Latin Roots

Now, you are about to be sadly (though only momentarily) disappointed – the first roots in this post are linguistic rather than … well, you know.

Yesterday, I had the feeling I had tapped into the meaning of the universe – and was understanding all things directly. I was listening to a group of Philippino gay guys chatting in Tagalog … and I was effortlessly comprehending everything said! This epiphany only lasted till I realized the Spanish base of the language - about a third of the vocabulary is Spanish or Spanish derived. And this linked to my years of learning Latin at school. So ‘mensa’ (Latin) is ‘mesa’ (Tagalog) and ‘table’ (English); ‘stella’ ‘estrella’ ‘star’; ‘manus’ ‘mano’ ‘hand’; and so on.

Enough?

Ok, Victorio is another kind of Latin root, but one not yet encountered in Manila:

But I'm working on it.

PS Did you know foreskin pulling is about to become an Olympic event? Victorio's pull would get a gold medal from me - it's got good stretch, great body placement supporting the pull, and fabulous participant visual focus on the pull so the spectator's attention doesn't wander from the event (as though it would!).

Insistent Friends in the Gardens of the Greenbelt

Makati is a sector of Manila - a bit like a super suburb. And within this essentially well-to-do business and residential area, there is a massive complex of interconnected shopping centres and malls - Greenbelts 1, 2, 3 4 and (soon to be) 5, Glorietta, Landmark and so on.

The Greenbelts were so named cos they are/were surrounded by gardens. It's in the remnants of these that you can make some pretty insistent and rapacious friends:






All you need is some bread to crumble up in your fingers!

PS Something about the other less privileged side of life here in upcoming posts.

Clouds and Sunsets

Just a few of the everyday sights of natural beauty from the balcony here at Rockwell in Makati, Manila.

Intramuros, Fort Santiago and Erotic Progeny

The Spanish colonized The Philippines in the sixteenth century, leaving in 1895 to be replaced by the Americans, who in their turn departed in 1945.

Intramuros is the old central Spanish colonial quarter of Manila. It’s located at the intersection of Manila Bay and the Pasig River, and, as its name suggests, it is a walled city within the city. And Fort Santiago was the barracks within this quarter for the Spanish military garrison. The area was heavily bombed and mostly destroyed during World War Two by the Americans, though, for obvious reasons, the official version till recently had it as the Japanese. Intramuros is subject to on-going restored.

The entrance, suitably labeled:

The old Spanish residential quarter, still bustling with activity:

C16 stone stairs leading to the fortified walls:

The lichen-covered fortified walls:

Colonial buildings above the moat:

View out over the moat:

Fig calmly strangling the walls:

Mother cat and her brood, meditating round midday:

Calesa (carriage) in a torrential downpour:

Ornate doorway, with the Spanish royal coat of arms:

A quiet nook:

Greenery invading the walls:

The ruined army barracks:

Another cat, the Attendant of Ruined Walls:

A munitions building:

View out across the Pasig River:

Nice knobbly bamboo:

Bougainvillea:

A reward for hard tourist work:

Now, these guys are the progeny of some very bad and corrupt colonial administrators:

And these, the descendants of some sympathetic and reform-minded Spanish soldiers:

Can you distinguish between these two groups of after-bears?

Of course not - a triumph for the Behaviourist agenda!

Tension between the Sacred and Profane in Porn

Just crazy bout the tension between this guy’s angelic face and his erotic crotch.

It’s the chiseled jaw and full sculpted lips, and big broad shoulders. And the butt hole sexed up with thick black hair.

The creamy-coloured flesh of his cock and its delicately pink head. That you know you could easily get up or into any orifice.

The sensitive eyes. And the fleshy mouthful of his balls.

The contrasts go on and on. And I get harder with every one.

Ultimately, he’s the kinda guy you want for a fuck buddy AND for domestic use. A very rare combination. The porn equivalent of the Tasmanian Tiger:

The last one died in a zoo in Hobart in 1936. Tiger, that is!

Though, inevitably, there have been lots of sightings ever since.

‘The Spirit of Delight’

Virginia Woolf speaks of visits by the ‘spirit of delight’, and my friend Carol Gibson of the same experience. As does my partner in ‘magic moments’. And I am reminded of it by Proust’s ‘madelaine’, the taste of which sets off ‘A la recherché du temps perdus’ (‘Remembrance of Things Past’). And I am occasionally and unexpectedly found by this seductive phantom. And wait and long for more.

Yesterday - remarkably - there were several calls.

The first was brought on by the perfume base of the cold cream worn by a tall slim elegant late thirty-something woman in a Cuban restaurant, ‘Café Havana’ in Malate, one of the districts in the former night life (i.e. sex industry) area of the city. Which is now re-constructing itself as a trendy hip Paddington (Sydney) Chelsea (London) Soho (New York) shopping, dining out and clubbing scene.

And then twice later in the evening in ‘The Library’, a gay karaoke-Comedy Café venue. Similarly evoked by the same scent.

The delight was in the intense and vivid sensations associated with passively imaging, in a random fashion, the very specificness of the ordinary day-to-day lives of each of these people. The actuality of the feel, colour and odour of their clothing, and of the objects in the rooms in their houses. The essences of their children, partners and lovers. The particular way they moved about. Their gestures. And the manner of conducting the events of each day in their social roles. Particular to and defining them.

There is no effort in undertaking this imagining and no need to consciously direct my thoughts. I am simply guided, unexpectedly this way and then that.

Curiously, and like a shape-shifter, the spirit assumes many forms, almost as many at the number of visitations. Which is integral to the pleasure it brings. At least for me. It has been the still recognizable smell of the paper of my first ‘John and Betty’ Reader in primary school. And the cool hard finger touch of the surfaces ad edges of the large cut-glass beads of my grandmother’s costume jewellery. I guess if there is any underlying continuity, it’s something visceral and emotional. But the sensation is not that first experienced – it’s the remembrance of it. And through the passage of time, the emotion has in some way been distilled and intensified. Like a good stock.

I need to be ready for these moments to be able to fully appreciate them. Cos they are so fleeting. Maybe five minutes if you are very very lucky. I drop everything and, perhaps like Bernadette of Lourdes, and many of the Catholic saints for that matter, drift into a near dream-like state to fully immerse myself.

Mmm. Better take my medication!

But seriously, do any of you know this?

To Market To Market

Walked past Guadalupe Market earlier in the week and have been itching to go in ever since. Today was the day. So into a tricycle … .

The entrance – promise of things to come:

Attracting attention:

Dead animal act (Birdie - 'All About Eve'):

‘Will you buy, some of my supply’ (Billy Holiday - 'Love for Sale'):

More ingredients for dins:

We’re so funny:

‘I’m not ready for my close-up Mr de Mille’:

'The eyes have it':

Something fishy going on:

More fishiness:

‘No guts please’:

‘Eggs-actly’:

We’re still pretty funny:

Heading back home:

A pleasant shop window diversion:

Now that guy obviously totally knows what to do with his mouth!