Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
I am bewildered by his aura. In the dark, he seems wrapped in a faint glow—like a halo you’d see in paintings of saints. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked when I finally have the money. But with clients like this, I’ll probably go blind before that ever happens.
He stared out toward the far edge of the bay as we stood side by side in silence. The scattered lights from boats and ships shimmered across the water. One vessel passed by like a moving diamond, its glow drifting across the surface. We followed it with our eyes until it vanished into the distance.
The night carried its own quiet music—the rustling of palm leaves, the soft hush of waves folding into shore, the steady chirp of crickets. Familiar sounds. Almost comforting. Dark silhouettes slipped in and out of the shadows beneath the trees. Figures moved forward, reaching, brushing shoulders, touching, passing. A quiet choreography.
Normally, I’d leave by now. This kind of scene isn’t for me. My hustle is legit. I don’t work parks like this. I still have some self-respect left.
But I couldn’t leave Roberto. Not tonight. He looked like someone who needed a friend—badly. And for some reason, I felt responsible for him.
A cruiser walked past us, flashing a knowing smile. A few steps later, he stopped, glanced back, as if expecting we’d follow—drawn in by his walk, his wink, his invitation into the dark.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. “Not my type.”
Roberto let out a soft laugh.
“Do you feel it?” someone nearby asked.
A voice answered—loud, theatrical. I glanced over. A drag queen stood there in a loose blouse, sky-high heels, oversized earrings, and wild, multicolored hair straight out of a Cyndi Lauper video.
“Of course, darling,” the drag queen said, letting out a sharp, playful laugh. “They’re not lost. They’re just like the rest of us—looking for action.”
He gave his companion’s backside a quick pinch.
“Hey!” the other snapped.
“Quiet, witch,” the drag queen shot back. “You’re disturbing the angels. Angels with dirty minds.”
Someone from the darkness shouted, “Careful—you might choke, girl!”
Laughter burst out, then faded just as quickly. The figures melted back into the shadows. Even the wind seemed to pause. The insects went quiet.
And then it began.
The night came alive. More men appeared along the worn, unpaved edges of Lawton. They moved like ants—appearing, disappearing, circling back. They paused, studied each other, measured, sniffed out intent. When two found a match, they vanished together into the dark.
Everyone except me and Roberto.
We stayed where we were, watching this strange parade of men—different faces, different bodies, different styles—coming and going like waves.
Roberto broke the silence first.
“You go to college, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a student.” My eyes drifted again, catching a guy in tight shorts. Something about him felt familiar.
I looked back at Roberto. “What about you?”
“I’m studying to be a doctor,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“A what?”
He glanced around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “A doctor.”
“Really?”
That caught my attention. Not every night Manila Bay hosts someone from med school. Where I come from, medicine means status—money, respect, a whole different world.
“So what brings a future doctor out here?” I teased. “Looking for… organ donors?”
“I’m looking for someone to talk to,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Although… now that you mention it… interested in a transplant?”
I gave him a look. “That was terrible. Seriously—what do you want to talk about?”
Now I was curious. And hopeful. Guys like him usually had money.
He hesitated, then said, “Jeff… I want to talk about myself. My world. The things I’ve been pretending are real. I think… I think everything’s starting to fall apart. I need to face it. I need to take off the mask—before anyone else does.”
Except me, I thought.
We moved and sat on the grass behind the Film Center. During the day, it looked bright and soft. At night, it felt cold, damp against my skin.
I was still hoping—at least five hundred pesos. Something.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Cold? I hadn’t made a single cent all night. That’s what I was.
I decided to be blunt.
“Look,” I said, “you’re good-looking, and I know you can pay. So before anything happens, let’s be clear—I don’t take less than five hundred.”
I’d never seen someone get offended that fast.
“You son of a bitch,” he snapped. “Didn’t I tell you—”
“I know, I know,” I cut in. “Just doing my job.”
He stood up. I grabbed his arm.
“I’m sorry. Sit. If you want to talk, then talk.”
The image of my landlady flashed in my head—my stuff dumped out on the street if I came home empty-handed.
He slowly calmed down. Tilted his head back, staring at the sky. God, he looked exhausted. Just like me.
“Lie down,” I told him. “Don’t worry about your shirt. The grass gets cut every day.”
He did, stretching out, eyes fixed on the stars.
Great, I thought. A love story. Fine. One night. I can handle that. Who knows—maybe someday I’ll even write it down.
I lay back beside him.
“I’m still trying to figure out that glow around you,” I muttered. “Seriously, I need my eyes checked.”
He didn’t react.
“Imagine this,” he said after a moment. “You’re me. Roberto Policarpio.”
I closed my eyes. Sure. Why not.
Then he shifted—rolling over onto his stomach, hovering slightly over me. The angle, the closeness—it triggered something.
A memory.
When I was fourteen, locked up in juvie. Daily sessions with some old, bearded shrink. “Behavioral modification,” they called it. He’d lean over me just like this, writing down everything I said like it was gospel. Always half-aroused, the sick bastard.
I played along. Did what I had to do.
That’s how I got out.
“What are you smiling about?” Roberto asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
I turned away, propping myself up on my elbows. I couldn’t look him in the eye—not if this was going to get serious.
He went on.
“I wish I could escape everything,” he said quietly. “My past… my present… even the future. The past is full of regret. The present hurts. And the future…” He paused. “There’s nothing there.”
I felt it hit me, even though I didn’t want it to.
I tried to shake it off. “Nice line,” I said. “Who wrote that?”
He ignored me. Sat cross-legged like some kind of monk.
“It’s beautiful out here,” he said, looking up. “The stars… I keep thinking—what if one of them is another world? Another Earth. Somewhere I could go… and just be accepted. For who I am.”
2026-05-25 23:57:15
masquerade
Yesterday I passed the 90-percent mark in On the Road, and I realized I was doing something I rarely do: willingly living a life I would never choose for myself. The novel offers the thrill of experience without the wreckage of consequence. It isn’t the kind of life I’ve ever aspired to, but inhabiting it through fiction is exhilarating. There’s something uniquely powerful about living vicariously through a voice as urgent and alive as Kerouac’s.
The book brought back flashes of my own youthful attempts at rebellion—small, controlled bursts of wildness. But On the Road is wildness without an off switch. It’s 24/7 motion. Thankfully, Kerouac—writing through his alter ego, Sal Paradise—allows moments of sobriety and reflection. And what a writer he was. His prose can swing from breathless, jazz-like improvisation to quiet, almost mystical introspection in a single page.
Sal’s restless energy is fueled by his friend Dean Moriarty—based on Neal Cassady—along with Carlo Marx, modeled after Allen Ginsberg. (Contrary to a common assumption, the name “Carlo Marx” is a playful invention, not a direct lift from political theory.) Together, they plunge headfirst into risk, excess, and a kind of ecstatic self-destruction. Their lives teeter on the edge—high-speed car rides across the country, nights that blur into mornings, an endless cycle of bars, jazz clubs, fleeting romances, and abandoned responsibilities.
The cross-country trips—from New York to San Francisco and Los Angeles, through Denver, Chicago, and the wide-open stretches of Texas—feel less like travel and more like a fever dream of American motion. You don’t just observe the journey; you feel crammed into the back seat, hurtling through darkness at 100 miles per hour while Dean barrels ahead, barely watching the road. It’s chaotic, reckless, and oddly hypnotic.
Although much of the novel is set in the late 1940s (the book was published in 1957), it feels startlingly immediate. The mania, the depressive crashes, the craving for constant stimulation, the near-fatal accidents, the obsession with “the next thing”—the next drink, the next lover, the next town—make the story feel contemporary. When the action subsides, Kerouac pivots inward. Sal wandering alone on a quiet street, questioning the meaning of it all, delivers some of the novel’s most powerful passages. As Kerouac famously wrote, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live…” That line alone captures the book’s electric pulse.
The novel helped define the Beat Generation, a movement that later influenced the 1960s counterculture. I used to think “Beat” simply meant exhausted—tired of conformity and postwar conservatism. Kerouac himself clarified that he meant “beatific,” suggesting a kind of battered spirituality, a search for transcendent meaning beneath the chaos. And at times, the book feels almost religious in its longing.
Could someone live this way today? Perhaps. America still has its drifters and wanderers. I’ve encountered people who echo Kerouac’s characters—in parks where I trained for races, in gas stations late at night, in small towns where stories hang heavy in the air. But the modern version often looks harsher. Today’s road can lead not just to freedom, but to addiction, untreated mental illness, or violence. The romanticism is harder to sustain when reality intrudes.
That said, I’ve also met people down on their luck who were decent, determined, and working to rebuild their lives. Many carry painful histories that would humble anyone. Kerouac’s characters, for all their recklessness, are not caricatures; they are seekers—sometimes foolish, sometimes destructive, but undeniably alive.
On the Road isn’t a blueprint for living. It’s a testament to yearning—to motion, to friendship, to the relentless search for meaning across the vast American landscape. I would never want to live that life outright. But through Kerouac’s words, I’m grateful to have ridden shotgun.
2026-02-24 13:43:37
bookreviews
Diary of Masquerade 8
I am bewildered by his aura. In the dark, he seems wrapped in a faint glow—like a halo you’d see in paintings of saints. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked when I finally have the money. But with clients like this, I’ll probably go blind before that ever happens.
He stared out toward the far edge of the bay as we stood side by side in silence. The scattered lights from boats and ships shimmered across the water. One vessel passed by like a moving diamond, its glow drifting across the surface. We followed it with our eyes until it vanished into the distance.
The night carried its own quiet music—the rustling of palm leaves, the soft hush of waves folding into shore, the steady chirp of crickets. Familiar sounds. Almost comforting. Dark silhouettes slipped in and out of the shadows beneath the trees. Figures moved forward, reaching, brushing shoulders, touching, passing. A quiet choreography.
Normally, I’d leave by now. This kind of scene isn’t for me. My hustle is legit. I don’t work parks like this. I still have some self-respect left.
But I couldn’t leave Roberto. Not tonight. He looked like someone who needed a friend—badly. And for some reason, I felt responsible for him.
A cruiser walked past us, flashing a knowing smile. A few steps later, he stopped, glanced back, as if expecting we’d follow—drawn in by his walk, his wink, his invitation into the dark.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. “Not my type.”
Roberto let out a soft laugh.
“Do you feel it?” someone nearby asked.
A voice answered—loud, theatrical. I glanced over. A drag queen stood there in a loose blouse, sky-high heels, oversized earrings, and wild, multicolored hair straight out of a Cyndi Lauper video.
“Of course, darling,” the drag queen said, letting out a sharp, playful laugh. “They’re not lost. They’re just like the rest of us—looking for action.”
He gave his companion’s backside a quick pinch.
“Hey!” the other snapped.
“Quiet, witch,” the drag queen shot back. “You’re disturbing the angels. Angels with dirty minds.”
Someone from the darkness shouted, “Careful—you might choke, girl!”
Laughter burst out, then faded just as quickly. The figures melted back into the shadows. Even the wind seemed to pause. The insects went quiet.
And then it began.
The night came alive. More men appeared along the worn, unpaved edges of Lawton. They moved like ants—appearing, disappearing, circling back. They paused, studied each other, measured, sniffed out intent. When two found a match, they vanished together into the dark.
Everyone except me and Roberto.
We stayed where we were, watching this strange parade of men—different faces, different bodies, different styles—coming and going like waves.
Roberto broke the silence first.
“You go to college, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a student.” My eyes drifted again, catching a guy in tight shorts. Something about him felt familiar.
I looked back at Roberto. “What about you?”
“I’m studying to be a doctor,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“A what?”
He glanced around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “A doctor.”
“Really?”
That caught my attention. Not every night Manila Bay hosts someone from med school. Where I come from, medicine means status—money, respect, a whole different world.
“So what brings a future doctor out here?” I teased. “Looking for… organ donors?”
“I’m looking for someone to talk to,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Although… now that you mention it… interested in a transplant?”
I gave him a look. “That was terrible. Seriously—what do you want to talk about?”
Now I was curious. And hopeful. Guys like him usually had money.
He hesitated, then said, “Jeff… I want to talk about myself. My world. The things I’ve been pretending are real. I think… I think everything’s starting to fall apart. I need to face it. I need to take off the mask—before anyone else does.”
Except me, I thought.
We moved and sat on the grass behind the Film Center. During the day, it looked bright and soft. At night, it felt cold, damp against my skin.
I was still hoping—at least five hundred pesos. Something.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Cold? I hadn’t made a single cent all night. That’s what I was.
I decided to be blunt.
“Look,” I said, “you’re good-looking, and I know you can pay. So before anything happens, let’s be clear—I don’t take less than five hundred.”
I’d never seen someone get offended that fast.
“You son of a bitch,” he snapped. “Didn’t I tell you—”
“I know, I know,” I cut in. “Just doing my job.”
He stood up. I grabbed his arm.
“I’m sorry. Sit. If you want to talk, then talk.”
The image of my landlady flashed in my head—my stuff dumped out on the street if I came home empty-handed.
He slowly calmed down. Tilted his head back, staring at the sky. God, he looked exhausted. Just like me.
“Lie down,” I told him. “Don’t worry about your shirt. The grass gets cut every day.”
He did, stretching out, eyes fixed on the stars.
Great, I thought. A love story. Fine. One night. I can handle that. Who knows—maybe someday I’ll even write it down.
I lay back beside him.
“I’m still trying to figure out that glow around you,” I muttered. “Seriously, I need my eyes checked.”
He didn’t react.
“Imagine this,” he said after a moment. “You’re me. Roberto Policarpio.”
I closed my eyes. Sure. Why not.
Then he shifted—rolling over onto his stomach, hovering slightly over me. The angle, the closeness—it triggered something.
A memory.
When I was fourteen, locked up in juvie. Daily sessions with some old, bearded shrink. “Behavioral modification,” they called it. He’d lean over me just like this, writing down everything I said like it was gospel. Always half-aroused, the sick bastard.
I played along. Did what I had to do.
That’s how I got out.
“What are you smiling about?” Roberto asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
I turned away, propping myself up on my elbows. I couldn’t look him in the eye—not if this was going to get serious.
He went on.
“I wish I could escape everything,” he said quietly. “My past… my present… even the future. The past is full of regret. The present hurts. And the future…” He paused. “There’s nothing there.”
I felt it hit me, even though I didn’t want it to.
I tried to shake it off. “Nice line,” I said. “Who wrote that?”
He ignored me. Sat cross-legged like some kind of monk.
“It’s beautiful out here,” he said, looking up. “The stars… I keep thinking—what if one of them is another world? Another Earth. Somewhere I could go… and just be accepted. For who I am.”
2026-05-25 23:57:15
masquerade
On The Road Book Review
Yesterday I passed the 90-percent mark in On the Road, and I realized I was doing something I rarely do: willingly living a life I would never choose for myself. The novel offers the thrill of experience without the wreckage of consequence. It isn’t the kind of life I’ve ever aspired to, but inhabiting it through fiction is exhilarating. There’s something uniquely powerful about living vicariously through a voice as urgent and alive as Kerouac’s.
The book brought back flashes of my own youthful attempts at rebellion—small, controlled bursts of wildness. But On the Road is wildness without an off switch. It’s 24/7 motion. Thankfully, Kerouac—writing through his alter ego, Sal Paradise—allows moments of sobriety and reflection. And what a writer he was. His prose can swing from breathless, jazz-like improvisation to quiet, almost mystical introspection in a single page.
Sal’s restless energy is fueled by his friend Dean Moriarty—based on Neal Cassady—along with Carlo Marx, modeled after Allen Ginsberg. (Contrary to a common assumption, the name “Carlo Marx” is a playful invention, not a direct lift from political theory.) Together, they plunge headfirst into risk, excess, and a kind of ecstatic self-destruction. Their lives teeter on the edge—high-speed car rides across the country, nights that blur into mornings, an endless cycle of bars, jazz clubs, fleeting romances, and abandoned responsibilities.
The cross-country trips—from New York to San Francisco and Los Angeles, through Denver, Chicago, and the wide-open stretches of Texas—feel less like travel and more like a fever dream of American motion. You don’t just observe the journey; you feel crammed into the back seat, hurtling through darkness at 100 miles per hour while Dean barrels ahead, barely watching the road. It’s chaotic, reckless, and oddly hypnotic.
Although much of the novel is set in the late 1940s (the book was published in 1957), it feels startlingly immediate. The mania, the depressive crashes, the craving for constant stimulation, the near-fatal accidents, the obsession with “the next thing”—the next drink, the next lover, the next town—make the story feel contemporary. When the action subsides, Kerouac pivots inward. Sal wandering alone on a quiet street, questioning the meaning of it all, delivers some of the novel’s most powerful passages. As Kerouac famously wrote, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live…” That line alone captures the book’s electric pulse.
The novel helped define the Beat Generation, a movement that later influenced the 1960s counterculture. I used to think “Beat” simply meant exhausted—tired of conformity and postwar conservatism. Kerouac himself clarified that he meant “beatific,” suggesting a kind of battered spirituality, a search for transcendent meaning beneath the chaos. And at times, the book feels almost religious in its longing.
Could someone live this way today? Perhaps. America still has its drifters and wanderers. I’ve encountered people who echo Kerouac’s characters—in parks where I trained for races, in gas stations late at night, in small towns where stories hang heavy in the air. But the modern version often looks harsher. Today’s road can lead not just to freedom, but to addiction, untreated mental illness, or violence. The romanticism is harder to sustain when reality intrudes.
That said, I’ve also met people down on their luck who were decent, determined, and working to rebuild their lives. Many carry painful histories that would humble anyone. Kerouac’s characters, for all their recklessness, are not caricatures; they are seekers—sometimes foolish, sometimes destructive, but undeniably alive.
On the Road isn’t a blueprint for living. It’s a testament to yearning—to motion, to friendship, to the relentless search for meaning across the vast American landscape. I would never want to live that life outright. But through Kerouac’s words, I’m grateful to have ridden shotgun.
2026-02-24 13:43:37
bookreviews