Disturbing the Universe

Disturbing the Universe v.2.0

2006-10-31T23:15:00.000+08:00

Here it is... my new blog! Please click on the photo above to see it. Hope you'll visit often. Cheers!

Farewell, Dear site, who accompanied me for a year and witnessed my joys and despair and boredom. Close your eyes now—go to sleep. Rest peacefully in Darkness, deep.

The end in the beginning & the beginning in the end (Part 1)

2006-10-31T01:55:00.000+08:00

In many ancient cultures, Samhain (Halloween or All Hollows Eve) marked the last day of the year. They celebrated the last sunset of the summer and welcomed the rise of the first winter moon. It was not only the most opportune time for settling and reckoning, for throwing out old ideas and influences, but it was also the perfect occasion to commemorate the cycle of life and death, the beginning and ending of things.

I celebrated my first year as a blogger on the 19^th of October. I haven’t been a good one lately; 377 days was not nearly enough to train me to write and post everyday. I shall make an effort to improve on my record during my sophomore year.

To celebrate my anniversary and to mark the beginning of another year of being a webnaut (you know, like an astronaut), I have decided to change the look and feel of my blog and migrate it to another site. I am still tweaking parts of it, so you will have to wait till the last sunset and the first moon rise to see it.

I hope you enjoy the eternal turnings of birth and rebirth that today brings. Remember, you can’t have room for anything good and new if you don’t cast out the devils of the old year.

Happy All Hollows Eve!

He's here!

2006-10-29T17:24:00.000+08:00

Nakata
Originally uploaded by Bealtaine.

My uber crush, recently retired Japanese footballer Hidotoshi Nakata, is here in Manila. He arrived late last Friday and went to Payatas Saturday. His visit made it to the front page of the Philippine Daily Inquirer's Sunday edition. Imagine that! :) His trip was organized by the UNDP and the Presidential Commission for the Urban Poor.

Now why did I not hear about this till now?!?!

Early last Saturday he signed some autographs at the Starbucks 6750 (does that mean he's staying at the Shangri-La Makati???) and was whisked off to Pasig City to kick off a series of Football clinics organized by UNDP, Futkal, and Rock Ed Philippines called "Sipa sa Masa." For more info go to this site.

So is he still here? I was not able to go to Germany to see him play... maybe I'll get to meet him here. Yeah right. With my luck, he is probably boarding a plane right this minute to go to another Asia country. Lovely.

I should really pay more attention to these things! :) It's great though that football is being promoted in this country. Hooray! :)

Wake up

2006-10-26T02:05:00.000+08:00

I have something to confess: I've been binging. I feel as if I have been forcibly put on a sensory diet for the past couple of months, so now I am gorging on every photo, website, news, art blog I could get my hands on. Ahhh.... it's so good to be alive again. I credit this sudden awakening to the following events:

1) Milenyo: Much has been said about the storm that ravaged Manila a while back. I was inconvenienced by its passing (no electricity therefore no aircon, no TV, no mobile, etc, etc), but was basically left untouched and undamaged. I survived but… what was I to do with my time? I was weaned from the telly and texting and was able to read, write, sketch, and WORK. We still do not have cable at home, but I don't even miss it. And my mobile phone? I honestly can't be bothered to text unless it's really important. I am not a slave to Globe's UNLIMITXT anymore!

2) My old computer crashing: If my old computer didn't die on me (may it rest in peace), I wouldn't have been forced to buy a new laptop, the one I have been planning for months to get. Since I now have a faster, more efficient machine, I get to work more and I get to do extensive art research online. BTW, I christened my laptop "Brighid." B was named after the Irish Goddess of all sacred fires. She's also a healer and guardian of the Arts. She doesn't get along with my iPod , though. "Cerridwen" (from the Welsh Goddess of inspiration and providence) is a Mac Girl; I'll have to reconfigure her, change her settings to Windows, in order to connect to B. I lose all of my songs if I do that, so I just have to keep the two gals separate. I got Cerridwen ages ago when I still had my Mac "Precioussssss..." Long story.

3) Getting sick: I have been stressing over a major personal project for two weeks and when I finally finished the first part, chronic fatigue set in, my body turned into a sack of sand, and I had no other choice but to rest. This spell wasn't as bad as my usual, but it kept me from spending my energy on trivial things. It made me see the things that were important to me.

4) Unexpected messages from friends: several midnight calls from NJ to help me (no, push me!) get my project rolling again, a simple, quick text from a friend jet-setting in Davao or Cebu or Bacolod (she travels a lot so I forget!) saying that she believes that my plan might work, an early text after a football match from a friend who was watching it in Singapore--my favorite team lost but she saw it as a good omen for me, and a pancit palabok for dinner (hmmm... this isn't exactly a message but you get the point!). It's amazing how real friends just know when to catch you.

5) Revisiting my other friends: re-reading old novels and comic books, listening to my favorite bands from high school, dyeing my hair back to my natural hair color (I know... that's another blog altogether!)... I start to remember myself again without all the static and white noise.

Okay, I am getting sleepy and I am already finding it hard to concentrate on this entry, so I am just going to leave you with some inspiring images I found on the net. They are photos of sculptures made by Walter Martin and Paloma Muñoz. They remind me of the type of art I can make.

Lesson

2006-09-11T19:11:00.000+08:00

Hermit
6B pencil on A4 paper
11 September 2006

My former Life Drawing professor would freak if he sees this. I guess because I still insist on illustrating instead of drawing. He said I had a style though, which was good, and that he could see that I draw the way I sculpt. We went to the zoo a couple of times to sketch the animals and, at the end of the day, my hippos, giraffes, lions, and birds looked like a menagerie of my plaster models. It’s those lines and the way I compose my pictures. At first glance they exude Zen-like silence; when you sit beside them for a while, though, you could see that the clean lines are there to keep what’s inside from bursting out.

I am learning to be messy and chase the shadows.

Enduring Creation and random thoughts

2006-09-10T23:34:00.000+08:00

Temperance
6B pencil on A4 paper
10 September 2006

My friend M and I used to play this game when we were bored—we would ask each other “If you were a ___________, what would you be?” The questions would be popped in the weirdest of places and the most inopportune of moments. “If you were a pencil…” was asked at 4AM, whilst smoking, sitting on a bench, opposite the Metro stop, waiting for the sign to come alive. My favorite so far was this: “If you were a disease, what would you be?” I am almost always Manic Depressive. We asked this question in the middle of a storm, standing outside a closed pastry shop, under a tattered green awning, at 5PM, with our stomachs growling.

This is a drawing I did in under an hour. I stopped working on her face when I realized she was starting to look like me. She’s slightly askew. I hate that she came out so clean. She will probably become a part of something bigger.

Temperance, the Fourteenth of the Major Arcana in a regular Tarot deck, generally means “Mature adaptation to whatever life offers; individualized existence.” Reversed: Unfortunate combinations.

Pain. Old French peine; Italian pena. The root taps down to Latin: poena.

According to Random House Webster’s Dictionary, Temperance means, 1. “moderation or self-restraint. 2. total abstinence from alcoholic liquors."

It’s time to eat another bag of Boy Bawang (that’s yummy, garlicky roasted corn kernels).

Illustration Friday: Farm

2006-09-10T20:21:00.000+08:00

Illustration Friday: Farm

This is more “abattoir” than “farm.” I started to draw an assembly line of eggs this morning, but I still haven’t figured out how to make it interesting; am still working on it. In the meantime, I am back to drawing dead birds. This is a rapid sketch using charcoal; I’ve still got flecks of black dust on my cheeks. I scanned it in B&W and inverted the colors.

I like dark things. I initially didn’t want to post an entry for this topic. Farm sounds so benign. I found a way to make it my own though. At least I am still trying! :)

Here's the original:

Child of Saturn

2006-09-09T17:56:00.000+08:00

Nuir d’été, 1890 (Musée d’Orsay)
Homer Winslow (1836-1910)

Something clicked into place inside me. I awoke with a start, jumped out of bed as the sun rose, and started cleaning my room. I threw open all the windows, scrubbed the floorboards, dusted my bookshelves, and changed the sheets. I rearranged the furniture with Herculean determination; I would have torn down walls and transplanted my room to a sunnier spot had I not realized that I was only renting a room and did not own the place. General cleaning was in order.

This could be the effect of the Full Moon or it could be that I just got tired of being tired. I spent the whole day yesterday in bed, nursing a colossal hangover. I didn’t really drink that much; with two bottles of beer and a sip of cheap red wine, I willed myself into drunkenness. I was desperate for a reprieve from that barren child who had been spending endless hours splayed on the floor, defeated, reeking with suffocating saturnine malaise and dripping with melancholy.

I was only able to slip away from her tight grip for a couple of hours. When I opened my eyes she was roosting on my chest, scratching the lint on my shirt with muddied claws, staring at the black moth that somehow got into my room. I wonder if she would let it escape. Too exhausted to move, I allowed myself to be swallowed by darkness. An hour later and I was up. She had moved to a corner, her scraggly head resting on a pile of dirty clothes. The moth was gone.

I rummaged through the fridge for nourishment. I opened a bag of fresh greens. My body was screaming for meat, but I couldn’t be bothered to cook. I finished half a gallon of water hoping that would flush down the toxins and cobwebs from my system. There was still no running water (it was the third day; the manager of the building said it would be back by tomorrow) and the electricity was low. I could turn on the fan but not the lights, the telly but not the computer. Frustrated, I return to my room. Mélancolie, as I now start calling her, coaxed me to return to bed. With nothing to do, I gave in. Sleep took over instantly.

It was dark outside when I woke up. The lights were still not working; I turn on the TV. Not even the Sports News could rouse an emotion from me. Spain lost to Northern Ireland? I turn my head the other way and face the wretched creature that has been siphoning my energy. I study her face with indifference—her slithery hair shining in half light, weathered skin that was both greasy and parched, pudgy and taut, her eyes drowning in darkened sockets. She was not malevolent in any way, I realized. She was just devoid of everything; a useless lump of mass occupying space for no reason at all.

I began talking to her, asking her questions. She remained in her wraith-like state, more interested in flicking specks of dirt from her nails than speaking to me. I poked, I prodded. WHY ARE YOU HERE?!? Her apathy enraged me. I started pulling her at her yellow-stained sleeves. I pushed her off the bed. I grabbed her neck and threw her against the night table. WHY? WHY? WHY? Not a screech, a whimper, a moan. WILL YOU EVER LET ME GO? My head started to throb. I wanted to kill.

I stepped back and started to weep. The scream that was thrashing inside my lungs for days was no longer silent. Primordial anger, hate, sorrow, pride, guilt, and wrath pulsated within my shell, erupting from my chest, tearing down the stone cold moor around my heart. I am sorry. I was wrong.

I sat in front of her; I am shivering. She doesn’t ask for comfort or care; I offer her none. I reached for the nearest trinket on the table, a half-eaten chocolate bar, and left it beside her. I bid her goodnight.

Something clicked into place within me this morning. She is gone. Saturn’s child will be back someday. In the meantime I am alone again. I am free to open the windows and air out my soul.

Illustration Friday: Safe

2006-09-03T02:01:00.000+08:00

This week's topic is "Safe." Great timing. I've been struggling with this concept for the past couple of days. Here's a recent entry from my journal.

Oya

2006-09-02T21:36:00.000+08:00

Grumpy Cat
Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

This is my cat, Oya. Well… not exactly. She’s my ex-flat mate’s cat, but I considered her as my own. I haven’t seen her for over a year. I miss her.

Oya just turned 5. Her owner calls her an “enana,” a dwarf, because she is smaller than most cats. She was the runt of the litter, but she was the most beguiling of the bunch. While the rest of her brothers and sisters were purring and brushed themselves against the legs of their potential owners, this little one just sat in the middle of the room and pointedly ignored the humans who were cooing and ahhing around them. She looked absolutely bored and would stare down the other kittens that pranced around, running after dust balls. She won the heart of E, my ex-flat mate. She took her home and named her after a tiny city in Galicia.

She was hiding when I went to the apartment to check out the room I was thinking of renting. I had no idea E kept a pet in the house. The apartment was spacious, newly renovated, but the room was a closet. I had my doubts about living there until I saw the cat litter tucked behind the potted plants in the veranda. I asked E about it and she confessed that she indeed had a cat but it was anti-social and stayed away from people, even her sister who was a regular fixture at the flat. She assured me that it would stay out of my way so she hoped that that wouldn’t be a problem with me. I immediately agreed to get the room. I’ve always wanted to own a cat, anti-social or not. I grew up in a house full of dogs—up to 8 at some point—so I never got a chance to see if I could get along with a feline pet. I left and returned after an hour with the deposit. That’s when I saw Oya for the first time as she popped her head from behind the enormous plant in the living room. A glimpse of that tiny face and I knew that I had made the right decision.

She stayed away from me the first couple of days. I was noisily transferring and rearranging my stuff as I tried to settle in my new space. I caught her once, though, sniffing at my bags, and then she ran away when she realized that I was looking. She finally graced me with her presence after a week of playing hide and seek. I was reading a book, perched on one end of the sofa, when she silently entered the living room and parked herself on a large pillow on the floor. I tried not to get too excited and stopped myself from calling out to her. I coolly looked at her direction and continued to read. She looked back at me as if to acknowledge my greeting then proceeded to groom herself. I was thrilled.

Our silent routine continued for the rest of the week, but on each succeeding night she would sit closer and closer to me. First, she stretched herself on the floor beside the pillow, then the following day, she curled up beside my shoes, then the other side of the sofa, then the middle, and, finally, beside me. We would sit side by side for days until she finally let me scratch her back. I had made a new friend.

My ex-flat mate was surprised and impressed by our growing friendship. She encouraged it by letting me feed Oya; on Mondays I gave her her weekly treat. I would scream “Lata!” (Tin) and she would appear. She ate the dry stuff but absolutely loved her pâté-like meal.

She remained loyal to E but ignored our other flat mate. He chased after her the minute he moved into the house, but she never warmed up to him. He gave up. We, on the other hand, became fast friends, constant companions through thick and thin. She was there when I broke down when I received a call from home and found out that an old friend had passed away. I rushed into my room and she followed. She curled up beside me and stayed there through the night. She found solace in my room when we would hold parties at the apartment. She also remained there when E left for a month to visit her family.

Although we never talked or exchanged stories about ourselves, we formed a bond that I will forever cherish. I feel sometimes that I made better friends with her than the other people I met during that time. I miss those lazy mornings when we would sit on the floor of the balcony, me with my mug of hot java and ciggies and Oya pawing at the geraniums. We would sit there for a long time watching the busy bustle of the city below. On cold winter days, we would compete over the sliver of sunlight that would filter through the window or the perfect space in front of the heater.

Some people say it’s silly to regard animals as our friends. We “humanize” pets, give them personalities and treat them as if they were Homo sapiens when they are smaller-brained animals, beings in the lower rungs of the food chain who cannot possibly think and feel like us let alone understand us. But who cares? I don’t have to be Dr. Doolittle to consider her as my friend. The only downside I see about this friendship is that I will not be able to talk to her on the phone or exchange text messages and emails with her. But most humans don’t even bother to do that… So?

Silly or not, I miss her. Here’s to you, Oya. Shine bright, my little one.

Not Juliet

2006-08-29T00:09:00.000+08:00

Every once in a while the Universe throws a curve ball at you. If you are a hotshot ballplayer who’s been training for moments like this all your waking life, you slam it out of the stadium and hit a home run. But, if you are a clumsy, idiot like me who happens to wander into the game while you are looking at something else, you get whacked in the head, turned upside down, and left to crawl out on all fours.

Most of the time I feel as if I know what I am doing, that I am in complete control of my life, and I’ve got things under control. I’m usually confident that I’ve got most things figured out and I that I don’t usually get flustered by people and circumstances. I am invulnerable and immune to it all. And then the Fates step in and remind me that I am oh-so-human after all. I never get their sense of humor, those Ladies.

I hate not knowing why things are meant to happen and why you are meant to meet certain people at a certain time in your life. Why did it have to invade my idyllic space; I was merrily jumping along, following my dream, minding my own business. I never asked for this. I hate it when I am left with my mouth wide open, my jaw scraping the floor, wondering what the fuck hit me. Why didn’t it kill me? Why did it leave me here, contemplating in the dark, with a gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be?

Things would have been a lot easier if… If only… I wish… Oh well. Things do happen for a reason, don’t they? We’re just not meant to understand or know why they do sometimes. Well, most of the time. I just hate it when it happens to me. I hate hearing the three Fates cackling behind me. Yes, I know, I know. I am human after all.

A good day

2006-08-22T13:00:00.000+08:00

Yesterday was another disco ball moment. Have you ever stared at one while it spins in the dark? An effervescent glow surrounds the globe while rogue shards of light are slashed, splintered, and shattered across the room; melodic, hypnotic, organized chaos with flashes of brilliance piercing the shadows. Monday was that kind of day.

I tossed and turned the night before—I was having my usual struggles with sleep. A moment of clarity came at 8AM, two hours before my alarm was supposed to go off. I was dragged to the kitchen by my stomach; the call of pancakes was too difficult to ignore and my body was too exhausted to resist. With elegant dexterity (from God-knows-where), I whipped up a fluffy, golden batch, and with equal maladroit I greedily gorged on each one, piece by honey-soaked piece.

I knew the day was going to be a good one. I could think. I could feel. I was going to have a normal productive day. Bursts of lucidity allowed me to work, but sleep claimed me again at around noon.

Sometimes I feel as if I observe myself too closely.

I woke up. I ate lunch. I worked. I emailed. I blogged.

Right after dinner I was ambushed by a migraine wielding a high-speed jackhammer. It pounced silently from behind and started drilling from the base of my neck to my right eye. Jelly bean lights danced across the walls of my room. Sleep was my refuge. Another day ended just as I thought I was getting the hang of it.

But sleep is a fickle friend. I woke up at 2AM just in time for the re-run of HOUSE. I bawled like an idiot. I could fall in love with Hugh Laurie, even with an American accent. Okay, I’ll even take the wimpy, spineless, half-evil Australian youngling.

I am bearing my solitude calmly than usual. In the dark, I go on endlessly trawling (trolling) the streets of my head for hours on end and never meeting anyone—not even myself

Fútbol mania

2006-08-21T15:56:00.000+08:00

The football season officially started last weekend. At least for me. Various teams have been playing friendlies throughout the tail end of July and the beginning of August, but the real games started in England last Saturday. I don’t know how these people could play competitively after the grueling World Cup matches. Well, okay, come to think of it, they are paid millions of dollars to run around the pitch hoping for a chance to kick the ball. Harump, they shouldn’t complain, right?

I am just a little bit disappointed that my fave Premiership team, Arsenal, drew on their first match. Case of the rusties or are they already starting to miss the players they lost to richer clubs (read: backed by Russian drug Lords)? It’s a little too early to panic, so I will just let them be.

I can’t wait for La Liga to start next weekend. I can’t wait to see Barça play again...And kick Real Madrid’s ass. Teeheehee. It’s still a long way away (they face each other on the 22nd of October), but I’m already looking forward to it! Let’s see some action!

August

2006-08-19T22:06:00.000+08:00

I always have mixed feelings about August. It’s the time of year when the sun mercilessly blazes the whole day without relief, while the nights grow balmy and indigo dark. It is accompanied by volatile and indecisive weather; monsoon rains and tropical depressions form in the east and heat waves reign in the west. It’s as if the earth is heaving with anticipation for the coming birth pains—its nine months is almost up. It’s time to give it up.

It doesn’t matter where I am; August still feels the same way. It’s melancholy and silent, like someone tethering on a wire over a precipice. You are all alone and you could fall and no one would hear you or you could fly and your wings would bring you closer to the sun.

I can’t say that I am crazy about August, but I can definitely say that I can’t live without it. I was born on this month some odd years ago. Which is probably the reason why I have so much affinity and dislike for it; sometimes I can burst into flames with so much passion and intensity for everyone to see or I could disappear into a cesspool of murky, uneven shadows where no one dares to follow.

This month has always brought me changes. For one thing, I turn a year older every year. What have I got show for, I ask myself sometimes, when that day comes. And on some years, like this one, I couldn’t care less that it happened once again. We all have to grow old anyways.

Most of my plans come into fruition or end in August—I moved back to the Philippines twice, moved out of 3 apartments (or is it 4?), received acceptance and rejection letters from schools, awarded two scholarships, etc, etc. Dreams are born at the same time hope is discarded. I go along with the year. I always feel the need to purge and reap the fruits of my labor and to face the repercussions of my actions. Time’s up. Now I have to move on.

The month is almost over and I am still undecided if I want it to end. September brings a different set of feelings and responsibilities. Am I ready for my new life? Am I ready for the end of the year? Am I ready for the birth pains? I don’t really know, but I have 12 days to find out.

Disturbing news

2006-08-18T03:26:00.000+08:00

The M/V Solar I, an oil tanker chartered by Petron, the country’s largest oil refiner, sank off the coast of Guimaras Island in Central Philippines. Copious amounts of deadly, viscous fuel have reached several islands in the Visayas region (hello, including the island where I was born, Negros!) and are now spreading and slithering their way to the Guimaras Strait. Aside from the virgin white sand beaches, a number of marine sanctuaries and unspoiled coral reefs and mangrove forests are now in danger of being engulfed by this dark and silent monster. It has already destroyed an important feeding and breeding ground for fish and other species in the area. Protected species such as the dugong, green and hawksbill turtles, and several cetacean species live along the Strait and are now in danger of disappearing completely.

WWF (formerly known as the World Wildlife Fund, one of the world's largest and most respected independent conservation organizations in the world) hopes everyone involved and affected by this disaster—from the coastguard, to the oil industry, local fishermen and coastal communities—would cooperate in creating a national oil spill contingency plan to handle this crisis. I don’t know if there is a real plan out there from the government, but I hope someone mobilizes these people soon. There are species and industries literally dying out there as we speak!

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE go out there and do your part to save our environment. Go to WWF’s website for more information about the accident, then check out WWF-Philippines’ site to find out about the different ways on how you could help. Do something! You could even just talk about this with your family, friends, and co-workers. Or email them. Remember, every little thing counts. We could all make a difference.

New Goal

2006-07-23T00:39:00.000+08:00

create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands

I've only been to ten other countries (aside from the Philippines). According to the Visted Countries Website, that's only 4% of the world. Sigh. I MUST change this stat soon.

Pure Possibility

2006-07-18T02:22:00.000+08:00

I dedicate this to this month's Waning Moon. I say goodbye to everything that is dark and will only hold on to pure possibility.

"In the face of of life's uncertainties, we say, "Anything is possible!" sometimes with the passion of hope or despair, sometimes with detachment and indifference. The possibilities we refer to are casually more or less well-defined by the limited contexts of our life experience; thus, it may not rain tomorrow, war may or may not come, a sick friend may or may not die. Whatever it may be, we are making reference to something that seems possible. It is through actual being, then, that we understand possible being."

------ Art & Existentialism by Arturo B. Fallico

Sabbatical

2006-07-14T02:28:00.000+08:00

I opened Wish Jar Journal, one of my favorite blogs, and found out that Keri has been, in her words, "remiss in posting lately." She continues by giving 5 excuses (reasons, I mean) why she has been away from the net:

a. I have been packing up everything I own so that it fits in the car.
b. I've been finishing a book.
c. I'm rebelling a bit.
d. I've been living in the world more.
e. I have not felt the call to work in this medium.
f. I've been hunting in the wilds of the amazon, and was briefly kidnapped by a unidentified tribe of natives.

I myself have been remiss in my postings (more than she has, actually) and can relate to her list. I HAD been packing my things..uhm, a little over a month or two ago... and tried to cram everything in one car. You see, I moved to a new flat closer to the city center. Letter B is also applicable to me: I have been finishing a book. NOT making it, unfortunately... more like READING it. And it's not just one book. My attention span has been shorter of late (more than usual), so I keep jumping from White Teeth (Zadie Smith) to Insomnia (Stephen King) to Anansi Boys (Neil Gaiman) then back to Zadie. Letter C is normal for me; I am always rebelling against something. Letter D, well, is true for me as well. I have been "raketeering" (freelancing for you non-Pinoys), seeing old friends and meeting new ones. And had been going to almost all of the World Cup matches at 3AM. Why is it pay-per-view here?!?! Letter E is definitely me--I have been tinkering with my sewing machine, drawing with my sign pens, and assembling jewelry. I haven't been writing in ages and haven't been feeling good about it. Writing doesn't come easy to me so I get dissuaded easily. And the letter F? Maybe not in the Amazon or by tribes of natives, but something like that is probably happening to me.

So I am back. Now what?

------------------------------------------------
PS. The illustration above is from my all time fave (comic book/graphic/contemporary) artist, Dave McKean. I don't know how it relates to this entry. I just feel like that. Which reminds me... For all you people out there who live in Manila, is Neil Gaiman really going to be here soon? Like this weekend? I must stalk him.

Heart Attack City

2006-05-31T18:15:00.000+08:00

Heart Attack City
Originally uploaded by Bealtaine.

This week's Illustration Friday topic is "cake." I still haven't found the time to draw, so, in the meantime, I will share with you guys this image. I absolutely LOVE Sans Rival cake. It's made mostly of butter, hence, the name of this photo. This particular sample is flavored with mango. YUUUM! :)

The Procrastinator

2006-05-31T04:40:00.000+08:00

I went on a scanning frenzy a couple of days ago. I ransacked my journals and found some stuff I wanted to save from the ravaging effects of time. One drawing was in danger of disappearing completely. I didn't want to sneeze on it. I know I should have done this a long, long, LONG time ago... and one-by-one and con calma. A professional procrastinator indeed.

UFFFFF! My back and neck still hurt.

Illustration Friday: Sorry

2006-05-25T23:43:00.000+08:00

SORRY

Ink on paper

25 May 2006

Sorry I stopped writing

Sorry I wouldn't shut up

Sorry I haven't been in touch

Sorry I went away

Sorry I never left

Sorry I couldn't be there

Sorry I stayed behind

Sorry I couldn't see you

Sorry I couldn't let go

Sorry I held on too tight

Sorry I did you wrong

Sorry I hurt you

Sorry I ignored you

Sorry I bugged you

Sorry I forgot

Sorry for being sorry

Will saying sorry ever going to be enough?

Thank God it's Easter

2006-04-18T01:42:00.000+08:00

Penitent
Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

Well, I am glad that’s over. I’ve always hated Holy Week. For most people it’s the perfect time for a pilgrimage to the nearest beach, a quick jaunt to our Asian neighbors or quiet bonding time with the family. For me Holy Week is not at all relaxing—it means sitting through hours of dramatic, gory films about Christ or Moses, braving the crowds to rub the toes of the bloodied, dead Jesus with my handkerchief, and being vacuumed sealed from the rest of the world (along with evil spirits!) from 3PM on Good Friday till 12 midnight on Easter Sunday.

Oh yeah, I forget. It was like that for me. For a very long time, I might add, but not anymore. I guess that’s why I still think of it as the present. Heh. Years and years of practice so it’s hard for me to shake off ill associations with this time of the year. Now I have the choice not to go through the rituals and stuff anymore, but I still get acid attacks when I see people leave the church waving colorful woven palms in the air. That usually signaled the start of another terrifying week for me, the only time in the year when I felt overwhelmingly scared and guilty for being alive. My mother is a devout Roman Catholic and when I was little she wanted me to use this time to reflect on the significance of Christ’s death and sacrifice. Imagine how it was for me as a seven-year-old to contemplate on this larger-than-life concept.

Palm Sundays were not that bad, really. Gloomy significance aside, I enjoyed looking at the array of palms being sold outside the church. They made the whole event seem festive and joyful. Holy Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays were more or less the same. We were still allowed to play and watch our favorite shows, but we had to tone things down a bit, be less boisterous than usual, and be respectful to our Suffering Lord. Maundy Thursdays were a pain. The TV stayed off (except when religious movies were on), the books were tucked in the shelves, the jump rope was hidden in the cupboard, and the crayons were stored in their boxes. During the day, the time was used to contemplate on Christ and Christ alone, and at night, we would hear mass and watch the reenactment of the Last Supper—from Jesus breaking bread with his disciples to Him washing their feet—and/or the Passion Play.

Good Fridays and Black Saturdays were the bleakest and scariest days of the year for me. They beat Halloween and All Souls’ day by ten million points in my book. I would wake up to the unusual and eerie silence of the house. People were up and about, I could tell, but they moved with caution, guilt, and dread. Everyone knew He was going to die soon. By mid-morning I would perch myself by our second floor bedroom window and watch the fire trucks bathe the streets with gallons of water. I could almost see the drops and waves sizzle and evaporate as soon as they hit the ground. Soon after, people would start lining the streets in anticipation.

And then I would hear it. It would be faint at first, like the sound of a weak man persistently scratching his way out of his tomb. chick-chick-chick-chick. Then it would grow progressively louder. chick-chICK-CHICK-CHICK. It was the rhythmic sound of bamboo sticks hitting against each other and on something solid and organic. The first man that would cross my line of vision would usually be a guy carrying (half-dragging) a wooden cross. His white shirt would be wrapped around his head with two peeping holes cut in it. Equally masked men taking turns hitting his bare arms, shoulders, and back with a black whip would flank him on both sides. People with buckets would break from the crowd and douse the penitent with water. Orderly rows of masked men would follow, flagellating their bare torsos with a makeshift contraption of ropes and bamboo slats. This macabre parade would go on; the rows of bleeding men broken by a solitary figure carrying a cross, for what seemed like an eternity. The metallic and acrid odor of blood would hang in the humid air even after they’re gone. The sight of another fire truck would bring relief to all; they were finally there to erase the remnants of what had happened.

That event would usually be followed by brunch. After witnessing the gore, I would always feel glad that meat was off the menu that day. "Visita Iglesia" was the next thing on the itinerary. Most families would only visit 7 churches to do the Stations of the Cross, but since we were "hard-core" Catholics, mine would go to 14. I dreaded touching or praying in front of the life-size statues of the Savior frozen in various stages of torment. He was scarier than any monster I could imagine and I was constantly reminded that he had to go through all that pain to save us, to save me. We usually had to finish before 3PM, the hour of death of the Lord. From what I remember, they would close the churches after that.

Three PM was a terrifying time. God was dead and we were left to fend for ourselves till Easter morn, my mother informed me, so I should behave and stay away from evil. It was a dangerous thing to say to an imaginative child, I believe. I pictured all sorts of evil lurking behind closed doors and festering in the dark shadows. I was perennially scared of being possessed by the devil himself or one of his minions. I couldn’t even pray for protection because Jesus was gone. I felt utterly alone, helpless, and abandoned. And this feeling would extend until Black Saturday.

My fertile imagination coupled with my stubbornness and resistance to all the mandatory rituals made this yearly event worse for me, I guess. I could have just complied or pretended to be "good" for a couple of days… But NO. I had to question everything and show my repulsion for the lavish and unnecessary display of piety. I couldn’t stand another minute of watching people bleed—may it be in films, a statue, or a real man publicly seeking atonement for his sins. I couldn’t understand how I, a child, could have possibly contributed to this Man’s agony and death. I was never, nor am I now, against the Catholic Church or its beliefs. Then, I was honestly perplexed and couldn’t comprehend the immensity of the situation, now, I just get annoyed when I’m coerced to believe in it. Scare (and guilt) tactics should never be used on a child… or an adult, for that matter. It only leads to suspicion and resentment.

My Holy Weeks are now more secular and less dramatic. I still get the heebie-jeebies, though, on Good Fridays and Black Saturdays no matter where I am. And I must admit, I sometimes miss the comfort of having a ritual to follow. Looking back, it may have been a traumatic time for me to go through all of these things every single year, but the experience made me part of a community actively seeking a connection to a higher being. That ain’t bad, right? I guess not… but that thought doesn’t stop me from still hating Holy Week! :)

PS. By the way, I took this photo several years ago during a Holy Week holiday in Seville. I found their sterilized version of the Penitent quite amusing.

Peeved

2006-03-30T17:09:00.000+08:00

I am still pissed. A couple of days ago I was picked on, bullied, scrubbed to the bone, dragged across the floor, ego flattened, and kicked in the butt like I’ve never been before. I’ve been through a lot in my life, but I never felt so small and humiliated and angry as I was at that moment. Looking back, it really turned out well in the end and the whole display was for my benefit, but it hurt like hell and I do not want to be ambushed that way ever again.

I am still angry. I don’t think I can snap out of this soon. I am so peeved I want to get up and take the world by its collar and shake it till all the silly, snooty, pompous pricks fall out. I know it was for my own good, but I hate getting hurt. I can’t promise that I will not resort to witchcraft someday to remedy this pain, but I will shut up about it after I click on the publish button on this entry and move on with my life. I know my truth and that is enough. The effing bastards can just choke on the dust I leave behind as I (trail)blaze my way to the future.

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"Well behaved women never make history."
-- Maria Shriver

Illustration Friday: Monster

2006-03-27T19:16:00.000+08:00

Control Freak

Ink on paper

27 March 2006

When I think of monsters I think of the dark things lurking inside us.

This is part of a series of drawings/studies I've been making for my sculpture/installation (tentatively) called "ROOTS." I still can't decide what to do with them!

Illustration Friday: Feet

2006-03-21T14:34:00.000+08:00

Not a Hobbit

18 March 2006

Ballpoint pen on paper

This was inspired by René Magritte's 'La Modèle Rouge' and 'The Treason of Images.' And, of course, Frodo. :) I am a big LOTR fan!

Swimming lessons

2006-03-18T01:07:00.000+08:00

Drown
Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

I can’t swim. That’s probably one of the deepest, darkest, silliest things I am most ashamed to admit about myself. Well, that and the fact that I don’t know how to drive. Yeah, I know, with my luck, if I ever get behind the wheel, I would probably run over some poor unsuspecting bastard jail-walking on EDSA (The traffic is always bad there so nobody ever gets hit), fall off the Guadalupe bridge, and drown in the murky, poisonous water of the Pasig river. Not exactly the most glamorous way to exit this world, okay, but let’s leave that for another post. Right now (FO-CUS, FO-CUS), this is all about my goat-like aversion to water and my determination to frolic freely one day at the beach.

I never did learn how to swim. Believe me, I’ve tried countless of times to overcome my lack of buoyancy in the pool. I even have a copy of my High School transcript showing that I passed swimming class in my junior year. HAH! Goes to show you can’t really trust certificates and ‘official’ documents to prove anything. God knows how I managed to wrangle a C. The teacher probably knew how hopeless I was, took pity on me, and turned a blind eye when I took the final exam. I remember I used to grab the sides of the pool (do you call them gutters?) and with one hand would hop my way to the other end. Come to think of it, she probably gave me high marks for my creativity, gumption, and sheer cheekiness. Or maybe she didn’t want to see me for another semester.

It’s not the act of swimming that repulses me really; It’s the act of submerging myself in water I’m not comfortable with. I get panicky and shrill when the water reaches my shin. I blame all of this on my irrational fear of suffocating and that unfortunate incident when I was 5 or 6 when my nanny left me floating on a life preserver. I drifted alone, mildly fascinated by the contrast of temperatures between my butt (which was in the water) and my steadily toasting knees, for what seemed like an eternity. I don’t know why, but I didn’t make a sound nor called out for help. With steely countenance I calmly observed my one-inch tall sister build sandcastles along the edge of the beach.

Although nothing dramatic really happened to me that day—my nanny found me after some time and I got to eat chicken adobo with rice for merienda—I began hating dipping my toes in large bodies of water soon after. That explains why I never became a let’s-scuba-dive-and-commune-with-the-fish-this-weekend kind of girl. I must admit, though, that I like being near the sea. I love looking at it from the top of a cliff and hear the waves crashing violently on the rocks below. I always say that I would like to grow old in a house rooted by the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. I’d take that over white-washed beach houses anytime.

I get better and bolder throughout the years, though, at tackling my irrational fear of swimming. Thanks to the potent mix of beer, red wine, and other—ehem—mind-distracting, courage enforcing substances, I was able to dive into the Mediterranean sea during my late-night despedida at the beach last year. Dive in meaning I waded into the water hand-in-hand with a friend, stopped when the water level reached my waist, then dipped my head in to complete my wild beach-babe look. Since I couldn’t follow my friends swimming freely in the water, I sat down and let the waves lap at my shoulders. Unfortunately, my friends and I weren’t the only energetic ones that night—the waves excitedly smashed again and again, one after the other, against the sand, repeatedly dragging this squealing little piglet from the edge to the middle of the sea and back again. So much for poise and glamour.

I think I am prepared to give swimming another go this summer. I don’t see myself volunteering to become a lifeguard or passing each free weekend schmoozing with the pretty fishies, but I think swimming would be a good skill to learn. When you come down to it it’s really not about doing fancy butterfly strokes and clean, precise flips. It’s about learning how to breathe and let go, to know when to sprint and when to keep still, of staying afloat no matter what, and knowing when to stop moving, get out of the water, and call it a day. Who knows? These things might even help me on dry land.

Illustration Friday: Tattoo

2006-03-15T16:30:00.000+08:00

I made two drawings this week...

Bang, Bang

14 March 2006

Ink on paper

Do you guys remember Tattoo from Fantasy Island? It doesn't exactly look like him, I know, but I tried! It's a bit redundant--a tattooed tattoo! :)

Here's the second one:

PSSSSST!
14 March 2006
Ballpoin pen on paper

I did this one while watching TV. Don't know why I did it. Sorry Mickey! :)

Book Monster

2006-03-13T18:41:00.000+08:00

I started cataloguing my books last night. It’s number 53 in my list of 101 things to do in 1001 days. I got the idea from Triplux, the website/blog of Photographer Michael Green. I still haven’t had the chance (courage, actually!) to post my to-do list in my blog (task #48), but I will probably put up a partial one soon or an update of what I’ve already done. Having it published on the world wide web is such a scary thought for me—it means that I have to make a real commitment to do everything I said I would do. I know, that’s the point of the whole exercise, but UUUFFFFFFF! Afraid. I’m also superstitious so I am wary of jinxing myself and my future. I just try to think of this as an affirmations list of things to come. It’s a very useful tool, though, for a procrastinator like me. I’m not into long-term planning either, so every little thing helps.

I’ve had my list for some time now, but I never got around to number 53 till last night. I went on a book-hunting frenzy after watching Pride and Prejudice. Twice. In a row. I absolutely adore Matthew MacFadyen’s Mr. Darcy! I wanted to prolong the lovely-touchy-lighter-than-air-kilig feeling I got from the movie by reading the novel. I knew I read it a looooong, loooooooong time ago, but I wasn’t sure if I had a copy at home or not. It turns out that I don’t. Sigh. So in my desperation to keep my spirits up, I looked for a similar type of book (i.e. something light, sweet, romantic) and, unfortunately, couldn’t find one. NADA. What I did see and what I realized was that I have a vast collection of novels that were written by white, middle-aged, angst-filled men who are (almost all) dead. Hmmm… Interesting.

I was getting overwhelmed by the sheer volume of my collection. I forgot my initial assignment to find a "happy" book and wanted to read every title I saw. Julian Barnes’s Staring at the Sun… I don’t remember reading this. I had forgotten that I had Dostoevsky’s Demons! I want to read Witches by Roald Dahl again. Oooooh… and I have a copy of his Tales of the Unexpected. I love, love, love them all! God, it would be hard to just pick one to read again.

TING!!! Amidst the flurry of dust and excitement I created by rummaging through my library, I challenged myself to name 10 of my all time favorite books. VERY difficult thing to do, right? Quite cruel, actually, considering I have so many to choose from. Which ones can I read over and over again? Which ones would I take with me when I move again? I certainly love most of the books I have, but if I can narrow down my list, which ones would make it? Which ones touched me the most?

I didn’t give myself much time to think and just brainstormed for a couple of minutes. I decided not to include the Lord of the Rings trilogy in the list because, well, it’s a given already. I also wanted to keep it to one book per author, otherwise, the top five places would all be occupied by just one person. The following came off the top of my head:

1) The Stranger-Albert Camus
2) Kitchen/N.P.-Banana Yoshimoto
3) Franny and Zooey-JD Salinger
4) Letters to a Young Poet/The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge-Ranier Maria Rilke
5) Something Wicked this Way Comes-Ray Bradbury
6) Dracula-Bram Stoker
7) Darkness Visible-William Styron
8) The Garden of Abdul Gasazi-Chris Van Allsburg
9) The Talisman-Stephen King and Peter Straub
10) The Fairy Tales of Herman Hesse/Steppenwolf-Herman Hesse

The Stranger (Outsider) could be my number one choice of all time. I’ve read it more than 10 times already and I never get tired of it. I can still feel the scorching heat emanating from the book every time I read it. It’s easy enough to digest, but its simplicity belies the complexity and tension hidden underneath. I love reading it while listening to the Cure’s Killing an Arab. Camus wrote this after years of campaigning for Africans/Muslims who had been maltreated, were misunderstood, and wrongly accused of crimes. This was almost 50 years ago and, still, we face the same issues.

Most of the books I picked were "quiet" ones—not much is happening on the surface but they silently make your soul churn on the inside. They like passing though the backdoor unnoticed before whacking you over the head.

I have to write down the honorable mentions, the ones who almost made it to the list:
Romantic Movement/How Proust can Change your Life-Alain de Botton
A thousand cranes-Yasunari Kawabata
Veronika Decides to Die-Paulo Coellho (It would have been on the top 10 but my feelings about it change every time I read it. It depends on my mood, I guess)
In Search of Stones-M. Scott Peck
An Artist of the Floating World-Kazuo Ishiguro
Notes from the Underground-Fyodor Dostoevsky!
Zilpha Keatley Snyder’s The Egypt Game, Headless Cupid, The Witches of Worm, Libby on Wednesday, etc, etc.
Madeleine L’Engle’s grown-up and kiddie/fantasy books
Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series (the first 3)
The Sorrows of Young Werther-Goethe
A Prayer for Owen Meany-John Irving
Dawn-Elie Wiesl
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man-James Joyce (I brought my copy of Finnegan’s Wake to Spain and lost it!)
Gordon Korman’s Bruno and Boots series
The Lust for Life-Irving Stone

Books I’ve read recently that I liked:
Time’s Arrow-Martin Amis
Angela’s Ashes-Frank McCourt
The Life of Pi-Yann Martel
Lovely Bones-Alice Sebold
A Woman Speaks-Anais Nin
Atonement by Ian McEwan. I’ve yet to read Amsterdam.

I like reading non-fiction as well—
Man and his Symbols by Carl Jung
The Hero with a thousand faces-Joseph Campbell
Howard Gardner (Creating Minds, Framing Minds, etc)
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (Flow, Creativity)

*Special Note on NEIL GAIMAN: He is still one of my all time favorite writers. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE HIM. I didn’t include any of his books in my list though because as much as I like his novels, nothing beats his illustrated stories and comic books. He has a separate category of his own.

I realized the following things by looking through my collection:
Like a lot of people, I have a copy of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, but I never read it.
I don’t like Hemingway.
I like Beowulf and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (Tolkien!)
I thought I liked Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’s Diary but when I read it again recently I actually couldn’t finish it because my blood pressure went out of control. What was I thinking?!?!
I LOVE Short stories. I have a lot of anthologies and collections of horror ones.
I’ve never read mills and boone’s (spelling?) but I loved reading sweet dreams
I have 3 copies of JK Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (hardbound/US, paperback/UK, Spanish)
I frequently peruse through Bulfinch’s The Age of Fable
I have a Klingon-English Dictionary and 2 Star Trek Encyclopedias
I have 3 For Dummies books: Vegetarian Cooking, Astrology, and Art History (which I can’t find!)
My favorite and most used cookbook is Filipino Cooking Here and Abroad.
I love Shel Silverstein but, amazingly, I don’t have a copy of any of his books
I can’t find my copy of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild things Are
I’m not much of a fan of Latin American Literature—I love Rayuela (Hopscotch) by Julio Cortázar though. A Hundred Years of Solitude was just that—a hundred years of solitude.
I’ve never read Cervantes’s Don Quiojote (I read the comic book or Cliff Notes for school). I would like to read it in Spanish someday.
I’ve read Noli Me Tangere in Spanish. I am still looking for a copy of El Filibusterismo.
I only have one management/business book in my collection—Make it So: Leadership Lessons from Star Trek the Next Generation by Wess Roberts, PhD and Bill Ross. You have to trick me into reading one of those.

WHEW.

As you can see, #53 is turning out to be a real chore. Distractions, distractions. Such an enormous task of making an organized list for someone with an attention span of a five year old. GARGH. And if I wasn’t so OC (obsessive-compulsive) about it, I would probably finish in no time. Thank God for Excel though.

The spider weaves again

2006-03-10T01:30:00.000+08:00

Porcelain
Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

The spider wove her magic web
the friendship was sealed as well.
The foundation was weak, so what?
Did anyone really care?
Around and around with her silken thread,
she created a beautiful design.
We made a promise, together forever
but our hearts were never entwined

Together we were great, we had fun
but the echo of our time was a hollow laughter.
We forged a bond of thin silk strands,
did we really think it would last forever?
A strong wind blew, the thin strands broke,
the spider left to weave again.
But nothing was left of the friendship we knew
except for the memories of what was then

Grounded

2006-03-08T03:23:00.000+08:00

Dead bird in Toledo
Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

A friend accused me once of having a bizarre interest in dead birds. He pointed that out to me while we were in Toledo, standing in the immense shadow of the cathedral. He found it outrageous that while all the tourists were busy posing outside its façade or, like him, admiring the architecture, I was down on my knees with my camera snapping away at the battered remains of a pigeon. The site was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful places I’d ever visited and clearly merited a piece of my film, but I knew it was not in danger of being picked up any minute by the garbage collectors. I had my priorities straight.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t deny to him (or to anyone else) that I had a “thing” for these unfortunate critters; it wasn’t the first time that I had been caught indulging in this morbid act. People who have seen my photo albums have also taken note of this. Mind you, it’s not an obsession or anything pathological. At least I hope not. I don’t go around searching for carcasses in gutters or ambush unsuspecting sparrows so I could have a nifty snapshot. I just get an impulse to click away when I see one lying on the sidewalk.

My compulsion to record the avian dead started about two years ago while I was walking home from school. The streets were always peppered with bodies in various stages of decomposition, and I remember that I used to cringe with disgust every time I would spy one. Then suddenly, one day, I realized that I didn’t bother to cross to the other side of the street anymore to avoid a bird. I even found myself slowing down to quietly inspect the remains. I wanted to see the broken places, the details of the withered feathers, and the fascinating structure of the wings. The place itself—whether the muddied pavement, the pile of rubbish, or the lamppost nearby—interested me. They were the unstirred witnesses to an event. I can’t pinpoint exactly what happened inside me, maybe it was the daily dose of seeing those bloodied bodies, but I unexpectedly became immune to (or hyper aware of?) death.

It’s a cheap excuse to say that I like taking pictures of dead birds because I like death per se. I don't do it for the sake of being morose. Or because I like blood and gore. Or violence, even. I’d like to think that I am capable of avoiding being, you know, literal. I am not trying to frame death with my lens. And although enthralling, this is more than aesthetics.

It is really more about me trying to catch my moment with the place (ehem... Kodak, anyone?). What strikes me the most is the solitude that marks the space and the loneliness of the body. There’s a certain sadness that hovers over the street whether it’s busy or not. And it dawned on me that it is not just the figure splayed across the concrete road that is alone, it is also the one who looks at it. Whenever I see a carcass it makes me feel as if I’m privy to some big, dark secret. It’s like knowing something most people are not even aware of (though it’s lying right there beside their feet) and of sharing the experience or being connected with something outside of yourself.

Ironically, though, it is precisely this connection that severs you from everything else—Death isolates you from the living even if you are just a passing witness. Even for just a second, it rips you from your reality and makes you think of finality, fragility, honesty, and truth, and of being grounded in every sense of the word.

Illustration Friday: Insect

2006-03-07T16:54:00.000+08:00

Insect, 5 March 2006

Ballpoint pen and pencil on paper

I'm posting this for Illustration Friday. I'm so happy I finally did it! My first! :) It's good practice... makes me draw even if I don't feel like it. You guys should try it!

Never Walk in Anyone’s Shadow

2006-03-06T16:20:00.000+08:00

Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

I made this last year, a study/sculpture about SHADOW.

I think it's sad that a lot of people relinquish ownership of their lives to others or to objects and situations and circumstances so quickly that they forget they have the power to change things and can actually take control of what happens to them. It’s so easy to give excuses not to move our butts and push for the things we want or point fingers when things don’t go our way—“It was his fault,” “I had no choice,” “I was so overwhelmed by it,” “He made me feel so insignificant so I stopped talking,” or “I’m afraid of what I’d do if I don’t get this job.” We constantly forget that we are responsible for our lives and that we can control how we react to things and not the other way around. It’s rather unfortunate that most just won’t bother to stand up and take what’s theirs. In the end they become a mere impression of who they are and what they should be.

Four Weeks

2006-03-04T15:11:00.000+08:00

One month. Have I really been away from cyberspace that long? I had almost forgotten that I had a blog. Like I said before, real life gets in the way of blogging. I’ve been disturbing the universe in other ways! I guess it’s good that I stayed away for a long time because it shows that I can survive without my computer, but I can’t help but feel like I missed out on other things.

Four weeks is a lot of time. I’ve done a lot of things, I’ve challenged myself in different ways, and now I am back, taking a break, coming up for air. I’ve received a lot of emails from friends who were wondering where I’d been. I was online practically everyday and would reply to emails as if they were instant messages. Then nada. Some are used to this Steph though—I go on cycles and tend to hibernate once in a while. Some think I’m flake, others anti-social, but great friends know I’m just being myself. So what if I am a flake or anti-social. HAHAHAHA.

It’s weird to be blogging again. I miss the net, though. I missed reading other blogs (especially Neil Gaiman’s!). I’ve been submerged in the world of shapes and colors for a long time so I am really having a hard time flipping the switch and think in words again. This business of words is rather difficult.

Thirty-one days of not writing… I’m not totally out of the loop though even if I haven’t surfed in a while. I still read the papers and watch CNN and the BBC (I get hypnotized by the crawl sometimes). The internet is different, though. It’s more immediate than the other sources. Plus you get to read the points of view of normal people like me. Kinda reminds you that we are all the same and that we all have opinions, however diverse and contradicting they are. It’s a comforting thought. And I’ve been wanting to pick on some stuff, too, like the whole Danish drawings brouhaha, the growing racism in Football, and the whole EDSA/coup attempt/declaration and lifting of PP 1017, but again, words, words, words. Too much for my right-sided brain to handle right now. Maybe tomorrow or in another month. :)

Coup d'état

2006-02-02T03:16:00.000+08:00

My apologies to my non-Spanish speaking friends... I saw this in my head in Spanish. I don't even want to attempt to translate it! :)

Intentona golpista

el agua ulula en el ingenuo vacio

la piedra lanza

imbebible con el sofocante temor

con calma al progenitor perfecto
supetitada al crudo impulso de la mano

agitandose dentro del vestido del pétalo
desconectandose del jardin infinito

huyendo los gritos
bostezos

la Reina se despierta

quieta

fría

un dulce regalo de la próxima primavera

Kung Hei Fat Choi!

2006-01-30T00:03:00.000+08:00

Kung Hei Fat Choi!

Feng Shui experts say that 2006, the Year of the Fire/Red Dog, is a time for great changes. Let's all take advantage of this auspicious period and dare to sail uncharted waters! Do things you've never done before. Listen and let unfamiliar possibilities surface. Remember, you can't invite new things into your life without letting go of old ones. May we all have the courage to take that first step toward our adventure.

Full speed ahead. HAPPY NEW YEAR! (from me and my friend Burgoo, that cute, tiny mutt in the pic)

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"I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark in the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the Stern Fact, the Sad Self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from."

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Broken Flowers

2006-01-27T16:31:00.000+08:00

I would like to see "Broken Flowers" by Jim Jarmusch. I’ve only seen two of his films so far, but I’m becoming a big fan of his work. I saw "Coffee and Cigarettes" last year. Most of my friends begged me to watch it because, well, I WAS coffee and cigarettes. Thank God I gave in. It was amusing to see Iggy Pop and Tom Waits together. And Cate Blanchet. And Steve Buscemi (Mr. Pink!).

(BTW, I've got a couple of strange Steve Buscemi anecdotes—One of my good friends LOVES Steve. I mean really, really IN LOVE with him. I’ve been told that she gasped with excitement when she saw the trailer of "The Island" when it first came out, and it wasn’t because of Sean Bean or Ewan McGregor. And then, I have another good friend, a woman, who once dated a guy who said that she looked like Buscemi in Con Air. Wasn’t he a child molester in that one? He couldn’t remember his name at first so we thought he was referring to John Malkovich. Hmmm... both male (and convicts in that movie, I might add) but at least they are great actors. She didn’t stick around long enough to find out if he was a fan or not. Love may be blind but I think it’s better not to find out that you can be mistaken for a man when you are out on a date. Maybe these two ladies should meet; they will probably have a lot of things to talk about.)

Back to Jim Jarmusch. Yes, I ended up loving "Coffee and Cigarettes." It was dark and surreal and different. Nothing really happened (no CGIs nor million dollar sets), but I felt, for a couple of hours, as if I was there hanging out with the stars. Actually, more like getting high on coffee and cigarettes with my weird, manic friends. That could have been us discussing the pros and cons of looking like Steve Buscemi. Bill Murray was also there. Which makes me want to see "Broken Flowers." It got luke-warm reviews from the critics, but I’m still curious to see it. I heard it’s already out on DVD. I’ll hunt for a copy along with other Jarmusch films.

A little batty

2006-01-23T16:05:00.000+08:00

The heat is driving me crazy. It's boiling me from the inside out; I can feel my body turn to mush. I miss the rain and windy, dark days. I really don't see the attraction in living in a tropical country. I really don't. Frizzy hair, heavy air, warm, blistering sun. Can you hear me breathe through that despotic glare?

Did you know that bats can eat their full body weight in insects? Imagine doing that, stuffing yourself with 100++ pounds of chocolate. Yu-um. They navigate in the dark using high-frequency sounds. The only mammals that can fly and they do it with their eyes closed. Such faith. They pollinate plants, flowers, trees, and they devour those nasty, disease-bloated mosquitoes. They're quite clean though despite their horrid diet. Such happy, little helpers and they get bad rap for living in dark, dank caves and squatting in cavernous churches.

I like them though... with the funky ears, fine-edged teeth, leaf nose and all. I just feel bad when I have to use their name in vain when I am a bit loopy. I don't know... maybe being batty isn't such a bad thing.

Caught in Louise's spider web

2006-01-21T21:48:00.000+08:00

I took this photo almost a year ago. That was the first time I saw a Louise Bourgeois up close. I had never even heard of her until I attended art school in 2003. Before then I was only familiar with the "popular" artists—Picasso, Van Gogh, Warhol, Da Vinci, and Pollock—the ones whose works are compiled in a calendar you can buy for $12.99 at the local bookstore or had their biographies turned into award winning Hollywood films. I was a repressed artist and was only interested in painting, which, in my mind, was the only valid form of art. I never gave sculpture much thought. Aren’t monuments for dead heroes and conceited millionaires?

I finally discovered Bourgeois through a professor. She was a self-confessed feminist and raved endlessly about female artists. I should look her up, she suggested, if I wanted to study sculpture seriously. Since I was making a lot of disembodied figures for my works she thought I could learn a trick or two from Ms. Bourgeois. I was up to my elbows in plaster everyday, enjoying my time isolated in the studio, so, naturally, I refused to lift a finger to open a book. I was tired of reading or hearing about other people making art; I wanted to spend every minute I had making mine. "You are walking around with blinders on," my rabid professor egged on. I had to know my roots, my ancestors. There’s a long history and tradition of sculptors and, like it or not, I should study it so I could ground myself better in its world. It’s much like knowing your family history. If you acknowledge it, you could learn from your grandmother’s or uncle’s mistakes or build on what they’ve done. In the end you could take it or leave it, but you have to be aware of it first before you can decide.

Like I said, I really didn’t want to spend my precious time reading art history. I had already wasted so much of it doing other things before deciding to go back to school for a formal training in art. I just wanted to create something. Besides, I didn’t want to subconsciously copy or integrate other people’s vision in my stuff. I’ve seen other people do it and I didn’t want to go down that road. If there was one thing I always believed in, it was that one has to tell their own truth in their own voice. Can people just leave me alone and let me do my thing?

But, alas, my professor won in the end (she would have resorted to black mail if I hadn’t given in) and I grudgingly took out a book about Louise Bourgeois and started to read. I was totally blown away! I initially flipped through the pages and just scanned the photos. Wow, her works were fierce. As we say in Tagalog, "Ang taray!" They made my stomach churn in discomfort and drained the blood from my legs. Sculpture and installations are really powerful in the hands of a genius.

I wanted to get to know this woman and began reading her biography. I was surprised to find out that she was still alive and was ancient. I mean really ancient. She was born in Paris in 1911. She went to Sorbonne to study Mathematics (say what?!?), got married when she was in her 20’s, then moved to the States with her American husband. There were several pictures of her in the book and in each one she had a mischievous glint in her eyes and a beguiling demeanor about her. I couldn’t help but admire and envy her at the same time. Almost a century old, had survived two world wars, but this woman had more spunk than a normal 12-year-old and looked more alive than I ever did. I was a third of her age and I felt more over the hill and washed out than her. Something was definitely not right. She must know something I don’t.

I read on and from what I’d gathered, she was not the type to produce works day in and day out. Yes, she would constantly draw and create something, but she didn’t have an exhibit one after the other. She would go on hiatus after a period of producing and exhibiting a series and would stay away from the public eye for a long time. That probably accounts for her longevity in the business. Her works have been described as sensual and erotic. She seemed to channel her unresolved conflicts and ambiguous memories from childhood into her work. Her family (her father really) owned a tapestry restoration business. She saw her mother as the protective parent and her father the authoritarian figure. At some point, he took on a lover, of all people, the family's tutor. Bastard.

Her story reads like a script from a Venezuelan telenovela, which makes her works even more fascinating. Yes, I am guilty of feasting on someone else’s dirty laundry. I do get curious of other people’s lives especially when they are successful artists who can produce such an impressive portfolio. I put on my glasses, relax into a leather armchair, and go into my Jung-wannabee mode. I have probably jumped into many conclusions by reading too much into the forms and colors that she has used—and I apologize for all of them—but I still can’t help relating much of what she does to her personal life. Not that I really know her… I only get stuff from what I see in the books or what I’ve Googled. God knows how accurate they are, right?

But still. She herself has mentioned the connection of her works to her relationship with her family, especially with her father. Come on, she made an installation called "Destruction of the Father." As for her giant spiders series, she has been quoted to have said that unlike her father's business of mending tapestries, a spider weaves its own web. The gigantic spider represents labor, of giving, protection and foresight. We could see it as something that nurtures, but there is always the possibility that we could get tangled in its web as if we were prey. Hello, visions of Shelob and Frodo.

Alright, alright, I personally don’t like it when people psychoanalyze me when they see my work. You can tell your story through your sculptures or novels, but it doesn’t mean they are direct translations of it. It’s never as simple as that. I guess what I am trying to say here is that I enjoy reading about Bourgeois’s life as much as I take pleasure in looking at her works not because I am a snoop, but because I would like to comprehend the way her mind works, what her creative process is, and figure out where she gets her ideas. I guess I want to know because I am still deciphering the source of mine.

Sigh. So my profesora was right—you could learn a lot from studying other artists’ stories and familiarizing yourself with their works. You just have to know that that is their way of telling it and that you have your own way of expressing yourself. You can also say that there is always room for the viewer to make their own interpretations of the artist’s work… but then, good artworks should be clear, right? I’ll leave that thought for another day.

I still have a lot to learn and I still can’t name-drop to save my life. I can never remember the names of the artworks, when they were made, in which movement the artist was part of, the –isms, and what-have-yous. And I definitely can’t imagine myself getting into long conversations and debates about the contribution of Duchamp’s "Fountain" to the post-post-POST modern contemporary multi-culturalism third millennium art. En fin. I still have a long way to go, baby, but I am learning.

GARGH. ACK. UGH. UFF. BLECH.

2006-01-11T13:41:00.000+08:00

I spoke too soon. Talk about jumping the gun, counting your eggs before they hatch, and all the other clichés you can think of. Just when I thought I was virus-free, I wake up, excited to see another day, try to hum "it’s a lovely eleven morning" from Sesame Street, and is greeted by a gravelly voice reverberating from my throat. Oh shit. It’s as if a grouchy old toad just lodged itself in there overnight.

Snort. I deflate as I exhale loudly through my nostrils and peer through the slits of my puffy, sleep-laden eyes. I feel like King Kong. Why can’t those damn planes just leave me alone!?! I’ve tried swatting my effing cold with the Dynamic Duo called Dayquil & Nyquil, and just when I thought it was safe to come out and slip and slide on the ice, I get clobbered again and shot in the back.

Snort.

I must admit that I really feel disappointed right now. I’ve spent the first two weeks of the new year trying to get rid of all this phlegm. Ugh. Not pretty, not pretty. And to think I had a lot of things lined-up for this month! I had a list. I wanted to be good and get organized and start the year on the right foot. Things to do. Things to scratch off the list. But then the sniffles came, then the steady pain in my head that dulled my eyes, then the cotton ball for ears, and now the scary raspy voice and the hacking cough.

Snort.

A friend pointed out to me the other day that maybe I should just lie down and let the virus do its thing. It’s bound to leave if I stop squiggling about. She added that maybe the real reason why they haven’t found the cure for the common cold is because it’s not supposed to be cured. Maybe we were supposed to get this thing to slow us down and keep us thinking about things. Maybe it’s a good time to really reflect on my plans for the year.

Hmmm… Snort.

Alright, alright. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m getting carried away again by all the possibilities of the new year. Too many things to do + too much expectations + too little time = another pressure-filled, crash and burn year.

‘RAF! WOOF! RUFF! EHEH!’, said Steph. Excuse me while I ponder on that and cough my lungs out.

Hallelujah

2006-01-06T01:21:00.000+08:00

My ear just popped! Yes, only one ear, but at least now I can hear better. My throat is still raw and itchy but I think my head is slowly being vacated by the cold virus and/or my allergies. I feel less like a phlegm factory as well. At last I can get off the Tylenol! I still have that nagging headache though... but it's always been there anyway. Heh. I’m already starting to feel lucid. And my appetite is coming back along with my fully-functioning taste buds. HAHA! Now where did I put that Meiji dark chocolate bar…? Sigh. The little joys in life.

Holiday Excess

2006-01-03T00:15:00.000+08:00

People tend to go overboard during the holidays and, unfortunately, I am not immune to this deadly habit. Stressful as it is, I find myself testing (yet again!) the limits of my body—from downing 10 different types of liquors in one night, eating fatty food till I get dizzy, to staying up till 9AM after coming home from a party because I forget I have a deadline to meet. So here I am, during the first week of the new year, with my sinuses clogged, nursing a headache, and running a slight fever. Nothing is impossible, but it is true that you can’t (or it’s really hard to) teach an old dog new tricks.

Balance was never really my thing. I’ve always been driven to excess. I like contrasts. I’ve been known to hibernate after a period of constant socializing. I’m am a workaholic, but I also like to sleep and do nothing when I do not have a project. I used to practice yoga daily for an hour and a half for fourteen solid months, then did nothing the following year. Psychologists and behaviorists can offer their theories about this comportment but I personally like blaming it on the stars. I am a Leo, with an ascendant in Aquarius, and moon in Sagittarius. These aspects mixed together make up an interesting and volatile brew.

Allow me to explain: Your sun sign determines your method of self-expression and basic approach to life. Your ascendant (or rising sign) describes the surface of your personality and the impression you give people. Your moon dictates the way you react to people and events. Leos are spirited and strong willed. They live for drama. They are also social creatures, seen as warm and friendly. Aquarians, ruled by the opposing sign of Leo, are cool and detached. Although they are also determined and quite stubborn when it comes to their ideas, they go about their business in solitude (unlike Leos). Think of the snooty intellectuals hiding away in their ivory towers. They are often unconventional, independent, rebellious, and eccentric. Sagittarians are divided—one part longs to party into the night and the other wants to expand his mind and explore his spirituality. They are free-spirits, philosophers, and wanderers. Leo and Sagittarius are fire signs, while Aquarius is air.

Like I said, a combination of these three creates a curious and mercurial personality. Schizophrenia, anyone?

Okay, okay, I am not washing my hands altogether here and pointing the entire blame on my astrological chart. I know enough to see that real life cannot be filed and boxed neatly. And that no one else is responsible for your life but you. I am the way I am because of an unlimited combination and permutations of events, experiences, people, emotions, and chemicals (ingested and naturally produced). I do, however, get a kick out of reading my chart, confirming and seeing the source of my freakishness on paper. It’s like going to the doctor for a check-up when you already know you just have a headache from eating an entire two pound turtle cake in one sitting and not have a brain tumor. The prescription for Advil in your hand quiets you because sometimes it’s easier to accept things for the way they are when it is handed to you in a concise and precise note. It’s silly but astrology calms my stomach and keeps the lid on the lunatic, nervous, paranoid, homicidal maniac running around the basement in my brain.

I write this under the influence of Maximum Strength Tylenol Sinus (Night). My heart is palpitating like Sara Baras’s feet during a flamenco performance and I think (no, I swear) that I don’t want a repetition of last month’s frenzy in the coming months. So, in honor of the new year (and in accordance with the spirit of resolution-making prevalent this time of year), I am officially adding "cultivating balance and becoming a master of maintaining my equilibrium" to my list of goals for 2006. Very ambitious, I know, but what do you expect from a Leo-Aquarian-Sagittarian?

HO-HO-HO

2006-01-02T22:43:00.000+08:00

I never got around to making my own Christmas cards this year. Around mid-October I usually leave post-it notes around the house reminding me that Christmas is around the corner so I should start making studies for my cards. It would infinitely be more interesting to create one than getting a pack from the store. I don't know about you, but I find it extremely difficult to find one that says what is really on my mind. Blank cards are okay, but I still worry about finding the right photo or illustration, color, paper, etc, etc.

Anyway, Christmas 2005 has come and gone and I didn't even get a chance to lift my pen for this task. Tsk, tsk, tsk. And worse, I did not send out a card at all. Thank god for text messaging and email. Typical Steph… it's always all or nothing. Picky, picky, picky. Maybe this year.

I want to make up for my lack of enthusiasm for spreading holiday cheer by posting an excerpt from Neil Gaiman's collection of short stories, "Smoke and Mirrors." I wish I had written this myself!!! He wrote this bit years ago for his Christmas card. It was calligraphed by Dave McKean. Sigh. I need to add this for my list of goals for 2006.

Nicholas was…

Older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die.

The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue, conducted incomprehensible rituals, when they were not actually working in the factories.

Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting, into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child in the world, leave one of the dwarves' invisible gifts by its bedside. The children slept, frozen in time.

He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.

-----------------------------

PS. I found the photo online. It’s not from Neil Gaiman or Dave McKean.

Poetry with rowan leaves

2005-12-21T18:57:00.000+08:00

Rowan leaves with hole by Andy Goldsworthy

I learn a lot just by looking at pictures of Andy Goldsworthy's sculptures. I'm not just talking about the technical side of making 3D art, but also about myself and my attitude as an artist.

The experts categorize his work as ephemeral and land art. He is even sometimes considered as a photographer because none of his original works survive and he only has photographs to exhibit. His sculptures consist of natural materials—from dead leaves, slabs of stones, snow and ice, and thorns—without the benefit of glue or nails to hold them together. Goldsworthy assembles them in their natural habitat and leaves them there, at the mercy of nature, to be withered away by the wind, sun, and rain. As with most ephemeral art, he speaks about the fragility of life and of time. He also draws attention to the place itself where it all 'happens.' Most people, however, overlook his extraordinary sense of play. He does display his sense of humor, his sense of irony, and demonstrates his belief in his creative process. I've seen videos of him working and, boy, that man has patience! One misplaced pebble and his work crumbles, and he shrugs it off and starts all over again. And he doesn't even have to take the finished product home to enjoy it.

Like I said, I learn a lot just by looking at his stuff. I admire his vision, his calm endurance, and tenacity to stay with his work. He's a visual poet. Like most young artists (I am not referring to age here but of experience. I don't like the word 'amateur'), I struggle with the idea that it's okay not to have a masterpiece at the end of a working day. Especially now when most people expect me to snap my fingers and have 10 sculptures to exhibit. It's all about experimenting, of going with it, and, most of all, playing. I succumb to pressure sometimes and get really uptight and just focus on the final outcome. I kill my child even before it is born. I forget to just listen to the work, to gently coax it to come out and not prematurely drag it out spitting, screaming and crying into my outside world. Patience is indeed a virtue. And so is kindness. Particularly when it's with dealing with yourself.

*Note: Not all of Goldsworthy's recent sculptures are short-lived. His 'semi-permanent' works are scattered all over England. That's good to know because that means I still have a chance of seeing one of his works up close.

Don’t Let the Bastards Get You Down

2005-12-19T15:38:00.000+08:00

I’ve had my share of disappointments the past couple of months. Now that we are about to discard another year, I can’t help but think about them. Especially on a windy, moonlit night. There’s just something about standing in moon pools that make me think about things that cannot be broached in broad daylight. The moonbeam sifts through my head like a black light in a club, which intensifies the whiteness of garments and picks up the tiniest spec of lint on a black shirt. Or maybe it’s all that holiday cheer. Sometimes I don’t agree that this is really the season to be jolly.

We all go through crappy times; mine are no worse or unbearable than the next guy’s. They’re just mine that’s why they appear to be more tragic. They vary from really silly things (e.g. not finding the right size of the shirt you’ve been dying to buy) to life changing events (not getting into the program you’ve been preparing for practically your whole adult life). I know, it could be worse. And that has happened to me as well. But the world doesn’t stop and you go on living your life, like in all those lines people toss at us when we feel stuck. Yeah, I get all that, but it doesn’t change the fact that it sucks.

Joseph Campbell said, "Where you stumble, there your treasure lies." Like I said, I get it. Every loss must always be viewed as a potential gain. When hit by a disappointment, I get angry, I throw a tantrum, I get angry some more, I buy myself chocolate (or something cute and shiny), I talk to the dogs (or the white cat who sleeps all day on the wall in the garden), I blow off more steam, and then when I’m lucid enough, I start doing the autopsy. Through the mess and the gore, I usually end up seeing what went wrong. There are times though when I get too close and I can’t make heads or tails of it. When that happens I just cremate the body (write the shit down on paper and burn it) then declare the case closed. You have to move on to the next thing. I think of it this way—it would be harder for the bastards to flatten me if I’m a moving target.

It’s not as easy as it sounds. Especially for me. I have this habit of dragging things out and carrying dead things in my pockets. I love drama. And on dark nights, I entertain the ghosts of the stuff I thought were long buried or burnt. I guess that’s normal. It takes time to grieve. And some things just love to hang out with you even though you don’t want them to. That’s okay, too, as long as they don’t take too much of your space. You can learn from them but don’t let them boss you around.

So before 2006 arrives, I want to pay my respects to the dead so that I can start the new year with a fresh and healthy heart. Get rid of the old that keeps clogging my system and cramping my style, and make space for the new. I should cook up a big and glorious ritual for them. Maybe with a lot of candles, pretty pictures, fresh flowers, and Shakespeare. They always like that sort of thing. I just have to remember to keep my peace and—under no circumstances—not to get blindsided or sweet-talked into letting the bastards take me down.

Wish List for 2006

2005-12-18T21:22:00.000+08:00

Hidetoshi Nakata

I want him for the new year. Well... maybe meet him or see him play in England, Japan, or Germany. :) His name is Hidetoshi Nakata, an attacking Midfielder currently playing for the Bolton Wanderers. He is such a hottie. He's also unknowingly helping me compile a Wish/Goal list for 2006:

1) Go to Germany this summer for the World Cup. I want to see him and the rest of the gorgeous players. And witness great football, of course! I will post my fearless predictions soon.

2) Learn German. I've been wanting to do this anyway for a long time (for a number of reasons other than just to see cute guys and matches) so I think I will sign up for a class soon. I already made the first step and called Goethe Institut last week!

3) Brush up on my Japanese (I don't want the Alex Corretja incident to happen to me again!). It should be easy to remember, though. I can still write in Hiragana and Katakana. Problem is, I don't know what the hell I'm saying! Useless.

4) Go to Japan and live there for a while (doesn't have to happen next year though). Fascinating people. Great Art, both traditional and contemporary. My favorite food (tied with Mexican).

5) Go to England and live there for a while (maybe next year). I miss gloomy weather. I know, don't ask me why. I want to search for stones as well.

Of Rice and (Chow) Mein*

2005-12-07T01:33:00.000+08:00

I went to the supermarket last week to get a box of cereals. I was eyeing the Fruit Loops (haven’t had them in ages) when the sales clerk manning the aisle popped beside me and cheerfully gave me her recommendations. She pointed at a box adorned with big, bold letters (FAT FREE) and said, “Ma’am, this is really good for losing weight.” Whuu..? And before I could react she pointed her snout to another and muttered, “This is sugar free and low in calories but it tastes like real chocolate. It’s also good for losing weight.” I wanted to help her lose a few pounds by whacking off her arm and prevent her from ever giving unsolicited advice, but I took a deep breath instead and cleared my head. I have no energy for this. So I gave her a not so Care Bear stare and walked away with a box of Frosties.

I should be used this, but I am not. I have heard countless strangers and relatives make insidious comments about my looks since I got back here. The sales lady at my favorite Camper store welcomed me with, “Ma’am, tumaba kayo sa Spain no” (Ma’am, you gained weight in Spain, right). Yeah, call me the walking Pata Negra. A well meaning but ever so tactless cousin recently remarked, “Wow, you really gained a lot of weight… and with Christmas just around the corner… What will you do?” Ah, dress up like Santa Claus at the Christmas party? You are definitely not getting a present this year. “I really like your hair… but what happened to your skin?” I get hives from talking to people like you, thank you very much.

It boggles me why people think that this is normal and acceptable social behavior in a civilized culture. Why do they feel the need to size you up then give you your grade in the attractiveness scale for the day? I give you ten points for your hairstyle, but minus 2 for your choice of accessories. Is this suppose to break the ice before you start talking about real things? Why can’t we just stick to the weather?

The thing that annoys me most though is people’s obsession with weight. I am five feet tall (okay… four-eleven and three fourths! About 152 cm) and weigh 105 lbs. (roughly around 47 kilos). I’m no waif but I am well within the limits of what health officials would consider normal. I was born to be round and I like it. Twelve years ago I wore braces and couldn’t eat. My weight dropped to 88-90 lbs. and I ended up looking like a 12 year-old boy. Never again.

People have been encouraging me to try the South Beach diet so I would look trimmer like the stick-thin younglings slinking around the malls. Plus, everyone is on it anyway so why not do it too. Right. Give up rice, noodles, and bread so that I could look and be like everyone else? It might be easier to just enter a Mattel factory and ask to be converted into a generic Barbie doll. What happened to following a well-balanced diet? What happened to having a personality?

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against people going on diets. I’m all for healthy eating and exercising at least three times a week, I just don’t believe in depriving myself of the little joys in life just to be more socially acceptable. Believe me, life is too short to worry if I look cool and svelte enough to be allowed outside the house. I am more concerned about the amount of fat I have socializing with the red cells in my veins than the adjudged offensive flesh clinging to me. I try to stay away from processed food, I eat brown or red rice instead of white when I can, I take brown sugar with my coffee, and get my daily helpings of vegetables and fruits. And loads of water. I will not, however, part with my occasional black Meiji chocolate, silvanas, Reese’s pieces, and cookie dough ice-cream. I will try to be healthy but I don’t want to be on my deathbed (or in a flaming 747) years from now with one thought in my head: I don’t know what a blueberry waffle with maple syrup and peanut butter tastes like anymore. I want to leave this world fulfilled and full.

Oh, and I want to be me when I go. Just the way I am, even if I end up being a social pariah. I got ambushed again at the supermarket yesterday morning. This time I was in a better mood. As soon as the hello-you’re-so-fat-stay-away-from-carbs greeting came out of an acquaintance’s mouth I quickly suggested that he keep his passive-aggressive statements to himself. Of course, I was instantly labeled as overly sensitive and defensive. He was not out to get me, he claimed, he was just pointing out the obvious. So I said goodbye to him by saying, “Your face is still crooked no matter how much you re-arrange your hair.” Hey, I’m just following protocol. I wasn’t out to get him, I was just stating a cold, hard fact.

*My apologies to Steinbeck. Like his characters I feel like an "outsider" (a Filipina with culture amnesia) struggling to understand my own unique place in this insane world.

Working

2005-12-02T17:53:00.000+08:00

At work

I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. Real life gets in the way of blogging. At the end of the day, I still prefer getting clay under my nails than use my QWERTY keyboard.

Hmmm… 1 week, 1 day, 16 hours, 19 minutes and 38 seconds since quitting. I am proud of myself.

Holy priceless collection of 20th century pop culture, Batman! (a.k.a. Me ranting about comic books when I really want my nicotine fix)

2005-11-27T00:18:00.000+08:00

Someone sent me a sneak peek of the new Superman movie the other day. I haven’t opened the file yet. My computer is a remarkable antique, still moving but not fast enough to outrun a speeding bullet, so I doubt if it can keep up with old Supes. I’m not too keen to see it, really. See, I’m not much of a Superman fan. He’s okay enough to watch in the Justice League Unlimited animated series, but I could definitely live without him. Give me the Batman anytime. Who needs heat vision and super strength when you have high IQ, street smarts, gazillion of bucks, unresolved angst, and unbridled rage? You don’t think Bats can win against America’s biggest boy scout, heathen? Look for a copy of Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns. Fifty-something years old and he kicks Superman’s ass. And with style.

I must admit I have a few Superman comic books in my collection. They were going to kill him off so I was duped into buying more than 20 books related to this much-awaited event. How will he die? Will he really die? Who will do the deed? Like any other comic book consuming freak at that time, I had to KNOW and swiftly made reservations for the above-mentioned titles. They even had him flirting with Wonder Woman for a couple of issues before his demise so I got those as well. I was a victim of the greatest marketing scheme ever created for comic books: the Cross-Over series. That’s what they called it when one storyline seeps from one comic book to another (and Sucker is what they called folks like me). I quivered with mixed excitement and trepidation when I saw that splattered across the cover. I will get to see a lot of characters, sure, but that also meant squeezing out more money from my already emaciated wallet. It tested my non-existent budgeting skills.

The X-Men were notorious for it. To get the whole story of these spandex-clad band you had to buy not only the Uncanny X-Men, but the New Mutants and X-Factor as well. With the whole death of Superman storyline, I had to buy Superman, The Adventures of Superman, Superman: The Man of Steel, The Justice League of America, and Action Comics. And what did I get in return? A black arm band for a super hero who got bludgeoned to death by an ugly alien in front of his loving fans (Yon na yon? That’s it?), an overly drawn mourning period, clones and Superman wannabes, and finally, a very anti-climactic re-animation of the big guy. Did they try to pass him off as the new Messiah? They even used the empty tomb story. And then the resurrection. It took longer than 3 days, but he came back just the same (and with long hair to boot!). At least when they killed off the second Robin in 1988 he stayed dead.

Maybe they make better Superman comic books nowadays, but during my time (ehem, yes, my little young ones), all the best writers were weaving tales for the Caped Crusader. I was obviously not the only one around who found him infinitely more interesting and intriguing than the other costumed heroes out there. Alan Moore gave us one of the best Joker stories of all time with The Killing Joke. It was gut-wrenchingly violent and graphic yet painfully sad and poetic. Storytelling at its best. Then there’s Arkham Asylum, penned by Grant Morrison with haunting illustrations by Dave McKean. Nothing campy about that one. And finally the classic Batman story made by Frank Miller. The Dark Knight Returns took us to an alternate future of Bruce Wayne. He was old, retired from crime fighting for 10 years, and was still struggling with his alter-ego. Very bitter and flawed, and yet, still heroic. Miller also wrote the Year One series and showed us a deeper insight into Batman’s early years. He made Commissioner Gordon interesting and not just another cut-out cardboard character.

Okay, although Batman became darker and edgier during that time, they still kept the PG-13 rating by dishing out normal action hero stories (similar to Superman’s, in other words). Even if the Death in the Family series (when Robin II croaks) dealt with a serious theme, it was still palatable to Bats’ younger fans. It was a bold move to kill a major character, but the story was a bit lame. The script was just too comic bookie. And the Joker as the new Iranian Ambassador, the pinky friend of the Ayatollah (who does a cameo)? GARGH, please. It was memorable enough, though, because the readers decided the Boy Wonder’s fate. In an unprecedented move, DC Comics gave them 36 hours to vote (by calling a 900 number. Imagine if they had texting capabilities then!) for his survival or for his demise. They apparently had 2 versions waiting for the final count. Well, it was obvious that most of the fans hated him like I did. It was good to get rid of that brat!!

Hmmm… I can definitely talk a lot when it comes to comic books! Maybe I’m developing a nervous tick. Hehehe. Not to worry, I’ll let you go in a bit. I just want to add more ooompf to my Batman-is-cooler-than-Superman argument: the movies and TV shows. Christopher Reeve was endearing but who could forget the silly but lovable (albeit slightly chubette) Adam West (I had a crush on Burt Ward! Jeeez). Tim Burton directed the first couple of Batman movies… who did Superman 1, 2, and 3? Even the animated series are better. Batman’s nouveau-classical styled cartoon in the 90’s and its present slicker version (hello, theme song by U2’s The Edge) put to shame the animated Superman’s perennially bland for-Saturday-Morning-Only design.

I know, I know… rambling like an idiot again over nothing. Hey, how do you deal with nicotine withdrawal anyway? I’d rather ransack my comic book collection than the pantry or write this silly blog than run off to the nearest store to have a puff. Maybe I’ll have something more relevant and practical to talk about next time. In the meantime, gosh by golly jeepers, Batman, let’s track some evil doers!

BIFF! BAM!! POW!!

The end of an affair

2005-11-24T17:55:00.000+08:00

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m dumping Mr. Marlboro Man for good. I’ve been giving this a lot thought lately, and today looks like the perfect time to do it. It’s Thanksgiving. Not that I celebrate it, but I think it’s a good date to mark the event. I can thank all the Marlboros, Winstons, Amsterdams, Drums, and Golden Virginias that have passed through my life all these years (in their light, dark, medium incarnations… there have been many) and tell them it’s been fun but I want to move on now. I just hope this would be an amicable parting so that they would never come back to nag me again. I should have done this during Halloween—putting things to rest and all, plus, I could have incinerated a giant effigy of a cigarette!—but this is as good a holiday as it gets to kick the habit. I’m doing this cold turkey. Thanksgiving… turkeys. Ha-ha. Funny. This makes it easier for me to remember this day and remind me of what I am doing.

I actually had my last one already. I found a perfect, pristine white Rizzla filter tucked away in one of my purses a couple of days ago. I didn’t use it right away because I thought I should find a special occasion for it. So before the clock struck 12 last night I stepped outside and rolled my final cigarette. A fitting ritual through and through. I sucked it till its very stained filter all the while exhaling with intention. I urged the tendrils of smoke to reach the Waning Moon so that she could hear my prayer. She was the perfect moon to have around. She would fade into the Dark Moon in a week, hopefully bringing with her the remnants of this bad habit.

I can hear Ben Folds 5 in the background, “She’s a brick and I’m drowning slowly. Off the coast and I’m headed nowhere.” A fitting song for my dysfunctional relationship with tobacco. We’ve had good times together, but now he’s become a real drag. And I want out. I know this will be very difficult to do but I need to stop right now. I deserve better. And I really can’t afford to liquefy any of my remaining brain cells.

I still haven’t gone bonkers yet. Well, it has only been around 18 hours. I’m finding it hard to concentrate and I feel a bit abandoned, but I am basically okay. Ask me again in 3 days and it will be a different story. That’s usually when it starts to hit me. Believe me, I’ve done this before. GARGH, breaking up is really hard to do.

Positively Disheveled

2005-11-22T04:11:00.000+08:00

I am still suffering from post-match hangover. I didn’t drink beer to celebrate Barcelona’s victory or anything like that. I just spent every free minute since Sunday morning gorging myself on players’ and coaches’ interviews, photos, and analyses of the game. Funny how one can willingly give in to a useless obsession to the detriment of one’s sanity. I guess that’s why they call it an addiction.

I’ve got a raging headache now from trying to get some sleep. Don’t you just hate it when you just want to unplug your mind and you can’t? No one can accuse me of having a sluggish imagination. I can be thinking of football in one minute and then jump to my grocery list then on to the possibly evil creature lurking outside my bedroom window all in one second. Even when I am asleep my imagination won’t leave me alone. I get nightmares for ordinary dreams. You don’t even want to know what I see when I am having real nightmares. I’m not talking about run-of-the-mill-gosh-I-am-naked-in-front-of-the-class kind of dreams. On an ordinary night I get stabbed in the head with a pencil by a bunch of giggling girly girls (an effing Mongol pencil! WHY?!?). And that’s already benign in my book. In another dream I was in an empty bus with an old man and the Pope. Quiet, but the Pope was John Paul II. I knew he was dead. I tried to get off the bus but the door led to another bus then another then another. I zigzagged my way from buses to buses the whole time desperately trying to punch in my monthly travel pass in each one and shake the Pope off my tail. It’s curious because I had exactly the same dream almost 6 months ago but instead of him trailing me, I followed him and the old man out of the bus through a postcard sized door and into a tunnel.

I know you are itching to consult the dream dictionary, but I don’t want to have any of it. I do have my own interpretation of each of my dreams. I always try to see it in the context of my present life instead of picking a possible meaning from the internet. It’s much more interesting that way because I can choose to make up even wilder explanations for it. And sometimes I just kick back and enjoy it like an HP Lovecraft inspired movie. My friend Jessica told me to sketch my dreams. Maybe I can put together a book someday. A lot of people go to seminars and sign up for workshops just to come up with images and stories I conceive when I’m asleep. At least I don’t spend hundreds of dollars on drugs to get a trip.

Yeah, I should count my blessings. That thought doesn’t relieve my headache though or silence the spooky scratching noises outside the house. Oh well. I guess it’s business as usual.

Final score...

2005-11-20T05:02:00.000+08:00

MADRID 0-3 BARÇA

YESSSS!

THEY WON!!!! AND IN MADRID!!!

Goals by Eto'o (minute 15), Ronaldinho (60, 78). Five yellow cards total--3 for Madrid, 2 for Barça. Sweet! And since Osasuna didn't win their match (a draw against Getafe) Barcelona is number one in the Spanish League. Life is gooood!

Now I can go to sleep. I can rave some more later. Olé, olé, olé, olé...

Killing time before the Real Madrid-FC Barcelona game

2005-11-20T01:46:00.000+08:00

Bleary day

It’s almost 2 in the morning and I am waiting for the big La Liga football match on TVE. I don’t even know if they will air it, but I can always follow the game online. So, with nothing better to do, I go back to the question I posted here on the 13th of November: Must Art come from tension?

A lot of people seem to think so. This belief has surely reinforced the idea of the tortured artist all these years. They say that the tension comes from the artist’s perception of the world and how he must demand for the truth. This insatiable thirst for meaning is one of the reasons why Art is closely linked with madness and depression. Imagine thinking about so many things at the same time and not have the ability to grasp all of it at once or do anything about it. But do you really have to get into that hole to make Art?

I have to say that I agree in a way. Art, at least in my case, comes from a feeling of nervousness and restlessness. I don’t know about hacking off an ear and all that, but I do feel that tension. My art (not with a capital A) comes from different things, sparked by anger and boredom mostly. I get the feeling that something is not right. It’s like having an itchy spot on your back and you can’t seem to get to it. It can be annoying and exhausting if you don’t do anything about it. But I also make art when I feel like I’m on the brink of having another fit of rage. Sometimes, I just don’t know where it begins. See, it’s like the chicken and the egg for me—do I go antsy when I am not working or do I start creating something (anything!) just so the little monster in me gets pacified?

Maybe it’s both. All I know is that I go a bit loony when I don’t move. I usually end up throwing things across the room or I just growl at no one or nothing in particular. It’s really not pretty. I also go into hermit mode and pretend no one else exists. I don’t exactly do this just for my own good, I also do this to protect the people around me. You don’t want to see me angry. I don’t turn into the incredible Hulk, but like I said, it ain’t pretty. I just want people to get out of my way so that I can do my thing. But then again that’s the easy part. You can turn off your mobile and lock yourself in your bedroom anytime you want. I noticed that the hardest thing for me to do right now is to get out of my own way.

Huh? Okay, it’s like this. Let’s say I am having one of those days. I get impatient and snap at everything that moves. Sometimes, instead of just working I choose to wallow. I bathe myself in anger. Hey, it’s fun to do that sometimes! And instead of dealing with it I choose to sit in front of the TV and surf the channels rather than pick up a pencil. I know I get in my way when I head for my bed and give in to my laziness. I don’t know what to do sometimes. I can’t get a grip and I forget to take care of myself. How do you tell yourself to bugger off and let the work emerge? Now that’s not pretty at all and it can be really scary.

HA HA! I should stop right here before I tie myself up in knots. I have a match to catch and I want to enjoy every bit of it. Time to cool off. Maybe I should just read all the pre-game stats. So I guess I’ll have to leave this question again for the moment. Maybe I’ll be a little bit more lucid next time.

November Full Moon

2005-11-18T01:58:00.001+08:00

Fotocopia (A self-portrait)

I was supposed to post this message the other day when the moon was full. I thought today was the 16th! GARGH. Anyway...

The November full moon signals the beginning of the dark months. It is a time for slowing down as the winter comes, to finish projects, and to tie up loose ends. No wonder I've been cleaning up my files, my room, my computer, my head.

I've been writing Spanish poems with my magnetic poetry kit. It's really useful for people like me who can't write. hehehehe. Here's what I've come up with for the full moon:

Enojada ola dentro del fuego
volando hacia al recuerdo del tiempo.
Todavía la niebla duerme en su nido negro
preguntando a la luna el sueño de su cuerpo.

A work in progress... Need to search for more words inside the box!

The Ring-bearer

2005-11-17T18:08:00.000+08:00

I watched Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy again. I mentioned this to someone and she immediately asked me how many more times do I have to give and waste almost 10 hours of my life to these movies. There are only 24 hours in a day, isn’t there anything worthwhile that I can do with them? I told her that I do not question what good it does her when she goes off malling at the end of her work day or during weekends, so what I do with my own time should not concern her.

I honestly do not think watching the trilogy is a waste of time. Aside from seeing gorgeous men in armor (which can brighten anyone’s spirit) and fantastic sets (hmmm… how did they do that? Maybe I can draw it), you can see and pick up a lot of good things from the movies. They talk about friendship, loyalty, honor, and coming into terms with one’s own life. One can surely identify with any one of the characters at a given moment. Arwen says to Aragorn at the beginning as he struggles with his future—"Why do you fear the past? You are Isildur’s heir, not Isildur himself. You are not bound to his fate." How many of us have not thought that we should follow in our father’s (or mother’s or forefather’s) footsteps and carry within us his or their sins?

I identify most with Frodo. Yes, I am short, have curly hair and have a penchant for drama (though I do not have hairy feet!), but I also feel his helplessness and fear with the situation in which he found himself. "I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened." There are dark days when I question the path that I have taken, the choices that I have made, and seriously wish I had not chosen to become an artist. It’s not easy job. I do not enjoy being the only one around who doesn’t have a "regular" life. When things don’t come my way it is so easy to see this as a burden instead of a gift or calling.

In another memorable scene Frodo says to Galadriel, "I cannot do this alone." She answers, "You are a Ring-bearer, Frodo. To bear a Ring of Power is to be alone. This task was appointed to you. And if you do not find a way no one else will." He replies, "Then I know what I must do… it’s just that I’m afraid to do it." Galadriel smiles and whispers gently to him, "Even the smallest person can change the course of the future."

I do not think that I alone can save the world. At least not in that cataclysmic, doomsday sense. I believe that we are all little Frodos. We all have a task to do with our lives and in doing that we contribute to the survival and good of our Middle Earth. We don’t have to slay Orcs and Uruk-Hais to be a hero. Each one of us has something to do—whether to be a mother, a leader, a farmer, a banker, an artist—and each responsibility is as important as the next. What matters is, even if it is easy or difficult, that we do what we are supposed to do. And although it is true that we are alone in doing this task—your friend, husband or mother can’t do it for you—we do not have to isolate ourselves and that, whether we want to or not, we will always have someone to help us along the way. Frodo did not save Middle Earth alone. He had loyal friends (Sam, Aragorn, Gandalf), strangers (Faramir who released him instead of taking the Ring for himself), and enemies (Gollum who bit off his finger and took the ring) who have all in their own way helped him with his job.

So when I find myself feeling desperately dispirited and disheartened about the life that chose me, I go back to my favorite Frodo moment toward the end of the The Fellowship of the Ring: he’s standing on edge of the riverbank of Anduin with the Ring resting on the palm of his hand. He knows he has to leave and go to Mordor alone. He remembers what Gandalf said when he confessed that he wishes that the Ring had never come to him, "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us." The music swells (tears start falling down my cheeks). And with great courage Frodo pockets the Ring, accepts his fate, and with a determined look, boards the boat and sails to the eastern shore.

Awakening

2005-11-16T02:53:00.000+08:00

I ran across this while cleaning my computer. I don't know where this is from...

"The Awakening"

A time comes in your life when you finally get it...when, in the midst of all your fears and insanity, you stop dead in your tracks and somewhere the voice inside your head cries out...ENOUGH! Enough fighting and crying and blaming and struggling to hold on.

Then, like a child quieting down after a tantrum, you blink back your tears and begin to look at the world through new eyes.

This is your awakening.

You realize it's time to stop hoping and waiting for something to change, or for happiness, safety and security to magically appear over the next horizon.

You realize that in the real world there aren't always fairy tale endings, and that any guarantee of "happily ever after" must begin with you... and in the process a sense of serenity is born of acceptance.

You awaken to the fact that you are not perfect and that not everyone will always love, appreciate or approve of who or what you are... and that's OK. They are entitled to their own views and opinions.

You learn the importance of loving and championing yourself... and in the process a sense of new found confidence is born of self-approval.

You stop complaining and blaming other people for the things they did to you - or didn't do for you - and you learn that the only thing you can really count on is the unexpected.

You learn that people don't always say what they mean or mean what they say and that not everyone will always be there for you and that everything isn't always about you.

So, you learn to stand on your own and to take care of yourself... and in the process a sense of safety and security is born of self-reliance.

You stop judging and pointing fingers and you begin to accept people as they are and to overlook their shortcomings and human frailties... and in the process a sense of peace and contentment is born of forgiveness.

You learn to open up to new worlds and different points of view. You begin reassessing and redefining who you are and what you really stand for.

You learn the difference between wanting and needing and you begin to discard the doctrines and values you've outgrown, or should never have bought into to begin with.

You learn that there is power and glory in creating and contributing and you stop maneuvering through life merely as a "consumer" looking for your next fix.

You learn that principles such as honesty and integrity are not the outdated ideals of a bygone era, but the mortar that holds together the foundation upon which you must build a life.

You learn that you don't know everything, it's not your job to save the world and that you can't teach a pig to sing. You learn that the only cross to bear is the one you choose to carry and that martyrs get burned at the stake.

Then you learn about love. You learn to look at relationships as they really are and not as you would have them be. You learn that alone does not mean lonely.

You stop trying to control people, situations and outcomes. You learn to distinguish between guilt and responsibility and the importance of setting boundaries and learning to say NO.

You also stop working so hard at putting your feelings aside, smoothing things over and ignoring your needs.

You learn that your body really is your temple. You begin to care for it and treat it with respect. You begin to eat a balanced diet, drink more water, and take more time to exercise.

You learn that being tired fuels doubt, fear, and uncertainty and so you take more time to rest. And, just as food fuels the body, laughter fuels our soul. So you take more time to laugh and to play.

You learn that, for the most part, you get in life what you believe you deserve, and that much of life truly is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

You learn that anything worth achieving is worth working for and that wishing for something to happen is different than working toward making it happen.

More importantly, you learn that in order to achieve success you need direction, discipline and perseverance. You also learn that no one can do it all alone, and that it's OK to risk asking for help.
You learn the only thing you must truly fear is fear itself. You learn to step right into and through your fears because you know that whatever happens you can handle it and to give in to fear is to give away the right to live life on your own terms.

You learn to fight for your life and not to squander it living under a cloud of impending doom.
You learn that life isn't always fair, you don't always get what you think you deserve and that sometimes bad things happen to unsuspecting, good people... and you learn not to always take it personally.

You learn that nobody's punishing you and everything isn't always somebody's fault. It's just life happening. You learn to admit when you are wrong and to build bridges instead of walls.

You learn that negative feelings such as anger, envy and resentment must be understood and redirected or they will suffocate the life out of you and poison the universe that surrounds you.

You learn to be thankful and to take comfort in many of the simple things we take for granted, things that millions of people upon the earth can only dream about: a full refrigerator, clean running water, a soft warm bed, a long hot shower.

Then, you begin to take responsibility for yourself by yourself and you make yourself a promise to never betray yourself and to never, ever settle for less than your heart's desire.

You make it a point to keep smiling, to keep trusting, and to stay open to every wonderful possibility.
You hang a wind chime outside your window so you can listen to the wind.

Finally, with courage in your heart, you take a stand, you take a deep breath, and you begin to design the life you want to live as best you can.

Changes

2005-11-15T23:12:00.000+08:00

I've been quite indecisive lately... I didn't really like the name of my blog (which I just created recently), so I changed it. Hope I don't change it again next month! HAH!

How The Sandman shaped my life

2005-11-14T23:59:00.001+08:00

I was going through my comic book collection the other day just to check if it was still intact. Most of the books were still in good condition, but a few of the older ones have started to turn yellow and had a sharp acidic smell about them. In mint condition or visibly ratty, it was good to see them again; it was like saying hello to my childhood friends. I used to spend so much time with them, just hours on end reading and admiring the artwork. No wonder I didn’t have money or a social life back in high school and college!

My all-time favorite title would have to be THE SANDMAN by Neil Gaiman. I was already happily collecting titles such as the X-MEN and the BATMAN when it came along. I must admit that during that time I fed on high-kicking action scenes and angst-filled dramatic battles, but I also enjoyed reading my sister’s "mature" titles (re no muscular/big-boobed heroes involved) by amazing Brit authors (THE SWAMP THING by Alan Moore and Jamie Delano’s HELLBLAZER). I had just gotten of high school and, being a teenager, I was still into kiddy and colorful stuff but was ready for something with a little more meat. I am just thankful I didn’t think too much about it and was smart enough to part with my 75 pesos (that’s around 350 pesos now) to buy "Sleep of the Just" (SANDMAN#1).

Thank God for that! I was hooked and couldn’t wait for the next issue to arrive. The first story line ended with "The Sound of Her Wings" and I knew there was no turning back, I was in love, and was in for a roller coaster ride. Then came other story arcs and halfway though the 4th or the 5th, I could sense that this book was taking me somewhere and that it will end when we get there. Panic struck. I never had to forcibly say goodbye to any of my favorite titles! Sure, some of them got cancelled and some I willingly dropped (I had stopped reading the mutant books by then), but none of them started with an ending in mind after so-and-so issues. I was devastated. The more I read the more I savored each panel thinking that it could be the last one. Of course that meant that the more I read the more I fell in LOVE with it. It was inevitable. I was setting myself up for a heartbreak.

And then it came. I had cried through most of THE KINDLY ONES so by the time "The Tempest" came I was exhausted. That was it. The End. No more Sandman to look forward to every month. And then it hit me—after mourning my loss with buckets and buckets of tears for days—I was okay. Fine, it was just a comic book and to most human beings it wasn’t real, but I realized that I was lucky to have had a companion, a surrogate father, a fairy godfather of sorts in Dream (or Neil) all those years. Flawed as he was (he was a bungling, pompous, insensitive prick at the beginning), he learned from his past, his relationships with his family, and his mistakes, and in the end took responsibility of his life. I saw him grow up, and in turn he helped me grow up too. I had fun, and it was time to go on my own. By being there with me in those seven years THE SANDMAN drummed monthly into my head several important lessons no comic book or song or movie or self-help book could ever give me—that I will always have the choice to start and end things, that everything has a beginning and an end, that I have to learn when to let go when the time comes, and that even when things end they will still remain with me.

Over and over again I learned about beginnings, endings, good-byes, and that one has to be responsible for his own life. At the end of the first arc Dream had to dust himself off and start his life anew after he found all of his missing possessions and was at a loss at what to do next. His brother Destruction left his domain after he realized what he was doing had no point or meaning. Dream killed his son when he finally realized and accepted that it was the right thing to do. And it all aptly ended with a reference to my favorite Shakespeare book—like Prospero, Dream knew when to step aside and let things run its course. We are in a way bound by the choices that we make and the consequences that come with making them, but we will always have a choice to change them.

It’s been almost 10 years since the last issue of THE SANDMAN came out. I realize that I’ve had to start and end story lines of my own since then (it’s curious to note that I stopped collecting comic books when THE SANDMAN ended and I moved to another country to start a new life. Coincidence?). Now as I am poised to open a new chapter in my own book, I re-read the whole series and it has helped me yet again put things into perspective. My sentiments are perfectly encapsulated in a line found in issue #74: one of the barbarian riders said to Dream as he starts to disappear, "Omnia mutanthur, nihil interit." How true, how true. "Everything changes but nothing is truly lost."

The Gladiator for Christmas

2005-11-14T17:03:00.000+08:00

Russell Crowe for hire. This Hollywood actor is offering his services this Christmas for a whopping fee of $900,000. Question is... is he worth it? For more details, check out this link.

Must art come from tension?

2005-11-13T03:31:00.001+08:00

Mask

I am reading this book about a poet who is continually struggling with her craft and her bouts of depression and rage. I still don't know how I feel about this... I think I agree but I will have to let this sit for a while before I can really write about what I really think about it.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with a paragraph she puts in her book about Goethe: "It seems that two qualities are necessary if a great artist is to remain creative to the end of a long life; he must on the one hand retain an abnormally keen awareness of life, he must never grow complacent, never be content with life, must always demand the impossible and when he cannot have it, must despair. The burden of the mystery must be with him day and night. He must be shaken by the naked truths that will not be comforted. This divine discontent, this disequilibrium, this state of inner tension is the source of artistic energy. Many lesser poets have it only in their youth; some even of the greatest lose it in middle life. Wordsworth lost the courage to despair and with it his poetic power. But more often the dynamic tensions are so powerful that they destroy the man before he reaches maturity."

Pindsvineunger

2005-11-12T15:22:00.000+08:00

Pindsvineunger

A friend from Denmark sent me this pic recently. These little buggers make your day, don't they?

The Big Game

2005-11-11T02:34:00.000+08:00

1816h 4' 56" till the Big Game of the season-- it's Real Madrid versus FC Barcelona on the 19th of November at 20:00 (Spanish time). It's going to be good! FCB is 2nd in the standings while RM is 3rd. I can't wait to see my boys demolish Becks and company again! HAH! Visca Barça!!

Missing my roll ups

2005-11-11T01:17:00.000+08:00

Missing my roll ups

Why don't they sell filters for roll-ups here in Manila? They sell Drum tobacco and different types of paper but they don't have filters. All you get are plastic thingies that don't really work with roll-ups. I know, I know… I shouldn't even be smoking, but I really miss the taste of real tobacco. I'm back to smoking lights and it's not the same. I might as well give up smoking. Roll-ups taste better (especially when you use my fave brand Amsterdam) and you don't get that chemical after taste in your mouth. And I smoke less when I roll my own ciggies. I really do! They die on the ashtray when you don't smoke them then you can light them again afterwards and they don't taste icky. You think you've been smoking a pack of cigarettes the whole night but you have really been smoking 3 sticks. I think they're great!

Yeah, you're right… maybe I really should just give it up. I smoked for 9 years, gave up for 5, then started smoking for six months, off for seven, blah, blah, blah, for the last couple of years. I should thank Fuma for not selling those damn Rizla filters! Maybe it's a sign to chuck my lighter already. There is enough smoke going around the city anyway…

Welcome to my Studio

2005-10-19T17:06:00.000+08:00

A friend of mine got me started on this blogging business. I am still not sure if I can keep up with this, but what the heck, I'll give it a try. I usually can't be bothered to upload photos and write something interesting (re worth reading) everyday. I love to read my emails but it takes me a while to reply to them. Lazy, lazy, lazy. BUT, I've got a lot of time on my hands and I am a certified insomniac since birth so hopefully this would keep me entertained on some nights. I guess I'll see you guys on the web then. Later!

PS. I will post some pics of my work soon (yes, I really make sculptures) as soon as I figure out how to do it.