Category Archives: Writings

Rascal Love

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I read somewhere that when you meet your greatest love, you also meet your greatest fear. While I can’t exactly agree with it–all because I can’t say what or who my greatest love is–there’s my family, friends, special others, pets, passions–there is one fella that makes me worried to distraction:

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This guy moved in with me without so much as a “May I?” The feral that this rascal is, he comes and goes as he pleases, and once vanished. I literally trespassed in search, but no luck. Came home three darn days later–thin and full of dust. Argh. Can’t say this sweet rascal is the one I love most, but he does give me the most headache–people can complain or call 911 to ask for help, but what’s a cat to do except suffer in silence or suffer in meows?

Romancing Void

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I have to take a selfie. I have to take a selfie. I have to take a selfie. 

Those words echoed in my head as reality sunk in:  I have just said Yes to a group show that specifically said

SELFIE.

Pretty obvious by now that I don’t indulge in the thing, except for strange reasons–like falling off the bed, waking up with a gash near the temple that I could not properly see with a mirror. Yes, I took a selfie to see how big that ugly wound was, becasue I just might need to haul my puny *ss to the ER for stitches. But I digress.

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Back to the selfie–I seriously felt I ahve never worked so hard in my life, all because I dislike 1. having my picture taken, 2. posting pjhotos of me, and 3. I am not exactly a fan of the whole selfie thing.  And here I am exhibitng my face?

The little project evolved into a philosphical thing–if I am to display my friggin’ face in a show anyway, might as well fo all the way, and make that a poster of what I am about, what I stand for, and what I value most.

Done. And I must thank the organizers of Bloom (Works by Women) not for being kind enough to invite me every year for the past four-five years, but this time for shaking me out of my comfort zone.

Missing Max

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One morning my feral, the rascal Max failed to show up for breakfast. Noon came, and still, no rascal. Worried. As hell. Decided ro draw instead. No plans, just pick up a can of pencils, right?

Ironically–or shall i say, as expected– i ended up drawing a cat to take my mind off a missing cat.

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Thank God, the feral came home. After three darn days!

Bataan on a Whim

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Crime Partner P and I took off for a drive, not much on the agenda other than, well, to drive. Or get out of Metro Manila even for just a day, and preferably, meet the sea. I wasn’t really geared to shoot, and all I brought was a Leica D-Lux 5. No monsters, this time. Turns out this toy is sort of a tiny monster, nonetheless. Heehee.Image

One of what felt like a hundred hairpins.

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No idea what these are exactly, but they were on the entrance to the Pawikan conservation thing. By the way, The three baby  pawikans were in this tiny enclosure, covered with a net. I simply did not have the heart to take thier photos. (Okay, maybe I should be a photo journalist. LOL)

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Farmers, after puttng the dried grains back in the sacks.

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Crime Partner P — probably comtemplating that we nearly got stuck in the sand. (Yeah, we drove our car sorta too close to the sea. heh heh)

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Forget the white sand; I’d much rather be here than Boracay!

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Like all good things, even a perfect day must come to an end. But what a farewell display!

Missing a Period (No, not the bloody kind)

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The other day I was driving home in rainy-Friday traffic and listening to Cynthia Alexander’s Walk Down the Road album. There was a deep sadness to it, sadness of a happy kind if ever there is such. It’s probably not accurate to say that it is the musician I miss–we were never the kind of BFFs who chat on the phone or meet up for lunch or coffee; it’s more like I see her on her gigs and she drops by our table for a little chat, and of course there’s the annual Bloom exhibit. While I love her music,  I can always listen to all her albums and it’s so easy to just watch her on Youtube.

So what do I miss, exactly?

at 19 East, the send-off series

It’s a period of time, in my life. A time that I wouldn’t exactly want to go through all over again but it was one when silver linings shone through with such intensity that the dark clouds were nearly eclipsed. It was a time when old friends vanished precisely when I needed them most, a time when there was trouble in practically all fronts. And this was the time when a friend stood by me, kept me sane, kept me company. A friend who endured and never complained about the obnoxious other “friends” that I sometimes brought. And we went to Cynthia’s gigs. Never mind that she lives about fifty kilometers away from Conspi. Cynthia’s gigs were practically the only thing that could make her travel that far, and back, in the wee hours of the morning.

It’s the warmth of Cynthia, who never treated us like the bug-eyed fans that we were. It’s her interaction with the band, never acting like she’s the star of the show. It’s Mlou’s multi instrument stunt. It’s CJ Wasu’s tablas. It’s Cynthia’s almost-shy way of acknowledging your presence even in a packed Conspi, her reprimands of my smoking, our hesitation to order sisig or anything non-vegetarian and the silly fear that the smell of a pig’s face on a sizzling plate might cause her to faint.  Cynthia, if ever you read this, apologies, but that gave us a good laugh.

I can only wish her all the best, and thank her for the huge part her gigs and music played in the bonds of friendship formed. As for my friend, I’m sure I’ll see her, maybe in gigs down south this time.

Scenes From the Basement

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This is half public service, and half rant. Photography is a necessity, and definitely not for aesthetics.

First sms I saw when I woke up Sunday morning was from K, asking if I had any idea what time we’d have electricity again. I didn’t even know power was out, as I wasn’t in the studio. Then she explained that a car blew up in the basement, and two or three other cars burned along with it. That got me worried, because I left a car at that basement.  I went back to the condo and was greeted by the sorry sight of people lugging suitcases and carts of hastily packed things, stuff thrown in huge garbage bags and hauled to their cars. Dang, the place felt like some ghost town with people just wanting to get out.

Today the story came together, finally. From what I gather, one of the residents met with a car accident and drove the vehicle to the basement, anyway. While he was maneuvering to park, smoke started to come out from under the hood. Driver staggered out as the guard on duty ran toward the car with a fire extinguisher. Flames erupted, and the rest, especially the SUV parked right beside it, is history. Another SUV sustained a lot of  damage, while a sedan had a melted bumper and busted headlights.

And perhaps the best part is that almost the entire building is left without power, no telephone lines, and no cable.  Good luck, everyone, especially to the offices. Right now I am typing this in the dark, as the emergency outlet can only handle so much. Plug a pc in, and forget about using your electric fan.

So, for crying out loud, I am no expert but if any of you gets into an accident that could’ve damaged the engine in any way, please drive your car to the nearest service outlet. It doesn’t just happen in the movies; damaged engines can make cars blow up, burst into flames, and take some innocents with them. Not to mention disrupting the lives and livelihood of the occupants of an entire building, big time.

 

Friends

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Yesterday’s engine problem unveiled a story, or maybe not a story but something to think about. For me anyway.  After I pulled over, I called a friend who owns and runs a car shop, just to ask if leaving my car there was the best option to take, all else considered. He said it was. Hours later, when we were both done with our tasks for the day, he offered to help me retrieve my stranded car. Never mind that he lives many towns away. A little later, a good friend read my blog entry, and said I should’ve texted her. As much as I hate to be a schmaltzy fool, I cannot help but be overwhelmed by such gestures. It made me wonder what defines friendship, and not surprisingly, it is my poetry mentor, Marjorie Evasco, who gave a very simple, succint definition:

“Ah, so many variations of the same theme, but it always remains the gesture of loving and caring kindness that sets a true friend over and above others.”

This lousy(?) day has so touched me in many ways; often, it is only in times of distress that true friends reveal themselves, in ways that overwhelm. I write this here, accessible to the entire cyber world, as an affirmation that true friendship exists; true friendship is a fact. And, as trite as it sounds, true friendship is a treasure beyond measure.

A Stranded Baby and a Jug of Vinegar

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My favorite car that got christened Baby G (as in gangsta) overheated somewhere along Greenmeadows. With two appointments to keep and 15 minutes away from the first one, there wasn’t much choice but to leave the baby there. Hitched a ride with the first guy who came along, got a car from home, and finished all the stuff in the to-do list. Now, time to pick up the poor thing. Hauling two gallons of water in old vinegar jugs, I hailed a cab, and while I was getting into it, my camera tumbled out of the gear bag and rolled on the pavement. Goodness. When I got to my stranded car, the first thing I did was to shoot and make sure my camera is still alive.

Okay, it is! (Come to think of it, battle scarred gear has a certain appeal. LOL)

So far, so good. Put water in a dehydrated radiator. My bad. But hey, can’t possibly end a day like that! Might as well shoot some. Night photography without a tripod doesn’t sound right, but the sheer stupidity of it put me in a good mood. hah! Couldn’t expose too long with a handheld cam tho.

Not too many cars at 1am, too. One last. Just to satisfy a bug.

A Fine Art Photographer’s Walk

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These past few months personal and professional hassle almost made me forget what I love most about photography–it is the seeing part, finding beauty where none seems to exist, seeing it and wanting to share it. I never saw the need nor ever had the desire for fancy set-ups, fancy lighting, or other things that make for a glamorous photograph. Yes, of course, I do those things; sometimes I need to, either for work or personal requests, and I find absolutely nothing wrong with it, as long as it does not make me forget what in my heart of hearts I thrive on doing, and that is shooting “junk.”  “Junk,” because nothing is ever real thrash to me, as a photographer. “Junk,” because, chances are, no one would bother to take photos of those; “junk,” because–and forgive me a little bit of ego trip here–chances are, I was the only one who saw it, or took the time to.

The hassle that nearly took me away from my gear drove me into some sort of melancholy, and the thing that arrested what could have been a downward spiral was a decision to walk alone for a while, just me and a 5D. 24/7.  The photos I am about to attach may not mean or appeal much to most of you, but to me, they will forever remind me of the day I said, “This is my art, this is my photography. I am paying for it with my time, my money, and my energy. I hope you find it in your heart to respect that, but if you don’t it’s perfectly all right.”

Guilty as Charged. (all of us, with very few exceptions)

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“All right, Sir?” Apparently, nothing is “all right.” Not for the military. Not for the nation. A conversation with a fellow writer and part-time hermit years ago said it all:  “If people as apolitical as you and me feel the need to march, and never mind the tear gas, in protest, then it must be real bad.” Now I’m thinking, if retired generals commit suicide, in front of the graves of their mothers, then it must be terrible.

I never knew Angelo Reyes personally, but reading the news of his suicide, with a gunshot to the heart (was it a last act of thoughtfulness, that he did not disfigure his face with a gunshot to the head?), sent chills down my spine, more literally than I would have preferred. Aside from the obvious intelligence as can be seen from his scholastic records, there is no virtue of the former general that I am in a position to extol, but it seems he himself was a victim of a corrupt system so entrenched that saying No to pabaon would’ve made an outcast of him. “Masyadong nagmamalinis” is a label no one wants, although it is our duty to “magmalinis”; a profound failure to do this duty is a huge reason that corruption thrives, and seems to get worse each day. Truly we as a people are known for pakisama, to a fault.

I myself am guilty of this pakisama; once or twice I have closed my eyes and walked away from questionable deals, petty ones that involved a few thousands, sometimes a few hundred pesos. I can only be grateful that I have the luxury of walking away; many people don’t. That is all the “linis” I can lay claim to. Walking away. Refusing to be part of it. Refusing to share the loot. Perhaps I should have been “heroic” enough to prevent, if not expose, such things? But to whom? To ad agencies, television executives, suppliers of ad agencies? The amounts involved were usually laughable; it would probably get a second hand laptop, and no, i don’t mean a MacBook.

I know that protesting such things will amount to nothing, other than getting ostracized, and hey, I needed my job, too. It has happened before, in a television network. Our producer was filching funds, pathetic amounts, really—say P30 from each meal allowance. I didn’t know that at first, because I usually did not even eat what they served (yes, I admit to being a bit of a cono that way) and I didn’t care if we didn’t have enough Coke. It’s just too much trouble to complain about such things; it is far easier to just go out and buy a can of Coke. Eventually the rest of the crew protested, wrote a letter and asked me to sign along with them. I did. Next thing I knew I was accused of being “promotor” of the whole thing, and got a threat for it, “Baka mawalan kayo ng projects dtio, ayaw namin ng mahirap katrabaho.”  That, from a network executive.

Few people know that that is one of the reasons I quit working in television. Lucky for me, I don’t have mouths to feed, not even my own. But what then? Should I have gone to DoLE?  Hell no, forget it. Bad attitude, probably. Practical? Very. Because, what then? Rouse a fucking rabble because someone was filching P30 from a roughly P100 meal allowance?

No way, man.

And that is exactly the attitude that got us to where we are.