a quiet, no trick or treat, halloween evening

perhaps, in my egotistical, peter pan mind, the real horror this halloween season is the realization that this must be how getting older will be like, celebrating what used to be a very fun night quietly, almost serenely, in an idyllic, upper middle class home in a far away gated, well-guarded subdivision, admiring the lush, well-maintained garden at night, while silence enveloped the air like a sad refrain, except for the faint sound coming from night birds somewhere unfamiliar and unrestricted.

or from an occasional motorbike driven by a fearless teenager speeding away, perhaps fleeing the scene of loneliness and desolation, looking for something frightening to do while the night was still young.

even the trees in the darkness whose leaves and branches were swaying to the evening air failed to raise any of the remaining hairs in our bodies. maybe we have been immune to isolation and desolation.

(what were you doing, you asked, in far away quezon city, the city of the stars, when right next to where i live is malate, the former bohemian's party place? well, i and another former fearless fairy friend were invited by our mother to visit her place. we feasted on pork binagoongan and other specialties cooked by our gracious hostess. the food was divine, and after we stuffed ourselves to death, we decided to walk in the garden and admire its beauty in the dark. )

welcome to twilight land.

it wasn't always like this, of course.

there was a time when halloween nights were celebrated with much fanfare.

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scene one, external, nakpil and orosa streets in malate, several years back.

back in those days when malate was the place to enjoy, when the bars lining up the streets of julio nakpil and maria orosa were filled with fun lovers in full costume regalia -- vampires (a favourite. probably a metaphor for all the sucking in store for the night), angels, fairies, demons, zombies -- and the party that spilled over into its narrow streets would last until the sunrise.

mind you, it wasn't just the pink sisters that were dressed in spine-tingling and very creatively designed outfits, but almost everyone, even kids.

there would be concerts right at the center of the nakpil and orosa streets with singers playing covers of madonna's greatest hits (like a virgin, papa don't preach) or gloria stefan, and everywhere there were stalls selling alcoholic drinks, street food (barbecue and other grilled favourites), cigarettes, and young boys, some baring their naked torsos, parading as though we were in ibiza or boracay.

some creative kids (mostly boys, but of course) would play their own music (reggae, lots of bob "no woman, no cry" marley) in their cars, sit on the chairs that they brought on the side streets, while drinking beers (pale pilsen, light, or shandy) that were piled up inside the trunks of their cars. often dressed in tattered jeans and black shirts, sporting long hairs, they would offer free beers, conversations, even hugs and kisses to those who would care to stop by and flirt with them.

bars like insomnia, jazz rhythm, sala, would be filled to the brim, playing their own loud disco music as people in costumes, sweaty, drunk, high, hot, and horny, hopped from one bar to another, as though everyone was attending a fiesta and had to visit every house of friends for fear that they might be offended if they didn't show up.

malate then didn't discriminate.  whether you were young or old, unknown or a celebrity,  artist or just pretending to be, jet set rich or skuala lumpur poor, fat or skinny as a skeleton, buffed or just toned, woman or man or gay, vampire or angel, fairy or witch, everyone would have their tricks and treats during witching hour. no one would go home alone and crying and horny.

those were the days.

sadly, malate is now a ghost, a lonely one, of its old self. like its ageing queens who used to party there, now scattered somewhere far away, quiet, inspecting gardens at night, never to be seen again.

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scene two, external and external, soho and lan kwain fong, hong kong, a few years ago.

if malate was the place to be during the halloween some years back in manille, then in hong kong it had to be the hilly, chilly lan kwai fong, and its neighbour soho.

the crowd was a mixture of different races, faces and genders like the colours of the rainbow. streets would be filled with so many people dressed like elves or elvis, madonna or the virgin mary, vampire or vamp, witch or bitch, policemen or simply the police.

name it you have it. there were men dressed as marilyn monroe, or women coming out looking like bob dylan with shades and an electric guitar on hand. cross dressing was the norm.

because of the sheer number of people, the police would cordon off the streets, and policemen in uniform carrying guns would be very visible. afraid!

they came in groups, or alone like myself, always a lone hunter.

but nobody felt alone. or lonely. everybody was friendly with everyone. i remember one night i was surrounded by a group of nearly naked men who kept on offering me shots of tequilla. then we danced on the streets along with other sweaty bodies, kissed, hugged, flirted, touched each other, unmindful of the fact that we were in a very public place! that we could get arrested anytime.

bars lining up the streets were all playing loud electronic, dance or retro music (hello madonna once again), with waiters and waitresses all made-up and dressed like ghouls, or vampires, or zombies.

it was malate circa ninety's all over again, except this time, i came alone minus my fairy friends. without the mask or the costume, just my wrinkled, old, witchy self.

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in both malate and lkf, i always woke up hung over and tired the next evening.

but it was always lovely. like waking up from a beautiful dream only to realize that you were still alice in wonderland and the mad hatter, or a prince, was snoring naked beside you.

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someone lamented on social media that the real horror in the past few days (he was probably on vacation with family and friends during all souls' and saints' days) was that he gained weight from all the eating and drinking. it was not. what's so horrifying about weight gain? nada, unless you are a billion-dollar fashion model or angelina jolie!

what's horrifying is waking up each day, with an empty stomach, bankrupt and your children are all crying from hunger, while all around you is the sight of filth, dirt, and a mountain of shit!

the real horror story is the fact that until now, several decades after we overthrew a dictator and his thieving friends from power, nothing much has improved. everything has in fact deteriorated.

poverty has risen, crime has escalated, thieves remain free and unpunished, and the government's coffers are still there for the politicians, their families and friends to feast on. greedy, insatiable, like newly born vampires.

the real horror story is that thieving and lying politicians whether a greenhorn or a trapo, from a political dynasty or not, continue to treat government's office like a family business. that they trick people into believing that a birthday cake, a senior citizen's discount, a free movie or medicine or medical check up, are already the height of public service.

the real horror story is the people who console themselves with the stupid idea that even if their politicians are stealing money from the government, these officials are at least sharing their loots by giving away birthday cakes among other freebies! not realizing that for every peso that they give away, these politicians get to keep a million peso for themselves! que horror! sin virguenza! shameless indeed.

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the real horror story is waking up late at night, alone, old and withered, with nothing to accompany you but a howling dog from somewhere far and unreachable! or admiring the beauty of the pre-winter garden late at night with equally bored, formerly party-going but now ageing set of fairies.

that's all!

happy halloween wicked fairies, bitches and witches!