shell. Reservedly, I broke away. The pass was a new and unexpected turn; dreamy, inevitable enough, but alien. Altogether different.

There was a warm and musty aftermath silence, like in a caravan, traveling under summer’s heat. She smiled bitterly at me. It was the most beautiful, ironic, crooked smile in the world. I squeezed her leathery wrists, pecked her cheeks, and said goodbye.

As I walked away, I could hear her hoarse moans and feel her heart break. It pained me, but I had made a decision. A decision to save her, but would ironically, leave her bleeding.

[jameslontoc]

crash landing

I followed the line that he took. He was smooth and quick as he snaked through the path with confidence. His experience and skill were evident; stark contrast to my lack of both. “Always find the smoothest line,” he said, and his words echoed in my mind as I was halfway over my handle bars.  It happened so quickly, but I felt it in slow motion. Leading into it, I knew I was on the wrong side of the trail and an accident was just about to happen. He was gone from my sight, after all, and I didn’t catch what corner he took. The ditch was large and unavoidable. My front wheel hit it but I kept control, just enough to make it out. When the rear wheel hit and my chain dropped, it was game over.

Thankfully, I’ve hurt myself enough during my childhood to know how to fall. I crash landed as best I could for minimal damage, and was quite successful in doing so. I avoided hitting my head anywhere, but I hit my right elbow taking the impact. The bike went over me and and I felt something on the inner side of my right ankle. 

In the bushes and on my back, I lay still for a moment. A thousand and zero thoughts were going through my head. I knew I wasn’t hurt that bad, and I knew that my bike had probably taken more hits. As the moment passed, I cursed internally and let out a guttural scream of frustration. I took the corner wrong. I left the line. I lost sight of the path he took.  Seconds later my companion arrived. “What happened?” he asked with concern. “Are you okay?”  In response, I stood up, picked up my bike and assessed the damage on my body. My elbow was split open and dripping blood. There was blood on my thigh, but it was from my elbow. My right ankle was bleeding through my sock, and I realized that that’s what I felt earlier. The front chain ring had scratched my ankle.  “Snap a photo while I’m still bleeding. Document this.” Those were the words that left my mouth as the rest of the gang arrived. There were photos and videos; post-crash documentation of bleeding, cleaning, and wrapping a towel around my elbow that needed stiches. I was hurt, but not really. I was fine and the bike took more damage. The saddle broke, the rear wheel was dented. But as we applied first aid to myself and the bike, we’d both make it. 

We pressed on. We finished the trail. We made it out without much fuss. Hours later and flat on my stomach in the emergency room, a surgeon stitched up my elbow. The adrenaline was fading, but his voice in my head rang clear as a bell.  “Always find the smoothest line.” 

[jameslontoc]

if you tried hard enough

It was humid. I could feel my shirt stick to my back from how drenched it was. It wasn't the most pleasant thing in the world. Sweat was dripping into my eyes from my hair and my forehead, and it stung because of how salty it was. I wiped it away with my sleeve and rubbed my eyes.

"Damn," I thought to myself. "I can't wait for summer to be over." 

We were sitting on the steps of a porch of a three-storey house. I've never been inside it, nor did I have the desire to enter, at the moment. I was perfectly content to be where I was, even if the steps were too warm to sit on comfortably.

This house was inside a subdivision, or perhaps village is more appropriate, that was along the service road next to the highway. From where we sat, you could see cars speed along against the backdrop of the blindingly blue sky. You could hear them too.

"You know what," I said as I watched a black SUV zoom past,  southbound. "If you try hard enough, you could pretend that this is the beach and the sound of the cars is the sound of waves crashing on the shore." 

A ridiculous and far-fetched notion; one that was met with a chuckle. "Yeah, if you try hard enough." 

We were silent. On the outside, all one could hear was the ambient make-believe noise of the waves crashing on the shore. The sound the ocean makes that's both fearsome and comforting. Yet in my mind, I heard something else entirely. Those words echoed loudly.

"If you try hard enough." 

I was, as a matter of fact, trying my hardest. To the point that it hurt. It's all I could do. But sometimes, trying hard enough doesn't work. The sound of cars on an express way will never be the sound of the ocean. But one could hope, and one could pretend. And maybe, fiction will turn to fact. 

As I sat in silence, my ass burning from sitting on the warm concrete steps on the porch of a three-storey house I've never been in, I started to hope that one day, some day, fiction would turn to fact. If I kept trying hard enough.

[jameslontoc]

october-november, 2013

“Drop your pants,” he said. I did as I was told, and looked blankly at the ceiling while he probed my nuts. I tried to ignore the pain that shot up from my pelvic region to my lower back and abdomen as he nudged here and there, as well as the awkwardness of the whole situation.

“Does it hurt here?” Yes. “How about here?” No. “What kind of pain do you feel?” I wanted to rip his face off for asking me such a stupid question, but I tried my best to describe the excruciating pain I felt in my nether region. “I will order an ultrasound and refer you to a urologist. In the meantime, take these meds… blah, blah, blah…”

-----

“You have a growth in your left testicle, and there’s an 80–90% probability that it’s malignant.”

The urologist was telling me that I probably had cancer, yet oddly enough, I felt calm. Contemplative. Analytical even. Because I suspected as much. I’ve done my research. My symptoms were inconsistent with a hernia, which the general practitioner I first consulted suspected. Yet they were consistent with a tumor. I wanted to know more, so I asked a barrage of questions.

“The likelihood that this growth is malignant is high because it grew inside your testicle. If it were on the outside on the side of your testicle, then most likely it would be benign. But don’t lose hope; there’s still a 10–20% chance that it’s benign. For further confirmation, I’ll order a blood chemistry test to see the level of tumor markers in your blood.”

---

I was back in the urologist’s office, this time with Papa. The doctor scanned my test results. “Sir,” he said to Papa. “Have you seen your son’s condition?” Papa said that he had not, so I was asked to drop my pants for the nth time. By then, I had dropped my pants so many times already that I lost count. Thankfully, this time was quick. After Papa saw my condition, I pulled my pants back on.

“Your son has a growth in his testicle, and his blood chemistry confirms that it’s a tumor. His numbers are way off the charts. I told him before that because the tumor grew inside his testicle, the chances of malignancy are 80–90%. But now, I’m quite certain that it is malignant.”

Papa asked about conducting a biopsy for further confirmation.

“A biopsy would not be recommended because if it is indeed cancerous, we run the risk of metastasis. The cancer cells will spread through the hole from the biopsy needle. If you want confirmation other than these blood results, I can order a CAT scan for you. I strongly suggest that we operate immediately. I can schedule you for surgery at the Kidney Institute, but you will have to pay me 15,000 because your insurance doesn’t cover my professional fee… blah, blah, blah.”

Papa was ticked off by the doctor’s lack of empathy; right after telling someone he might have cancer, the last thing you do is talk about money and professional fees. After securing the request for a CAT scan, we politely thanked him and left.

---

“It’s normal for you to feel dizzy and have a rusty taste in your mouth,” the radiologist said. “It will pass. Just be sure to stay still during the scan.”

I lay still, ignoring the cramp in my arms and nausea and rusty taste in my mouth brought on by the contrast fluid being pumped into my veins. 10 minutes. 30, an hour. Finally, it was over. I got up, dressed, and wobbled out of there dizzy and with a desert on my tongue. I struggled home and fell asleep right away, exhausted. It was 3 pm, and I did not wake until the next morning.

While I had a CAT scan, Papa was back in Baguio. He consulted uncle Francis, my aunt’s brother-in-law, who is a urologist. Papa showed him copies of all my test results, and he concluded that I had to undergo surgery as soon as possible. He agreed with the first urologist, but he was more optimistic. He was more hopeful and considerate. He did not mention money at all.

As soon as I got the results of my CAT scan, I headed to Baguio. I arrived in the afternoon, and the first thing I did was see uncle Francis. I was scheduled for surgery the next day.

“Close your eyes and breathe deeply,” the anesthesiologist said, her voice fading. I felt a drug-induced buzz as the sedative took effect, and I plunged into unconsciousness. There was nothing but black and the anesthesia entering my spine.

---

One blink. Two blinks. I squinted at the white light blinding me. What time was it, how long was out? I looked at the clock on the wall, but I couldn’t tell the time; my vision was still fuzzy. I surmised that I was in the recovery room. I couldn’t feel my lower half at all, but I knew for sure that I was incredibly lighter. I couldn’t feel it yet, but I was certain that a weight has been lifted. It was finally over. I smiled. I praised God.

The post-surgical biopsy confirmed that the tumor was malignant. Based on new cancer staging criteria, I had stage 3 testicular cancer. The tumor that was taken out of my body through a radical orchiectomy was probably the size of a tennis ball, but heavier, weighing in at 180 grams. Having it out of my body was such a relief. I had a literal thorn in my flesh taken out.

Uncle Francis said that there was no metastasis, but he still ordered a bone scan of my left thigh to be sure. The CAT scan showed some indistinguishable marks on my bone.

The bone scan was as gruesome as the CAT scan because I had to hold positions for several minutes each, and it was extremely tiring. Aside from that, I had to stay at least a meter away from children and pregnant women because the fluid they injected me with to make my bones visible in the scan made me radioactive for 12 hours.

The scan showed that the markings on my bone were no signs of metastasis, but rather they were tiny craters of no consequence. I was safe.

[jameslontoc]

i met an angel

I sat across Aly. The room was dimly lit, and our own table was illuminated by a single lamp. The mood was typical of any speakeasy, but what made this place unique were the paintings of --- for lack of a better term --- gentlemen pigs. The irony wasn’t lost on me, and it’s one of the things that makes Three Little Pigs endearing. It was a Tuesday night, but the place was abuzz with patrons out on a weeknight because the following day is a holiday. We weren’t any different.

I felt comfortable in the near-darkness and the chatter surrounding us. It was a constant hum, but muted and controlled; unlike a crowded restaurant during the lunch hour. Scar, a tall lady with short, blonde hair, came over to bring us menus and offered to give recommendations if we had trouble choosing our poison. She reminded us that they had a buy-one-get-one-free promo on gin and tonics. Being shrewd, we decided to go with that; we could order Old Fashioned later if we felt like it. 

We spoke about many things. Taking photos, people to take photos of, and people we loved photographing. We talked about our lives; how they’re the same and different at the same time. About love, or more precisely, the lack of it. While on the subject of romance, I felt comfortable to share my own. 

“Have I not told you about the last time I actually was in love with someone?”

She confirmed that I never had, so I told her how in 2017, I met an angel. I told her how I spoke to her in a restaurant and about how we spoke on the phone for long periods --- despite the fact that I despise phone calls. I told her how I had come to enjoy her presence in my life, and how she finally asked me what I wanted out of our friendship. I told Aly how at the time my head was barely above the water of credit card debt; how I was unsure of what to do in my career. I told Aly how difficult I was finding it to take care of myself and how I was in no way ready for the responsibility of caring for someone else. I told her about our mutual decision to put the brakes on whatever it was we were doing and focus on our careers. On our selves. 

I also told Aly how it was after the fact that I realized I was in love with this angel, but it was already too late. We had come to an agreement, and I intended to stand by it. I recalled as well how over the years she was never entirely out of my mind. And how I reached out to her earlier this year and asked if things were different, and told her that I wanted to see her again. She responded that her situation hasn’t changed. I told Aly how I finally confessed what I truly felt for this woman. 

“I just need to let you know that I was in love with you,” I said. To which she replied, “You didn’t know me well enough to be in love with me.”

I narrated how I knew she was right, but it didn’t matter. It was a short time together, but it was intense. For me, at least. And it didn’t matter because it was a conscious decision to love her. My decision. 

Aly took my hand and told me that maybe, the timing wasn’t right. If we had met now, things would be different, and maybe we’d be together. And she reassured me that we never really know what tomorrow brings. Perhaps somewhere down the road, our paths would cross again. I shrugged. Perhaps. Maybe. Only God knows. 

Before midnight and after an Old Fashioned each, we parted ways. Aly on her journey north to the outskirts of the metro, and I to my thoughts of the woman I’ve set on a pedestal. 

[jameslontoc]

There's no dishonor in losing; there's dishonor in quitting because you're afraid to lose.

Don, The Art of Racing in the Rain

[jameslontoc]

Taken from Inky’s email to me 3/23/2014

You know what my aunts used to always tell me? All these negativities are spirits only trying to get you as far away from the Lord: spirit of loneliness, of depression, of insecurity, of jealousy, of worry, of fear. I know this isn’t new to you but think about it: if you really are feeling lonely, you can always choose to treat yourself, take yourself out for coffee or shopping, and just slowly allow yourself to be comfortable in doing things you only think would be best doing with company. You don’t need a girl (Haha sorry). You don’t have to go looking for her or chasing after who you think is your perfect mate. In God’s time, she will be there at the right place, and she will be more than your idea of perfection because she’s the one the Lord has moulded to fit your life perfectly ;)

[jameslontoc]

Taken from an email to Inky, 8/11/2014

Last June I finally talked to Audrey again. It was a long silence from me and that Facebook dialogue was a bit strange. I did end up confessing my love to her. It wasn't a confession to to win her affections. Rather, it was simply, matter-of-factually telling her that I love her. 

I was dumped. 

She told me that she was grateful for the love but she "would sooner fall in love with the world than she would with a boy." I get that of course, and I actually preferred that she dumped me than reciprocated, and I would end up dumping her because of my unwillingness to compromise our difference of faith. 

Surprisingly though, I was not hurt as much as one would expect. I think the reason being that I've spent so much time and energy brooding over her and my feelings for her that by the time the confessing and dumping was over, I had no feelings left to be hurt. As a dumpee, I was left with a hollow feeling of disappointment, mixed with a sense of relief that it was over. 

I couldn't however, remain friends with her. Prior to telling her how I feel, I decided to cut ties with her. That and because I no longer trusted myself to see or treat her as anything less than the woman I love. She would prefer it not being an all or nothing deal, but in my heart I knew it had to be.

[jameslontoc]

(via https://open.spotify.com/track/3dcu0TMrxtPUMrCFxCNPbD)

[jameslontoc]

I loved you.

In the past tense?

[jameslontoc]

Me: I think I like her. A lot.

A.G.: Don't think if you like her. Feel if you like her.