For Cholo: A Note to the Void

Also a memorial to the person who replied the most to these entries

We never spoke about it in person—too sentimental—but Cholo was the other end of my longest and most meaningful correspondence. He also replied to my Tinyletters, when Tinyletter existed. Once, in response to an entry where I reminisced a breakup, he told me: “…your notes to the void make the world better.” When I finally met my wife and felt like I was gushing too much in an email to him, he said: “Gush all you want. Telling each other about things that make the world better makes the world better, then makes the world better again, then makes it even better still.”

He was very concerned about making the world better. For many of us who loved him, that’s exactly what he did to our worlds. Most of that correspondence, I will keep for myself and cherish. But I will share the reply I never got to send, with lots of regret, but a little more courage because someone once told me these notes to the void make the world a better place.

—

Cholo—

I’m not sure how often you imagined death. I hear you did that quite a bit—struggled with your faith, or lack thereof. That’s a new thing we have in common. People ask me if I believe in God and I say I’m not sure—but I hope in God. I want Saint Peter to gather all the pets I’ve failed at the gates of heaven, my grandfathers, my beloved aunt who went ahead a few years ago, friends, and now also you. I’d like for you to be there, jsyk. But otherwise, I don’t know. I’m scared of oblivion—it gives me FOMO. I tell myself sometimes: If all that is waiting for us is the dark—could I at least get a lamp and a newspaper? I’m too invested in the world—its characters, its fractures, its occasional brilliance. I’d like to see what happens—or how long we can keep it going as humans before another species correctly identifies us as a threat and eliminates us all.

I’m not sure how often you imagined death—and you had quite an imagination—but did you imagine the former colleague that you exchanged a few pretentious emails with during the pandemic would finally reply, almost six years later? I have excuses, by the way. Remember how you said, in 2020:

I’m happy for your new relationship. Seems to be good for you: if your text is the only clue I’ll get re your state of emotion, then, well, it has had a new skip in it. So, gush all you want. Telling each other about things that make the world better makes the world better, then makes the world better again, then makes it even better still.

Well, in the time between your reply and mine, I married her. Then you met her. Then you became neighbors with her best friend. And we all talked so much about you. We ran into dear friends of yours in bars and sent you videos of ourselves saying: “Tangina mo, Cholo! Pakyuuuuu!” We were in your solar system but perhaps we were Uranus (planet picked deliberately).

Your light radiated distantly, and I wish we were at least in Jupiter range, or asteroid belt range, and I regret how we let Makati to QC get in the way of... you know... deeper bonds. Hahaha. But I re-read these emails to discover again how good I had it. This is the excuse of all excuses—and I know we promised to stop apologizing for delayed replies—but your email caught me one week before I asked Nicole to be my girlfriend in 2020, across Victoria Court Canley—then two years later I asked her, on the same date, to be my wife, across Victoria Court Canley. I was preoccupied with love. I do not apologize for pursuing it—but only because it shouldn’t have taken six years.

So, the person you pretend to be is the person you are. Did you ever watch Bojack Horseman? I’m ashamed that you are referencing books and films and I’m referencing cartoons! But that always stuck with me. “Do you think I’m a good person, deep inside?” “I don’t think there’s a deep inside. There’s only what you do.” I am probably mangling those quotes but the point stands. Though it is still important for me to hear similar wisdom from you, in particular. I’m a bit of an impulsive thinker. My newest take is always my best take, and I’ll gladly share them, even with people I’ve just met. You might say I’m a subwaytakes auditioner. And there are people like you—and Charles actually—who exist across the hall. More deliberate. A slower burn, but more gale-resistant ideas. To hear that you agree with me is still to discover something new. It comforts, strengthens.

If it’s any comfort, I do not think that all girls are better than you, as inclined as we may be to worship their sincerity and put-togetherness, as opposed to our... what? Performativity? Competence cosplay? But hey, contrary to your suspicions, I would say very few people are better than you. The proof? I think if one had to pick a death that would universally crush PCDSPO alums, send them down memory lane, have them dig up old .avis and .mp4s—it would be yours. It was part of your job to publicly memorialize good human beings—I hope it feels familiar to you. You were loved, so loved. And I know death is a bummer, but imagine: Now you can’t say no to Kuya Mario lighting candles and offering doughnuts to your spirit.

Thanks for trusting me with the idea of being “happily haunted” by some past loves. Of remembering them as full human beings, virtues and flaws, and being dissatisfied with anything less. My first book was probably a happily haunted self as well. No one teaches us how to yearn and maybe that is a way of teaching the self. In schools there is Algebra and Chemistry, Language, Philosophy, even—but which discipline produces the best yearners? Who teaches us to idealize a thing out of reach, and welcome the wind funneling through a hole in the ventricle, if only because it is proof that we’re capable of feeling that way? To be hurt, but so artfully hurt. Haha. Maybe music educates us. And film. And one night stands, or missed connections. And maybe we send songs to each other, links, memes, as a soft community education in place of the emo education we wished we had. And yes, sometimes we email each other. Anything but Bumble BFF, I guess. (I, too, find it so uninteresting that I never once questioned my heterosexuality!).

Sorry again it took me this long. I can’t believe I really waited until you were gone—you went from being isolated in Singapore, to having drinks with Bumble matches, to moving home and never hearing back. You could say we stopped being distant enough from each other to justify the “weird-ass flourish” in our emails. Well, there is distance again now, though there are horrible circumstances behind that distance. I’m frightened of spirits, in case you didn’t know. And though I love you dearly, and miss you, I will end with what became the chorus of this exchange: Take all the time you need to reply. I’ll be looking out for butterflies on my walks.

With love,

Gian