Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
For comments, inquiries, corrections and feedback, contact admin: alexzita5@gmail.com
~
I think I’m improving—bit by bit.
Yesterday began with an early morning meditation, followed by a blog post on my fiction website. I had originally planned to do a longer walk, but I decided to scale it down from nearly 5,000 steps the day before to about half that. I crossed paths with a few strangers and exchanged pleasantries, but I was mindful not to overextend the conversations. People are unpredictable, and many just want to be left alone in their silence. I respect that now.
Some of the plans I had didn’t materialize. I was supposed to film a few exercise videos for my modest little social media space—seen by a handful of souls, bless them—but that didn’t happen. Instead, I found myself doing something unplanned: tending to the guava tree in my yard. It looked like it was barely hanging on. Its branches were dry, struggling to grow leaves that would wither just as quickly, possibly due to the heat. I trimmed it down to its essentials, gave it fertilizer, and watered it gently. There was something satisfying about that—the quiet care, the slow tending to life.
Later in the day, I read a few chapters of The Shadow Rising, Book 4 of The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan. I love the series, though I find myself wrestling between drowsiness and attention, especially while lying in bed. The Kindle helps—paperbacks that thick are hard to hold up for long. It's a little sad knowing Jordan passed away before finishing the series, and that Brandon Sanderson had to step in to complete the tale. There's something poetic about that—a life’s work left in the hands of another.
Still, I feel a distinct sense of wellness when I spend time reading, meditating, or creating digital content. Whether it’s reels, shorts, or writing, these things bring me into my mental zone—my flow. What I try to avoid is the mindless checking of social media, the endless clicking of random links. To be honest, I still do it. With this much free time, the temptation is strong. But I’ve been actively minimizing that by substituting better habits in place. I’ve learned not to curate my life for approval. Nobody’s watching. No audience is waiting to be dazzled. If someone stumbles across my page, it’s likely by accident or casual curiosity. And that’s fine.
On my walk, I ran into Arthur, a homeless man I’ve spoken to a few times over the years. I asked where he stays nowadays, especially since Florida’s new laws have made it harder for people to linger or sleep in public parks.
“I know some hidden places to sleep at night,” he said, shrugging.
That was a relief. The last time we talked, he mentioned staying on his sister’s sofa—an arrangement that, as I suspected, didn’t last. Sibling bonds can be as fragile as glass under pressure. Still, he seemed proud of having survived all these years without stable housing. He picks up odd jobs when he can. In a place like South Florida, where rent prices are out of reach for most, people need two or three jobs just to afford a bed.
I told him he’s lucky in a way—to be free, to live outside the grid. But I also gently urged him to consider finding steadier work, saving what he can, and securing a place to call his own. The doors of opportunity don’t stay open forever. When you reach your 60s, they begin to close, one by one. I’ve seen it myself—old men sitting on park benches from sunrise to sunset, staring into space. I don’t even want to imagine where they sleep at night.
Yes, the county offers help—temporary housing for up to 90 days, with the condition that you enroll in skills programs or find work. But for many who struggle with addiction or mental illness, that’s a tall order. They return to the streets, where vices are easier to access and responsibilities don’t knock on the door.
Arthur doesn’t seem like the others. He’s clean-shaven, bald, always on his bike. No obvious signs of drug use. I’ve seen the decline in others—shrunken bodies, yellowing teeth, bruised skin, sudden collapses into sleep that resemble death. But not Arthur. Maybe he drinks. Maybe not. I don’t ask. I’ve learned not to.
Once, I made a joke when handing some change to another guy—“Just don’t use this for drugs”—and he snapped. Lesson learned. People carry wounds you can’t see, and this place has no shortage of psychiatric struggles—paranoia, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and everything in between.
Arthur and I joked about him settling down someday. He laughed hard.
“Man, I got so many kids with so many women, I hardly know any of them.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“We fuck, and next thing I know, she tells me she’s pregnant.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. I pictured the child born out of that fleeting moment—no home, no steady father, no real foundation. “What happens next?” I asked.
“She disappears. Or I disappear. Who knows.”
I just smiled. That kind of smile I wear when I disapprove but don’t want to preach. Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe just trying to sound cool. Either way, I felt a pang for the child. A small, invisible casualty of a wild life.
We bumped fists, and I continued walking. I suppose, in some twisted way, he still has a charm that draws people to him. Some woman somewhere still sees something worth the risk. As for me—well, in my 60s, I don’t expect to be noticed by anyone. Not that it would change much. Popularity, attention, friendship—they’re illusions that come and go.
I enjoy this quiet life. No entanglements. No expectations. I live, I observe, I write. Always listening. Always watching. A ghost in the crowd.
When I checked my watch, I had clocked in 4,500 steps. Time to wrap it up.
I got into my car and stared out at the park. It occurred to me how long I’ve stayed within the boundaries of this small, familiar place. Maybe it’s time to explore new paths.
Maybe.
2025-04-30 02:42:54
popong
Chapter 4
The Director stood up, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’m so lonely… and guilty, Lazaro.”
He staggered, almost collapsing on the sand. Lazaro was quick to catch him. Together, they walked along the shore beneath a darkening sky. The ocean breeze grew colder, the tide humming its timeless song. Jeff regained his composure after a few yards and extended his hand.
“My name is Jeff Koplaski.”
Lazaro barely acknowledged it. He wasn’t listening. His thoughts spiraled inward, drawn into the undertow of Jeff’s confession. The sadness clung to him like sea mist. Tomorrow marked the first day of Fall. The last of summer’s winds whispered their goodbyes.
Lazaro bent down and scooped a clump of sand. He rolled it in his hand and flung it far into the sea. A ritual—his way of shedding burdens, whether the stories of others or the weight of his own grief. They reached the gates of Dade Rest.
“Why not come inside?” Jeff offered.
Lazaro hesitated. The mahogany door loomed before him—blackened, like the ghost of old Florida. He looked around: padlocked bars, rusting wires, graffiti-scribbled walls. The surrounding vegetation, alien and misplaced, appeared like intruders from another world.
A sudden gust of wind pressed against the door, making it groan. To Lazaro, it sounded like the mournful cry of a lover grieving death.
Yes—Miami was like that now.
The serenity of the ocean betrayed by neon lights and commercial noise. The romance of old Florida replaced with malls, bars, sterile brightness. And this—Dade Rest. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb for men with AIDS.
Inside, the lounge surprised him: fresh flowers, a neat arrangement of chairs, a coffee table surrounded by quiet beauty. Paintings adorned the walls. Soft light washed the room in calm. Sleep had already embraced the residents. Lazaro held his silence in respect.
Jeff flicked on a flashlight and led him past the lounge. As they descended a steep stairwell, the architecture shifted. Doors led to more doors. The house grew stranger.
They entered a tunnel.
Wooden paneling gave way to cold, bare brick. The air was damp. The hallway echoed with quiet lives—snoring, weeping, murmured chants, a faint stereo playing something devotional. Each closed door flickered with candlelight.
By the time they reached Jeff’s room, Lazaro had lost any sense of direction. “This house is... much bigger than it appears.”
Jeff nodded, unlocking a plain door. “That’s the beauty of it. No one suspects. Not even the realtor. A century-old secret. The tunnels were built by Spanish monks—refugees of colonial violence. Hiding places, sanctuaries. And now, centuries later, this place shelters the condemned again—us.”
The room was stark. A single bed. Spartan. Monastic. Or was it more sinister—a crypt?
Lazaro turned toward the passage they came through. The brick walls whispered.
Death.
Jeff lit a candle. The flame trembled.
“We found a gold mine,” he said. “No one else knows what lies beneath. Except us. And now, you. But it must remain a secret. There’s a Force here—protective... dangerous. You've heard of the Skull murders?”
Lazaro stiffened.
“You mean... those two men? The ones found with symbols carved into their foreheads?”
Jeff nodded solemnly. “One of them—Antonio—worked here. He crossed a line. Told someone. Now they’re both gone.”
“You didn’t report this?”
“To whom? The police avoid this place like a curse. What would they get from men like us—emaciated, dying? Most of us can barely walk, let alone defend ourselves. So we keep our silence. Because the Force... punishes disobedience.”
“This is madness.”
“Is it? Call the police, and you’ll understand.”
“Is this Force... a spirit?”
Jeff’s face darkened. “Not until you’ve seen the crematorium. Down in the lowest basement.”
“No, Jeff. I don’t want to see more. This talk of tunnels, ghosts, murders—it’s too much.”
“You’ll understand one day. But promise—you’ll keep the secret.”
Lazaro hesitated. “You broke it by telling me.”
“Because you’re not an outsider anymore. You said you wanted to work here. That makes you one of us.”
Lazaro blinked. “And those before me?”
“They remained outsiders. Only a rare few are allowed into the heart of the secret.”
“Why me?”
“You arrived on the anniversary of the monks’ disappearance. That’s a sign. It’s said they leapt into the crematorium—burned themselves alive.”
“Why would they—?”
“That, you’ll learn in time.”
A scream echoed through the tunnel.
“What was that?”
“One of the dying.”
“Who lives here, Jeff?”
He looked at Lazaro, candlelight dancing in his weary eyes. “Doctors. Lawyers. Priests. Engineers. Gardeners. Street vendors. Artists. We’ve all renounced the world. There’s no cure. No return. So we commune with God. We prepare for death.”
Jeff opened a door to a hidden veranda. A cold wind rushed in like a burial shawl. Lazaro stepped into a breathtaking garden—shadowed statues, a cottage framed in palms, a lush green sprawl. Gardenias perfumed the air. The moonlight made it shimmer like Eden.
Jeff smiled. “We built this. Our architects. Our landscapers. Our final masterpiece.”
They sat on rattan chairs. Lazaro was stunned by the beauty. He longed to return.
Jeff read his thoughts. “You can’t. Not by day. This is our sanctuary. And just as I said—this place must remain secret. Even helicopters see nothing. This garden is cloaked... by the Force.”
Lazaro fell silent. He stopped arguing with reason. This mystery—this metaphysical mystery—had swallowed him whole.
Jeff’s voice turned gentle. “Now, Lazaro. Tell me your story.”
And so, as if under a spell, Lazaro spoke.
-----
Lazaro took a long breath, the scent of gardenias washing over him like absolution.
“Jeff… I’m always running. Always.”
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
“I ran from our parish priest when he told me my desire was a sin. I ran when I topped my class and was expected to take the prettiest girl to the prom. I ran from college basketball courts because my wrists betrayed me. I ran from a girlfriend who asked for intimacy. I ran on pavement, in fields, across beaches, rivers, volcanoes...”
He paused, his eyes moist.
“I ran from friends who didn’t understand. And even from those who did—because I was ashamed. I ran from the tanks of Marcos, carrying wounded comrades during protests. I ran when my friends were killed. I ran from beauty, from truth, from myself.”
He lowered his head.
“In all that running, I caught fleeting glimpses of things worth living for—tiny visions between footfalls. But I never paused long enough to hold them. I'm tired now. I want to stop.”
Jeff said nothing. The garden listened.
“You were right, Jeff. I am an idealist. But maybe that’s how I survive—by hoping. I’ve lost too much to live without it. You asked about my story... well, let me ask this: Have you ever held something so sacred, so shining—like a diamond—only to realize it was never yours to keep?”
He looked at Jeff, his face a mix of pain and awe.
“In my youth, I wanted to serve God more than anything. I read the Bible daily. I prayed for hours. I dreamed of being a missionary—to heal, to help, to give. But inside me, something else bloomed. A desire I was told was monstrous. I fought it with all my strength. I wore masks. Layer upon layer. I prayed God would change me. But the masks just grew uglier.”
Lazaro’s voice quivered.
“I couldn’t speak to people. I’d look at men and see diamonds. I felt like rust. I stopped reading the Bible because I couldn’t bear the words that condemned me. What kind of God creates you only to hate you?”
He choked on the question.
“I screamed one night: Enough! I threw away my faith like shattered glass. And then I dreamed.”
His eyes lifted toward the moon.
“In my dream, a voice asked, ‘Why did you give up so easily without a fight?’ I stood in nothingness. No direction, no time, no gravity. Just that voice. I asked, ‘Who are you?’ It answered: ‘I am not a Who. I am What I am. I am your reference point.’ I asked, ‘Are you God?’ But the voice fell silent.”
He drew a shaking breath.
“When I awoke, I opened my Bible to a passage I had always avoided—Sodom and Gomorrah. But that night, I read it differently. Not with fear. With new eyes.”
Lazaro recited:
> *“Abraham asked, ‘Will you destroy the innocent with the guilty?’ And the Lord answered: If I find ten righteous men, I will spare the city.”*
“That struck me like lightning, Jeff. God was *searching*—pleading—for even ten good men to redeem a fallen city. And there were none.”
He leaned forward.
“That’s why I’m here. Not just to work at Dade Rest. But to continue that search. I will find those ten. That’s my mission. To plead for the city again.”
Jeff let out a slow breath. “You may find the time of Abraham and ours are not so different.”
Lazaro nodded. “That’s why I don’t speak to theologians anymore. Or self-righteous men in pulpits. I don’t debate. I won’t quote scripture to those who weaponize it. I’m not here to evangelize. I’m here to find the ten.”
He closed his eyes.
“My journey began in the Philippines. I searched the streets of Manila... and I found Dodong.”
He smiled faintly.
“My first holy man.”
---
DODONG
My Lord, You tested me in the River of Meribah,
ground me ‘til I became a blade of gold.
I wept until my voice echoed the songs of angels,
prayed until my laughter mirrored saints.
Hear me—*
The souls of my friends rise
through darkness,
making appointments with You
before their time.
Their skin, loose around bone,
clutches IV lines like rifles.
They lie alone in trash heaps of morality,
gasping for air poisoned by indifference.*
I am their night watchman,
my lamp raised over their departure.
I’ve seen them trade sperm for boiled eggs,
dig their graves in makeshift cemeteries,
resurrected only by monsoon rains,
barbed wires still bound to wrists.*
Screaming Freedom—
> *While political whores
fix their hair for TV cameras,
peddling fake promises and
bridges made of numbers
from rigged lotto machines—*
My country has become a joke.
Seventy million people,
twenty want to be president.
Twenty thousand want to kidnap the richest twenty percent.
Twenty million want to be slaves abroad.
The rest?
They just want to die.*
My friends rot in their graves,
still screaming: Freedom—
while politicians write poetry
on the flesh of starving children.*
Tell me, Lord—
Will their deaths feed the orphans?
Heal the wounds of my land?
Redeem a prostituted Filipina in Tokyo?
Restore a domestic helper’s dignity in Hong Kong?*
While cronies gorge on imported beef
and banana republic fruit,
the rest of us are condemned for eating dogs.*
Sometimes I envy the dead.
At least they rest.
Jose Rizal, nothing has changed.
Politics still holds the reins.
Let the Mabuhay satellite drop us on Mars
so we might preach
to the dead children of Rebecca,
rather than speak to deaf tyrants
in this cursed archipelago.
2025-04-25 18:33:58
visions
Bit by Bit
I think I’m improving—bit by bit.
Yesterday began with an early morning meditation, followed by a blog post on my fiction website. I had originally planned to do a longer walk, but I decided to scale it down from nearly 5,000 steps the day before to about half that. I crossed paths with a few strangers and exchanged pleasantries, but I was mindful not to overextend the conversations. People are unpredictable, and many just want to be left alone in their silence. I respect that now.
Some of the plans I had didn’t materialize. I was supposed to film a few exercise videos for my modest little social media space—seen by a handful of souls, bless them—but that didn’t happen. Instead, I found myself doing something unplanned: tending to the guava tree in my yard. It looked like it was barely hanging on. Its branches were dry, struggling to grow leaves that would wither just as quickly, possibly due to the heat. I trimmed it down to its essentials, gave it fertilizer, and watered it gently. There was something satisfying about that—the quiet care, the slow tending to life.
Later in the day, I read a few chapters of The Shadow Rising, Book 4 of The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan. I love the series, though I find myself wrestling between drowsiness and attention, especially while lying in bed. The Kindle helps—paperbacks that thick are hard to hold up for long. It's a little sad knowing Jordan passed away before finishing the series, and that Brandon Sanderson had to step in to complete the tale. There's something poetic about that—a life’s work left in the hands of another.
Still, I feel a distinct sense of wellness when I spend time reading, meditating, or creating digital content. Whether it’s reels, shorts, or writing, these things bring me into my mental zone—my flow. What I try to avoid is the mindless checking of social media, the endless clicking of random links. To be honest, I still do it. With this much free time, the temptation is strong. But I’ve been actively minimizing that by substituting better habits in place. I’ve learned not to curate my life for approval. Nobody’s watching. No audience is waiting to be dazzled. If someone stumbles across my page, it’s likely by accident or casual curiosity. And that’s fine.
On my walk, I ran into Arthur, a homeless man I’ve spoken to a few times over the years. I asked where he stays nowadays, especially since Florida’s new laws have made it harder for people to linger or sleep in public parks.
“I know some hidden places to sleep at night,” he said, shrugging.
That was a relief. The last time we talked, he mentioned staying on his sister’s sofa—an arrangement that, as I suspected, didn’t last. Sibling bonds can be as fragile as glass under pressure. Still, he seemed proud of having survived all these years without stable housing. He picks up odd jobs when he can. In a place like South Florida, where rent prices are out of reach for most, people need two or three jobs just to afford a bed.
I told him he’s lucky in a way—to be free, to live outside the grid. But I also gently urged him to consider finding steadier work, saving what he can, and securing a place to call his own. The doors of opportunity don’t stay open forever. When you reach your 60s, they begin to close, one by one. I’ve seen it myself—old men sitting on park benches from sunrise to sunset, staring into space. I don’t even want to imagine where they sleep at night.
Yes, the county offers help—temporary housing for up to 90 days, with the condition that you enroll in skills programs or find work. But for many who struggle with addiction or mental illness, that’s a tall order. They return to the streets, where vices are easier to access and responsibilities don’t knock on the door.
Arthur doesn’t seem like the others. He’s clean-shaven, bald, always on his bike. No obvious signs of drug use. I’ve seen the decline in others—shrunken bodies, yellowing teeth, bruised skin, sudden collapses into sleep that resemble death. But not Arthur. Maybe he drinks. Maybe not. I don’t ask. I’ve learned not to.
Once, I made a joke when handing some change to another guy—“Just don’t use this for drugs”—and he snapped. Lesson learned. People carry wounds you can’t see, and this place has no shortage of psychiatric struggles—paranoia, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and everything in between.
Arthur and I joked about him settling down someday. He laughed hard.
“Man, I got so many kids with so many women, I hardly know any of them.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“We fuck, and next thing I know, she tells me she’s pregnant.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. I pictured the child born out of that fleeting moment—no home, no steady father, no real foundation. “What happens next?” I asked.
“She disappears. Or I disappear. Who knows.”
I just smiled. That kind of smile I wear when I disapprove but don’t want to preach. Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe just trying to sound cool. Either way, I felt a pang for the child. A small, invisible casualty of a wild life.
We bumped fists, and I continued walking. I suppose, in some twisted way, he still has a charm that draws people to him. Some woman somewhere still sees something worth the risk. As for me—well, in my 60s, I don’t expect to be noticed by anyone. Not that it would change much. Popularity, attention, friendship—they’re illusions that come and go.
I enjoy this quiet life. No entanglements. No expectations. I live, I observe, I write. Always listening. Always watching. A ghost in the crowd.
When I checked my watch, I had clocked in 4,500 steps. Time to wrap it up.
I got into my car and stared out at the park. It occurred to me how long I’ve stayed within the boundaries of this small, familiar place. Maybe it’s time to explore new paths.
Maybe.
2025-04-30 02:42:54
popong
Visions of St Lazarus 4
Chapter 4
The Director stood up, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’m so lonely… and guilty, Lazaro.”
He staggered, almost collapsing on the sand. Lazaro was quick to catch him. Together, they walked along the shore beneath a darkening sky. The ocean breeze grew colder, the tide humming its timeless song. Jeff regained his composure after a few yards and extended his hand.
“My name is Jeff Koplaski.”
Lazaro barely acknowledged it. He wasn’t listening. His thoughts spiraled inward, drawn into the undertow of Jeff’s confession. The sadness clung to him like sea mist. Tomorrow marked the first day of Fall. The last of summer’s winds whispered their goodbyes.
Lazaro bent down and scooped a clump of sand. He rolled it in his hand and flung it far into the sea. A ritual—his way of shedding burdens, whether the stories of others or the weight of his own grief. They reached the gates of Dade Rest.
“Why not come inside?” Jeff offered.
Lazaro hesitated. The mahogany door loomed before him—blackened, like the ghost of old Florida. He looked around: padlocked bars, rusting wires, graffiti-scribbled walls. The surrounding vegetation, alien and misplaced, appeared like intruders from another world.
A sudden gust of wind pressed against the door, making it groan. To Lazaro, it sounded like the mournful cry of a lover grieving death.
Yes—Miami was like that now.
The serenity of the ocean betrayed by neon lights and commercial noise. The romance of old Florida replaced with malls, bars, sterile brightness. And this—Dade Rest. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb for men with AIDS.
Inside, the lounge surprised him: fresh flowers, a neat arrangement of chairs, a coffee table surrounded by quiet beauty. Paintings adorned the walls. Soft light washed the room in calm. Sleep had already embraced the residents. Lazaro held his silence in respect.
Jeff flicked on a flashlight and led him past the lounge. As they descended a steep stairwell, the architecture shifted. Doors led to more doors. The house grew stranger.
They entered a tunnel.
Wooden paneling gave way to cold, bare brick. The air was damp. The hallway echoed with quiet lives—snoring, weeping, murmured chants, a faint stereo playing something devotional. Each closed door flickered with candlelight.
By the time they reached Jeff’s room, Lazaro had lost any sense of direction. “This house is... much bigger than it appears.”
Jeff nodded, unlocking a plain door. “That’s the beauty of it. No one suspects. Not even the realtor. A century-old secret. The tunnels were built by Spanish monks—refugees of colonial violence. Hiding places, sanctuaries. And now, centuries later, this place shelters the condemned again—us.”
The room was stark. A single bed. Spartan. Monastic. Or was it more sinister—a crypt?
Lazaro turned toward the passage they came through. The brick walls whispered.
Death.
Jeff lit a candle. The flame trembled.
“We found a gold mine,” he said. “No one else knows what lies beneath. Except us. And now, you. But it must remain a secret. There’s a Force here—protective... dangerous. You've heard of the Skull murders?”
Lazaro stiffened.
“You mean... those two men? The ones found with symbols carved into their foreheads?”
Jeff nodded solemnly. “One of them—Antonio—worked here. He crossed a line. Told someone. Now they’re both gone.”
“You didn’t report this?”
“To whom? The police avoid this place like a curse. What would they get from men like us—emaciated, dying? Most of us can barely walk, let alone defend ourselves. So we keep our silence. Because the Force... punishes disobedience.”
“This is madness.”
“Is it? Call the police, and you’ll understand.”
“Is this Force... a spirit?”
Jeff’s face darkened. “Not until you’ve seen the crematorium. Down in the lowest basement.”
“No, Jeff. I don’t want to see more. This talk of tunnels, ghosts, murders—it’s too much.”
“You’ll understand one day. But promise—you’ll keep the secret.”
Lazaro hesitated. “You broke it by telling me.”
“Because you’re not an outsider anymore. You said you wanted to work here. That makes you one of us.”
Lazaro blinked. “And those before me?”
“They remained outsiders. Only a rare few are allowed into the heart of the secret.”
“Why me?”
“You arrived on the anniversary of the monks’ disappearance. That’s a sign. It’s said they leapt into the crematorium—burned themselves alive.”
“Why would they—?”
“That, you’ll learn in time.”
A scream echoed through the tunnel.
“What was that?”
“One of the dying.”
“Who lives here, Jeff?”
He looked at Lazaro, candlelight dancing in his weary eyes. “Doctors. Lawyers. Priests. Engineers. Gardeners. Street vendors. Artists. We’ve all renounced the world. There’s no cure. No return. So we commune with God. We prepare for death.”
Jeff opened a door to a hidden veranda. A cold wind rushed in like a burial shawl. Lazaro stepped into a breathtaking garden—shadowed statues, a cottage framed in palms, a lush green sprawl. Gardenias perfumed the air. The moonlight made it shimmer like Eden.
Jeff smiled. “We built this. Our architects. Our landscapers. Our final masterpiece.”
They sat on rattan chairs. Lazaro was stunned by the beauty. He longed to return.
Jeff read his thoughts. “You can’t. Not by day. This is our sanctuary. And just as I said—this place must remain secret. Even helicopters see nothing. This garden is cloaked... by the Force.”
Lazaro fell silent. He stopped arguing with reason. This mystery—this metaphysical mystery—had swallowed him whole.
Jeff’s voice turned gentle. “Now, Lazaro. Tell me your story.”
And so, as if under a spell, Lazaro spoke.
-----
Lazaro took a long breath, the scent of gardenias washing over him like absolution.
“Jeff… I’m always running. Always.”
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
“I ran from our parish priest when he told me my desire was a sin. I ran when I topped my class and was expected to take the prettiest girl to the prom. I ran from college basketball courts because my wrists betrayed me. I ran from a girlfriend who asked for intimacy. I ran on pavement, in fields, across beaches, rivers, volcanoes...”
He paused, his eyes moist.
“I ran from friends who didn’t understand. And even from those who did—because I was ashamed. I ran from the tanks of Marcos, carrying wounded comrades during protests. I ran when my friends were killed. I ran from beauty, from truth, from myself.”
He lowered his head.
“In all that running, I caught fleeting glimpses of things worth living for—tiny visions between footfalls. But I never paused long enough to hold them. I'm tired now. I want to stop.”
Jeff said nothing. The garden listened.
“You were right, Jeff. I am an idealist. But maybe that’s how I survive—by hoping. I’ve lost too much to live without it. You asked about my story... well, let me ask this: Have you ever held something so sacred, so shining—like a diamond—only to realize it was never yours to keep?”
He looked at Jeff, his face a mix of pain and awe.
“In my youth, I wanted to serve God more than anything. I read the Bible daily. I prayed for hours. I dreamed of being a missionary—to heal, to help, to give. But inside me, something else bloomed. A desire I was told was monstrous. I fought it with all my strength. I wore masks. Layer upon layer. I prayed God would change me. But the masks just grew uglier.”
Lazaro’s voice quivered.
“I couldn’t speak to people. I’d look at men and see diamonds. I felt like rust. I stopped reading the Bible because I couldn’t bear the words that condemned me. What kind of God creates you only to hate you?”
He choked on the question.
“I screamed one night: Enough! I threw away my faith like shattered glass. And then I dreamed.”
His eyes lifted toward the moon.
“In my dream, a voice asked, ‘Why did you give up so easily without a fight?’ I stood in nothingness. No direction, no time, no gravity. Just that voice. I asked, ‘Who are you?’ It answered: ‘I am not a Who. I am What I am. I am your reference point.’ I asked, ‘Are you God?’ But the voice fell silent.”
He drew a shaking breath.
“When I awoke, I opened my Bible to a passage I had always avoided—Sodom and Gomorrah. But that night, I read it differently. Not with fear. With new eyes.”
Lazaro recited:
> *“Abraham asked, ‘Will you destroy the innocent with the guilty?’ And the Lord answered: If I find ten righteous men, I will spare the city.”*
“That struck me like lightning, Jeff. God was *searching*—pleading—for even ten good men to redeem a fallen city. And there were none.”
He leaned forward.
“That’s why I’m here. Not just to work at Dade Rest. But to continue that search. I will find those ten. That’s my mission. To plead for the city again.”
Jeff let out a slow breath. “You may find the time of Abraham and ours are not so different.”
Lazaro nodded. “That’s why I don’t speak to theologians anymore. Or self-righteous men in pulpits. I don’t debate. I won’t quote scripture to those who weaponize it. I’m not here to evangelize. I’m here to find the ten.”
He closed his eyes.
“My journey began in the Philippines. I searched the streets of Manila... and I found Dodong.”
He smiled faintly.
“My first holy man.”
---
DODONG
My Lord, You tested me in the River of Meribah,
ground me ‘til I became a blade of gold.
I wept until my voice echoed the songs of angels,
prayed until my laughter mirrored saints.
Hear me—*
The souls of my friends rise
through darkness,
making appointments with You
before their time.
Their skin, loose around bone,
clutches IV lines like rifles.
They lie alone in trash heaps of morality,
gasping for air poisoned by indifference.*
I am their night watchman,
my lamp raised over their departure.
I’ve seen them trade sperm for boiled eggs,
dig their graves in makeshift cemeteries,
resurrected only by monsoon rains,
barbed wires still bound to wrists.*
Screaming Freedom—
> *While political whores
fix their hair for TV cameras,
peddling fake promises and
bridges made of numbers
from rigged lotto machines—*
My country has become a joke.
Seventy million people,
twenty want to be president.
Twenty thousand want to kidnap the richest twenty percent.
Twenty million want to be slaves abroad.
The rest?
They just want to die.*
My friends rot in their graves,
still screaming: Freedom—
while politicians write poetry
on the flesh of starving children.*
Tell me, Lord—
Will their deaths feed the orphans?
Heal the wounds of my land?
Redeem a prostituted Filipina in Tokyo?
Restore a domestic helper’s dignity in Hong Kong?*
While cronies gorge on imported beef
and banana republic fruit,
the rest of us are condemned for eating dogs.*
Sometimes I envy the dead.
At least they rest.
Jose Rizal, nothing has changed.
Politics still holds the reins.
Let the Mabuhay satellite drop us on Mars
so we might preach
to the dead children of Rebecca,
rather than speak to deaf tyrants
in this cursed archipelago.
2025-04-25 18:33:58
visions