Clean Slate

dog, sleeping (rev 4 - final)

2009-03-10T14:13:00.003+08:00

And in my dreams, I talk.
I move my lips and you understand
when I describe the mist
hanging above me, the shape of it---
that is your smell. It's you
I carry from your bedclothes
and discarded socks.

When you go there's a gnawing,
holes inside large enough
to fall through,
a world of longing to scent you
through all the prickling strangeness,
empty stretches.

In my dream we keep
the same time.
In my dream, you stay.

Walking together,
the world -- all of it -- belongs to us.
I belong to you.
Because all the universe to me is you.
I can tell you this and we talk
for lifetimes in my Sleeping.

In my dream you say "go,"
and I run. My body picks up
some far moving thing.
I am after it, looking back
to call you.
The words escape
and fall,
one, then another,
useless on my lips,
immovable black lines.
Mute, I wake. I return to you
because you said,
because you asked.

Neva Kares Talladen

living backwards

2009-01-05T13:52:00.002+08:00

Read this thought-provoking quote from artist Rommel Joson's Sketchblog:

“Often people attempt to live their lives backwards: they try to have more things, or more money, in order to do more of what they want so that they will be happier. The way it actually works is the reverse. You must be who you really are, then, do what you need to do, in order to have what you want.”

- Margaret Young

Maybe I am living my life a bit backwards, running my own business to live more comfortably and have the luxury to write and read more. But I honestly feel being an entrepreneur isn't far from who I really am, either.

Two years ago, when I was panicking and having cold sweats because I felt so lost and unfulfilled, I couldn't see myself doing anything of value with my life. I thought about a couple of older people I knew who were extremely unhappy and bitter with their lives, and how they seemed forced to be in a state of mediocrity by time and circumstance. I promised myself I would fight tooth and nail to avoid a life of mediocrity.

But as I found my footing a little bit at a time these past years, I have also started trusting myself more. Trust that I will choose the right decisions for myself and not repeat the mistakes I had made; trust that I will rise up bravely whenever life calls me to action; trust that I will always believe that I am destined for great things.

Great things don't mean fame or fortune to me anymore. Of course, I would need some fortune to reach my vision, my dream of personal greatness. But fortune as a means, not an end.

I have seen how easy it is to fall to greed; to count the cost until one is paralyzed by overheads and bottom-lines. But I was lucky to trust the right people, and business taught me to prioritize my vision even more.

And always, in my heart and mind, I know that I am going to write and publish my own books to share with the world. I know I am going to write my grandfather's story, and my great-grandmother's poems; the seed they have planted in me through the generations.

My father's side of the family always talks about how the next generation will absolve all our family's sins and heal our broken ties. But I refuse to be caught in that web. My salvation lies in my own hands. I wait for no one else. My time is now.

running out of time

2008-12-29T22:48:00.002+08:00

I'm not sure why, but I this evening I remembered I was already thirty years old, and I thought to myself, "In twenty years I will be 50 years old."

Then I remembered how the last ten years of my life flew by. It had been nothing but a blur, for better or worse. And I suddenly felt that time was running out for me.

I don't want time to blaze by like the last ten years of my youth. I want to slow things down a bit and examine each detail and record it, keep it, mine forever. And yet, I feel an impatience, as if my life hasn't even started and I'm raring to go.

This is my life. I have to live it now. It's just so easy to forget when routine takes over (not to be mistaken for rituals, which are essential).

This year has already ended, as far as the world is concerned. It's time to travel again, pluck myself out of the overgrowth and brave the strange winds again. I want to grow old with that ripe satisfaction inside me that overcomes all regrets.

poetry contests and on "real" artists

2008-12-29T22:14:00.003+08:00

Poetry contests I'd like to join someday:

Swenson Poetry Award

Avron International Poetry Competition

--

Someone told me that my friend Rom Villaseran (whose recent work was some of the most compelling art I've seen this year) was a "real" artist and that his work was truly valuable because, she pointed out to me, "this is all that he does," he doesn't have a day job, he isn't a mere hobbyist, he is, she declared, a "real" artist.

Now first of all, Rom is a GREAT artist, and I say that with no reservation because there can be no doubt after witnessing his latest exhibit a couple of months ago. Second, I am sure the person I was talking to meant well and was only trying to convince me to buy his work (which I did and would have done, anyway, without anyone's prodding) -- I'm not trying to criticize her at all.

But what she said stayed with me until now because my whole being riles up -- has been riling up -- against the idea that a person must only do art to be considered a "real" artist.

No one exists in a vacuum, and not all artists were born privileged to live without concern for the source of their daily bread. And not all artists choose to live as paupers or hobos, dying eventually for the sake of their art.

There's nothing romantic about poverty, going hungry or living in dismal conditions or weakening with disease. If I had chosen a life similar to Rom -- just devoted my whole time to writing poetry, which I love, and to nothing else -- I don't think I would've survived for a year.

It's reality. And I do things I do now because I know this is what I have to do to afford writing. It sounds like an excuse, it sounds like an apology for not being able to produce my own body of work a decade after the promise I showed in university. But no, it's simply the reality.

Say I got a scholarship to do my MA and focus on writing my poetry in between classes. Say I was given a teaching job to boot. Could I really have done it? Could I really have disregarded everything else in my life: my jobless, penniless father, my younger brother who is still in school?

I couldn't and I'm glad I didn't.

I'm going to say it. I am an artist. Not because I think I am but because my poetry, my art, my stories, are with me everyday, without fail. I thought the years would dull everything, but I have never been more sure now that I have to write, now more than ever. That the words will always be with me.

The fact that I have to make a living doesn't make me any less an artist. The fact that other people don't know my work (yet) doesn't matter. My conscience is clean, my hands callused from the work and the passion.

the silence

2008-12-13T02:44:00.002+08:00

In a few hours, I will lose my personal space and privacy once again, but happily, to the people I love most. My mother, stepfather and youngest brother will be home again for the holidays.

So before the happy chaos, I'm going to enjoy these last few moments of solitude and silence in one of my most favorite places in the world: my room.

Even if I get married, I'd like to keep a room of my own, like the old custom, where a married couple has a common bedchamber connected to their own individual rooms.

I'm quite possessive of my space. Maybe because I never had much space growing up in a cramped house in Marikina. I always had to share rooms. First with my parents and brother, then with my girl cousin. When I got a room of my own I was already 15 or 16 years old.

I still dream of having a place completely my own and having enough money to maintain and do it up the way I want to. I want a house, not a condo or an apartment, with a yard and grassy areas and sunlight coming in. I don't want a pool or a water feature. Just plenty of plants and one or two trees. Maybe an herb and flower garden. Or a cacti garden, same as I had when I was a kid.

But until I have that, I'll have to happily give up my privacy every few months of so for the other half of my whirlwind-adventure-seeking, jetsetting family.

sleeping dog (rev 3)

2008-11-07T13:00:00.004+08:00

Thanks to Luisa Igloria

And in my dreams, I talk.
I move my lips and you understand
when I describe the mist
hanging above me, the shape of it,
that is your smell, what I carry
with me after I nose around your bedclothes,
discarded socks. It's you, with me, through the day.

Without you, there's a gnawing,
holes large enough
to fall through,
a world of longing
to scent you through all
the prickling strangeness,
empty daystretches.

In my dream we keep
the same time.
In my dream, you stay.

We walk together,
inscribing pieces of ourselves
on all of it --
because all of it -- belongs to us,
and I belong to you
because all the universe to me is you,
I tell you and we talk
for lifetimes in my Sleeping.

Still it comes to this:
you tell me, look,
my body pricks up
to some far moving thing.
I don't want to wake
but you say, go,
and I run. The words are escaping,
another, and another.
I open my eyes, my lips
a useless black line.
Mute, I return to you
because you said,
because you asked.

Neva Kares Talladen

Poems in the First Annual Festival of Women's Poetry

2008-11-07T02:49:00.003+08:00

Luisa Igloria curated the Filipina section of the First Annual Festival of Women's Poetry for November 2008.

She has kindly included some of my published poems in the collection.

---

P.S. Since when was it okay to say that somebody "fell" from a building when they really willingly jumped from a building?

Does hiding the truth of her death honor the life she lived?

sleeping dog

2008-10-29T01:37:00.003+08:00

And in my dreams, I am talking
and you understand me.
I move my lips into words. I describe
the shape of the mist hanging above
me. The shape of it,
that is your smell, what I carry
after I nose around your bedclothes,
discarded sock, dented cushions;
it's you, with me, through the day.
In my dream we keep
the same time. In my dream, you stay.
There's no gnawing inside,
no whole moments without you, holes large
enough to fall through,
a world of longing to scent you
through all the prickling strangeness
of the Out There you roam.
In my dream, I follow you
and your threads of hair
peppering the ground, an unseen trail.
We go together, and mark together
what’s ours, inscribing all of it,
-- because all of it -- belongs to us.
Because it belongs to you.
I belong to you. Because all
the universe to me is you,
and I am telling you, and you
are telling me -- we could talk
for years in my sleeping. But it comes
to that part: you tell me look,
my ears pricking up to some far moving thing.
I don’t want to wake.
But you say, “go,” and I run,
unhesitating, words escaping me.
I open my eyes. Mute, I return to you
only because you said, because you asked.

neva kares talladen

silent like the currents

2008-10-18T23:20:00.004+08:00

I have never really been bothered about being cool.

My pedigree would give little indication of this, having a mother who is so cool she practically becomes a VIP anywhere she goes, and a quick-tempered activist of a father who had to go into hiding because, being such a "terror" teacher in a prominent university, he dared punish the wayward bastard son of a former high-ranked Marcos crony in the 1970s.

I've always just gone my own way, and was lucky enough to find true friends that remain my source of inspiration and support. I wasn't one to think I was anything more special than the next person, either. But I was always about putting in the time and doing the work, and getting one's due. Maybe I'm still naive after all these years, but I didn't really put much stock in coasting along and getting by riding someone else's coattails.

I'm as pragmatic about love, too. All I know is that as long as I was true to myself about my feelings, about my choices, it would be all right in the end. Love, for me, was either there, or it wasn't. I didn't play games nor expect compelling, film-worthy dialogue or soundtrack. I just wanted to give and get love when it came, no matter how it came.

Which is why I think I am bothered with the constricting "coolness" of a proper church wedding and the traditional family unit. I have nothing against church weddings or traditional family units, let's get that out of the way first. But to have these imposed on you as the ONLY correct options in life is bullshit.

I love my longtime boyfriend and I do sincerely consider him as a big part of my life, my partner, my soulmate. We've been together through eight, gloriously imperfect, bumpy, unpredictable, intensely personal years. There's nothing "cool" about it, although I am extremely happy with our relationship. It's a lot of work, it's a lot of adjustments, it's a lot of everyday, uncinematic, sometimes unromantic little things that matter so much only because it's him and me and because we do it together and we both consider it worth everything. Everything.

But it's not "cool," and it's not a fairy tale that has to end with bells chiming and doves flying and me in a white dress. Of course, at some point, I would like something like that, although maybe not necessarily exactly the same as most women would like, and I do recognize the need to have some sort of formal ceremony (especially legal) to express our intentions to be with each other.

Still, marriage is not the be-all and end-all of our love. Some of our loved ones act as though there is something wrong because we still haven't tied the knot. That I still don't plan to have ANY biological children at all, even though I am thirty years old. In a day and age where there is so much wrongness and evil in the world, many of us still choose to judge couples like us who love each other, but don't exactly fit the ideal picture of most people.

It's amazing how the pressure has reached a point where I have even considered giving in and "doing" a wedding just to shut everyone up. But my happiness with R. weighs so much more than keeping up appearances of "respectability."

We may not be the coolest couple around, but I don't need us to be. And I sure as hell don't want to be. Who cares if people don't ooh and ahh in admiration and envy when they see us together? Who cares if we're not a gorgeous couple? Who cares if our "story" lacks drama?

I want something solid and real. What I have with R. is. That's worth more than a billion romantic, cinematic "moments" for me.

confession

2008-10-08T00:04:00.003+08:00

I told you I was dying,
it wasn’t far from the truth.
I wanted your hands,
your confident wave like a wand,
the ease in your pluck and strum.
I longed to pay with what I had
and all I had
were words and obscurity.
It was convenient. What could you know
apart from what I told?
It was true. I had a cancer
something eating me inside,
invading the bones: you,
essential and pure and correct.
You were killing me.
I manufactured prescriptions,
blood-vomit, mastered fainting,
symptoms of slow dying to satisfy the story.
Would you have found me out?
If there had been an epilogue
of my remission, would we be talking now,
this story to tell for the ages, how we held
together, the power of two
or would it be much of the same
in the end: a sort of clarity blindsiding us,
so clear we can see through the other side,
our lives spread out like fire, white lies
that couldn’t cross the distance, all this time?

Neva Kares Talladen

regret

2008-10-07T22:38:00.001+08:00

I’d like to think you had adventures
as any self-respecting cat would;
owing no one, no one owning you. Walking alone
or with others, I tell myself you’d survived
as long as it took. Still, it creeps in:
that familiar emptiness, the sound of your name
– did you remember? Calico One, I left you
but loved you. Decades away from me,
you squat there in my still hours,
Pouncing Tiger when I’m least prepared:
The Runt, you, Survivor
with the splayed front paw,
Mellow Green Eyes with the plaintive
call. I still hear you. I’m twelve years old
again, face-to-face with My Only Childhood Regret,
your patchwork self looking down from a concrete tree
as a plane passes. It’s me, I’m here, it’s me.

Neva Kares Talladen

(for Stephanie, left but loved)

Love is not a movie

2007-03-09T15:39:00.000+08:00

I don't understand infidelity or the concept of trying out people like clothes. But just because I don't understand, doesn't mean I automatically think that people who cheat on their partners or people who can just drop a relationship like a hot potato are the most evil people in the world.

I just think they're people. And people have they're own beliefs about themselves, about love, and how the world around them works.

Here are some of my beliefs about love and life, which I try to remember and try to live up to.

Love is not a movie. It's a story that goes on for as long as I live. The last page isn't written until it's the very last page. There's no single climax with music swelling at each dramatic turn of events.

Love is not a montage of eye-candy moments that last for a minute. Love is all about chapters that begin and end for as long as it has to.

I am not the only protagonist in the story of the universe. Everyone is. Therefore, I am not entitled to actions without expecting to pay the consequences. I am not exempt from them no matter how special think I am.

Love does not have ADHD. It's a yes or a no. If you don't know, then it's not love. Period.

Love does not have a shelf life.

Forever is a long time. But forever is only as long as my short time here on earth. Loving someone forever IS the point of true love.

Monogamy is the only kind of relationship there can be between two people who truly love each other. In the grand scheme of things, life is far too short for "dressing room" romances and "what ifs."

It's better to be alone than to jump into a relationship with a "what if" hanging over my head.

Love means my happiness, not just his.

I choose who I fall in love with. My choices reflect how much I value and love myself. Ultimately, if I am not happy with the person I'm with, it is because I am not happy with myself and think I don't truly deserve happiness.

If I am not happy with someone, it means there is a lack of love. It is better to be alone than to be in this kind of a relationship.

If I choose to stay with someone who hurts me over and over, it is not love. It is a self-delusion. It is me hoping that there's love where there's clearly none.

When caught between a rock and a hard place, it is almost always better to be alone than in a codependent relationship.

I am only as good as what I do. If my words are not backed up by my actions, they're worthless.

That said, words are important. Words have power, and must be used wisely.

I am not better than everyone else. Period.

groundhog days

2006-12-21T17:27:00.000+08:00

When the holiday season kicks in, I usually go into a state of denial. I refuse to believe that, once again, the infernal Christmas Machine has caught me in its headlights.

It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't feel like it's the same mad rush all over again with no other point than to use up the year's vacation leave to go somewhere and do something with family -- as if this couldn't be done any other time of the year.

The older I get, the more I feel that Christmas is just a convenient way for most people to pencil in the spirit of giving and celebration in their hectic lives, freeing them up to ignore their loved ones for the rest of the year.

Christmas sprinkled throughout the whole year would be wonderful. Everyone would go around, cheerful and charitable. It would be heaven on earth. But crammed into a few weeks, it's hell like Dante could never have imagined.

Scientist and poet

2006-12-06T02:02:00.000+08:00

On a whim, I went to this site to know my Chinese Calendar sign. I had a vague recollection that I was born in the year of the Horse, but what I read was even more surprising:

Year of the Horse

If you are born in the Year of the Horse then you are amazingly hard working and very independent. Although you are intelligent and friendly, you can sometimes be a bit selfish. Careerwise you would make a good scientist or poet.

It's uncanny how the description accurately pinpoints the only two occupations I have ever wanted my whole life. Ever since I was a kid, I loved writing poems most. But I also had fantasies of becoming a bespectacled, nerdy scientist who will change the world with her inventions.

But by third grade, this fantasy of mine vanished when I learned through a family friend (who became an accomplished chemist in Syracuse University) that being a scientist mostly meant being cooped up in a lab inventing things that won't change much in the world, and publishing studies that almost no one will read.

And so I suddenly became intensely focused on becoming a poet. I never once thought it wasn't a conventional profession. And I never thought it was any harder than being an employee in an office. Thankfully, I enjoyed this state of ignorance/bliss about writing until I entered university.

Now I wonder if I was really fated for this profession, as declared by my sign. And what of the other "horses" who find no interest in these professions at all? How do they come up with these descriptions?

This IS the world

2006-12-02T09:04:00.000+08:00

from Crichton's speech "Fear, Complexity, Environmental Management in the 21st Century"
read the whole thing

The book really began in 1998, when I set out to write a novel about a global disaster. In the course of my preparation, I rather casually reviewed what had happened in Chernobyl, since that was the worst manmade disaster in recent times that I knew about.

What I discovered stunned me. Chernobyl was a tragic event, but nothing remotely close to the global catastrophe I imagined. About 50 people had died in Chernobyl, roughly the number of Americans that die every day in traffic accidents. I don’t mean to be gruesome, but it was a setback for me. You can’t write a novel about a global disaster in which only 50 people die.

...Once I looked at Chernobyl, I began to recall other fears in my life that had never come true. The population bomb, for one. Paul Ehrlich predicted mass starvation in the 1960s. Sixty million Americans starving to death. Didn’t happen. Other scientists warned of mass species extinctions by the year 2000. Ehrlich himself predicted that half of all species would become extinct by 2000. Didn’t happen. The Club of Rome told us we would run out of raw materials ranging from oil to copper by the 1990s. That didn’t happen, either.

It’s no surprise that predictions frequently don’t come true. But such big ones! And so many! All my life I worried about the decay of the environment, the tragic loss of species, the collapse of ecosystems. I feared poisoning by pesticides, alar on apples, falling sperm counts from endocrine disrupters, cancer from power lines, cancer from saccharine, cancer from cell phones, cancer from computer screens, cancer from food coloring, hair spray, electric razors, electric blankets, coffee, chlorinated water…it never seemed to end.

Only once, when on the same day I read that beer was a preservative of heart muscle and also a carcinogen did I begin to sense the bind I was in. But for the most part, I just went along with what I was being told.

Is this really the end of the world? Earthquakes, hurricanes, floods?

No, we simply live on an active planet. Earthquakes are continuous, a million and a half of them every year, or three every minute. A Richter 5 quake every six hours, a major quake every 3 weeks. A quake as destructive as the one in Pakistan every 8 months. It’s nothing new, it’s right on schedule.

At any moment there are 1,500 electrical storms on the planet. A tornado touches down every six hours. We have ninety hurricanes a year, or one every four days. Again, right on schedule. Violent, disruptive, chaotic activity is a constant feature of our globe.

Is this the end of the world? No: this is the world.

It’s time we knew it.

To All Environmentalists and their Supporters: Do Not Read to Ensure a Worldwide Blindness to the Truth

2006-12-02T08:42:00.000+08:00

(Excerpted from State of Fear)

Imagine that there is a new scientific theory that warns of an impending crisis, and points to a way out.

This theory quickly draws support from leading scientists, politicians and celebrities around the world. Research is funded by distinguished philanthropies, and carried out at prestigious universities. The crisis is reported frequently in the media. The science is taught in college and high school classrooms.

I don't mean global warming. I'm talking about another theory, which rose to prominence a century ago.

Its supporters included Theodore Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson, and Winston Churchill. It was approved by Supreme Court justices Oliver Wendell Holmes and Louis Brandeis, who ruled in its favor. The famous names who supported it included Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of the telephone; activist Margaret Sanger; botanist Luther Burbank; Leland Stanford, founder of Stanford University; the novelist H. G. Wells; the playwright George Bernard Shaw; and hundreds of others. Nobel Prize winners gave support. Research was backed by the Carnegie and Rockefeller Foundations. The Cold Springs Harbor Institute was built to carry out this research, but important work was also done at Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford and Johns Hopkins. Legislation to address the crisis was passed in states from New York to California.

These efforts had the support of the National Academy of Sciences, the American Medical Association, and the National Research Council. It was said that if Jesus were alive, he would have supported this effort.

All in all, the research, legislation and molding of public opinion surrounding the theory went on for almost half a century. Those who opposed the theory were shouted down and called reactionary, blind to reality, or just plain ignorant. But in hindsight, what is surprising is that so few people objected.

Today, we know that this famous theory that gained so much support was actually pseudoscience. The crisis it claimed was nonexistent. And the actions taken in the name of theory were morally and criminally wrong. Ultimately, they led to the deaths of millions of people.

The theory was eugenics, and its history is so dreadful --- and, to those who were caught up in it, so embarrassing --- that it is now rarely discussed. But it is a story that should be well know to every citizen, so that its horrors are not repeated. continue

Read "State of Fear" by Michael Crichton over the holidays. You may agree or disagree with him, but the most important thing is you see BOTH SIDES of the research about the environment. At the very least you will be better informed.

The world unfolds too slowly

2006-11-16T23:11:00.000+08:00

It’s Not Enough

Ghost of what I hope to be
flickering light of chance.
Age gives out under the burden
of this flatter-than-flatlands
vantage point, pushed it on
its back, like a dog
bellied-up in capitulation.

If I breathe fast enough
will moments catch up to me,
will snapshot memories
wind their way to my sleep attic,
will I find my bed
in the early night again,
rebound on it
like an old friend
without apologies?

I want to hold myself in,
or, failing that, hold onto you
in my drunken swirl
until I find footing.
I can only go as far
as one night at a time.
Or, no, more precisely,
as far as we dared
that one night,
dancing carefully
around words and touch,
taste of our tongues
mingling misty on
the glass edge.

I am sending this memory out
while the sky is blind
with cloud cataracts.
Weak, blinking light source,
wavering Morse Code
desperate in the still-dark.

It’s not enough.

I’m sending these words out
to people who will make
all the wrong readings.
I am sending this out
to relive one obscure night
among all other nights
one more time
two more
three…
light parts
the curtains,
the day caught
empty-handed.

Neva Talladen

Carlo's works on my wall

2006-11-09T23:45:00.000+08:00

Both paintings by Carlo Eustaquio. You can also find him here.

Painted with shimmery paint, the afternoon lighting doesn't show the delightful intricacies of this painting.

The words are from Havana-born Spanish poet, Jose Marti. Marti was also a noted journalist and painter of his time. He joined the revolutionary forces of Cuba, fighting for the independence of Cuba and equal treatment of Cubans and Spaniards in his homeland.

Marti's passion led to his death, shot in midday as he and a lone boy courier decided to charge a whole Spanish battalion by themselves.

Lines from his Versos sencillos before he died: "Que no me entierren en lo oscuro/ A morir como un traidor/ Yo soy bueno y como bueno/ Moriré de cara al sol." ("May they not bury me in darkness / to die like a traitor / I am good, and as a good man / I will die facing the sun.")

Breakfast at Tiffany's is one of my favorite books of all time. The movie is equally dear to me as Audrey Hepburn will always be the perfect Holly Golightly -- hopelessly flawed and tragic, but never pathetic.

There was never a doubt in my mind that this painting belonged to me, and everyday I look at it, I notice things such as how the sunglasses and keys shimmer in the light, and something about the words "cigarettes and sympathy" make so much sense.

I'm in love with words and pictures, pictured words, worded pictures. Maybe that's why I like comics so much.

You are not what you own, but the things you decide to surround yourself with says a lot about what you stand for. As physical and sensual as human beings are -- our need for community, our free will and higher state of consciousness that sets us apart from animals -- it's hypocritical to say the things we decide to own don't reflect parts of ourselves in some way.

For my part, having original art on my walls, paid for by my own hard-earned money, is my way -- no matter how seemingly inconsequential -- of giving back to the artist and the medium. My tiny contribution and statement that I want good art and creativity and beauty to flourish in an increasingly cynical and indifferent world.

Thoughts after a double-shot of espresso

2006-11-02T14:22:00.000+08:00

In one of those highly-charged conversations with two of my closest friends over coffee, we ruminate about the stagnation of creativity in the Philippines. There's an abundance of talent, no doubt about it, but almost no drive for growth and creativity. Mechanical technique, duplication of a "template," and cliches are the norm.

At first, the explanation seems to be poverty and the third-world mindset. But we look at how Vietnam and Asian Third World countries have grown and flourished in their art, and, more importantly, how they have surpassed us in areas like film, writing, and even graphic design and advertising in spite of the fact that the Philippines has reached its Golden Age in these fields earlier than our neighbors.

It seems that after the 1970s and early 1980s, the creative spirit of Filipino artists and intellectuals have plateaud. And a plateau is always more dangerous than a decline when it comes to art. A decline can be easily seen as a problem and addressed accordingly. But a plateau indicates a resting on laurels, a non-movement, an inertia that is difficult to overcome.

It makes more sense, when we relate our current state of art and media to the Filipino's absolute respect for elders. In a community, this is an essential and admirable quality. But for the modern industry and art, this elder-worship is disastrous.

Ideally, at some point, the pioneers of our modern enterprises and legendary icons in the field of art and media, have to step down and allow another generation to take the field one step further. Ideally, this happens naturally, when the leaders and icons can no longer offer anything new to the field or industry to which they have dedicated their lives. And ideally, this time is recognized by everyone, and decisions are made for the greater good.

Unfortunately, the Filipino way still espouses the padrino-protege relationship. In itself, this mentoring is ideal and productive. However, the kind of mentor-protege relationship in the Philippines pushes tradition and obedience, not creativity and self-discovery. Success is only guaranteed those who are willing to accommodate every whim of the mentor. And succession is only granted once the mentor dies or willingly abdicates. And abdication is not a usual option for once-creative geniuses turned stodgy fat cats who hold their tenure until their dying breath.

Naturally, this system has greatly stunted the growth of art -- visual, literature, film, etc. -- in our country. The protege must become better than the mentor, or else the mentor fails. A mentor who seeks to stifle and lord over proteges for personal vanity and glory destroys himself and the vocation he serves.

This cycle of entitlement and tyranny has systematically assured our country's slow fossilization into a conundrum and cautionary tale. And our hopes of coasting along only on natural talent and skill are being dashed against the rocks of change with the rise of great young artists and intellectuals in Vietnam, Thailand, Cambodia, Laos -- our seemingly "backwards, unproficient English-speaking" neighbors.

It seems drastic, but I believe that the last resort for a determined Filipino artist is to publish, create, launch outside the country. Whether he is acclaimed or criticized, he is assured that his work will be read, viewed, listened to -- unpoliticized (mostly), uninsulated -- by a wide, varied audience who acknowledges the importance of creativity and art.

Never Underestimate the Need for Approval

2006-10-27T13:11:00.000+08:00

I'm a nobody.

That's why I am confident about my freedom, even in the diverse, public space of the World Wide Web.

This blog is personal and obscure. Sporadically updated, periodically abandoned. Just the way I like it.

It comes as a big surprise to me how people find their way here. Sometimes it's a wonderful surprise. Like my personal poet-heroine Luisa Igloria peeking in out of the blue. Or old friends making a reappearance in the comments section. Or simply encountering like-minded people by following them back to their own virtual spaces.

But many times, the attention baffles me.

Clearly, I hold no dominant influence over anything, except myself and the very few, and I mean very few, people who are close to me. And this is hardly a high-profile online publication -- it's not even an online publication. It's a blog. A personal journal among millions of journals all over the world.

Being in such a (non)position, I write what I know, and express what I believe.

I have no delusions of grandeur. I don't imagine that this blog will someday be recognized for some kind of importance. I don't believe that more than five people even read my entries on a regular basis (blood relations don't count -- they feel they have to read my thoughts).

So it takes me by surprise how some people, indignant and outraged by something I have written, try very hard to gain my approval -- consciously or otherwise -- by hurling missives or what they think to be barbed retaliations that are supposed to make me turn around and change my mind, or at least make me sorry for what I have done. Of course, these strangers only succeed to amuse and baffle me, and very rarely, sometimes, make me think.

What is it that I have done, exactly?

If I have criticized or emphatically declared my disapproval of a particular person, situation or event in this blog, what have I done, really?

I can't imagine that person's reputation to be irreparably destroyed. I don't think even my most fervent outbursts will change the world. In fact, this blog is merely a grain of sand falling unobtrusively and inconsequentially into the sea.

The longer I keep writing, the older I get, the more I see of human nature through the unintentional things. It feels like a practical joke. Have some of us lost so much of our self-esteem that they need to seek approval from a total stranger who has very little impact in their personal lives? That they want to get that approval by any means possible, even through a measly little comments box?

KOMIKS REVIVAL

2006-10-24T15:26:00.000+08:00

Komiks in the Old Neighborhood

Most young girls in the neighborhood I grew up in (Permaline Homes) read either Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys or Sweet Valley High and Sweet Dreams. Very few kids my age read beyond these books because the school libraries didn't have much variety, and buying books for leisure was out of the question for most struggling families in our neighborhood.

So when the mystery books and saccharine-sweet romance pocketbooks were all read, us kids turned to komiks. I'll always refer to the first comics I've encountered Funny Komiks, Wakasan, Hiwaga and Lagim as "komiks" simply because the experience of discovering them was completely different for me compared to the feeling of reading comics like X-Men and Swamp Thing in high school.

I didn't buy these komiks. I borrowed them from the sari-sari store near the neighborhood parking lot for 25 centavos a day. The condition of these newsprint komiks didn't stay mint, that's for sure. In fact, by the time I got to them, they'd be stained or crumpled. But as long as they were readable, nobody complained.

I read many stories in them that eventually became movies with Sharon Cuneta, Snooky Serna or Vilma Santos playing the protagonists. Come to think of it, many of the stories in those komiks had female protagonists -- unless they were superhero stories, which had mostly men as the main character. And a lot of the protagonists came from the lower or middle class, struggling to stay in school, earn money for the family, help in taking care of siblings. Even in Funny Komiks, much of the humor was based on the everyday life of the average Juan.

And almost always, the protagonist gets to live their dream: as a successful celebrity, a rich businessperson, a triumphant superhero -- and all this while keeping a healthy romance with the person of his dreams. These stories were mesmerizing, and it did thrill me a little to find bits and pieces of my own world in them.

I remember reading Ada, Bituing Walang Ningning, Planet Op D' Eyps, and many more. I would cower under the covers at night remembering the horror stories about spirits out for revenge, or psycho doctor-serial killers, or the Tikbalang.

The Facts of Life, Komiks-Style

Through komiks, I also had my very first exposure to pornography. One of my friends invited me and a couple of other kids to sneak up to her brother's room. Under the bed, we found a stack of komiks. There didn't seem to be any story in them, just situations where the man has an opportunity to undress the woman and have sex. We were aware that these people were naked, and that they were having sex -- I don't exactly know how we knew this at 8 years old -- but we did. But seeing it in komiks form seemed so oddly funny to all of us that I look back on it as a bizarre, fond memory, rather than something traumatic.

Growing up in an Ilocano-Ilonggo household with parents who mostly spoke in English, I owed komiks for much of my Filipino vocabulary and grammar. The writing ranged from formal Tagalog to colloquial expressions, so compared to other kids who were encouraged to speak English even at home, I did very well in both English and Filipino subjects.

The Comics Connection

When we moved away sfter my mother got a nursing job abroad, I lost touch with my childhood friends, and inevtiably lost my komiks connection. I was 13 or 14 years old when we left, and I wasn't able to get my komiks fix since. I began reading "more serious" books, discovered Eliot, Dickens, Doyle, Tennyson and Shakespeare. I found Filbar's in Sta. Lucia and started reading X-Men midstream, out of sequence. I fell in love with Swamp Thing, also read out of sequence.

But aside from these half-hearted comics forays, I felt lost. I didn't know anyone who was enthusiastic about comics, and the ladies behind the counters couldn't care less about the comics they were selling, much less recommend something I might like. Plus, I didn't want to spend so much for comics I wasn't very familiar with in the first place. There were no sari-sari stores renting comics out for 25 centavos anymore.

I only started reading comics again in college. Through a friend of mine, Ceres Abanil, I picked up Sandman: Seasons of Mist by Neil Gaiman. I met my future boyfriend and Hey Comics! editor Ramon, who introduced me to Alan Moore, Garth Ennis, Warren Ellis, Frank Miller and many other creators who slowly but surely had me falling for comics completely.

Around that time, Arnold Arre's Mythology Class also caught my eye, and I was floored to discover that we had local talent like him who went beyond the komiks I was familiar with in my childhood. In turn, this led to reading other local creators like Gerry Alanguilan, Budjette Tan, Whilce Portacio etc.

A Language I Can Understand

As much as I was (and still am) involved with poetry, comics simply captured my imagination, a constant source of inspiration. I'm not good at expressing myself visually and musically, so when I watch films or listen to music, I tend to focus on the words rather than the visual or aural aspect. But with comics, I find I can appreciate the marriage of words and pictures at the same level. Comics is a more organic experience for me than other artforms with a visual or musical component.

Of course, appreciating comics and creating it are two different things. Appreciation for comics doesn't always translate to becoming a good creator. But I want to try, anyway. I would say, like in poetry, I have come up with some "juvenalia" comics of my own (with Harvey Ong as artist). But I'm not completely sure that I can cut it just yet.

Making the Rounds: Komikon 2006

It was clear, however, during last Saturday's Komikon 2006 at UP Diliman's Balay ng Alumni, that there are many independent local comics creators who are definitely up to the task.

Gerry Alanguilan gives an overview of the experience Ramon and I had that day at Newsarama.

If we had our way, we would have bought comics from every creator present there. But I could only afford to get from the creators we already know and love, and from a few talents whose work sounded too good to pass up (e.g. "Askals" by Dodo Dayao and Bong Leal. Before the Komikon I had read their wonderful one-shot story called "Noisy Blood").

Mango Jam editor and literary fixture Karen Kunawicz, though a tad tired, found fulfillment in the work she's doing for the popular and best-selling comics of the Mango Comics line.

Our good friend, comics artist Harvey Ong, gave away copies of his latest work, Tri-Tech (written by Jamie Bautista), published by Nautilus Comics. Showing his work to American comics agent, David Campiti, Harvey came away from the experience relatively unscathed.

The Filipino as an (Derivative) Artist

It seems cliche to mention that many Filipinos are talented as visual artists. But the greater concern is not so much skill and talent, but sensibility. Looking through the works and talent in the Komikon, I noticed that many of the art and illustrations were too derivative of popular artists. And I'm not just talking about the manga-style of drawing.

Several artists parrot Dave McKean and Ashley Wood so much down to the subject of the illustration (cats, robots, half-naked women). And this is not all right. There's nothing wrong with taking inspiration from great artists, and learning from their style. But at some point, one's art has to grow beyond imitation into one's own sensibility.

As a writer, I have a collection of juvenalia: poems which I feel shouldn't be published into a "serious" collection because they smack too much of the Confessional writers I drew inspiration from. I will only publish poems which I feel have my own voice, finally. Poems that can't be called anyone else's.

So I find it hard to understand how some Filipino artists feel confident enough to publish or exhibit their work when it is clear that their styles haven't developed enough yet to merit sharing to a larger audience.

Is this a manifestation of the shortcut or puwede na mentality of Pinoys? Or is there really very little interest among these artists to develop their own style, hoping instead that nobody will notice where they have derived their works from?

For me, this trend is more alarming than the manga boom. Manga has a very specific style of drawing, and those who want to become involved in this comics genre have a very defined and clear path to follow. It is easy to appropriate the manga style to our local situational stories, and it has a very specific audience in mind.

But the non-manga comics style does not allow for a highly derivative, template-based illustration style. If many of our crop of aspiring comics creators ascribe to this kind of art, they will be swallowed whole in the international market. There will be little chance to establish a modern and unique Filipino sensibility in comics.

A few great creators like Arre, Alanguilan, Portacio, Tan, etc. aren't enough to develop the local comics industry. My hope is that many of the Komikon 2006 talents do take their art to the next level like the creators I have mentioned above, and spur a Komiks Revival in our country.

The Natural

2006-10-20T19:12:00.000+08:00

by Neva Talladen

I could never turn
properly enough for the stroke,
to look behind,
see where I started.
It's supposed to be
natural, the one-hander.
Like slapping someone,
knuckle-first, fingers clustered,
outstretched. A gesture
offering, sweeping over
something grand

An exclamation point
among groundstrokes,
I knew exactly how
it would look like
when they told me;
I could have named it
myself. Not after violence,
but beauty.

The closest thing
to human flight
without leaving the earth.
A flesh-tree slowly
splaying bottom-to-top
as far as it could humanly reach,
baring trunk and all
-- willingly vulnerable
for precious, powerful seconds --

until the death-grip for a last
flourish

a frozen wave
a permanent goodbye
a planned no-return journey
that has a bad habit
of bouncing back
when you least expect.

There are no guarantees
for a successful putaway,
much less if you can't turn
and I can't.
I can't plant my feet
firmly on the ground,
can't hold
long enough, can't open
my arms to slap or fly,
the upward motion
haywiring
my bearings.

Everything comes back,
hits or misses,
no catches.
It's against the rules.

Old Muses

2006-10-10T13:27:00.000+08:00

The library was my safe place, and I would wander through shelves no matter the section, even the medical references and social sciences sections.

In high school, my mind burst from reading Frost, Browning, Shakespeare and Tennyson. It didn't matter whether I understood them completely; I understood enough. I could almost taste the words in my mouth. The experience was completely different from the life I knew and made me feel in a way nothing else would.

I remember copying verses into my journal and opening the pages again at home to read over and over until it was just the words, separated from their meaning, on my tongue. I remember not asking for my allowance so my father could by me the Complete Works of Shakespeare in that handsome, hardbound perfect-bound edition. I realize now, of course, that my month's allowance wasn't enough, that my father bought it for me anyway (one of the few fond memories I have of him).

At university, I found Luisa Aguilar-Carino (now Lusisa Igloria, if I'm not mistaken) there, as well as Danton Remoto, Resil Mojares, Jimmy Abad in the Filipiniana section. William Stafford, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Ezra Pound, I discovered in torn dust jackets or faded covers.

It was also in the library, with the new computers and the first university e-mail system, that I was able to correspond with poet Luisa Aguilar-Carino. I had never met her. And I don't know why I wrote her. Until now I don't know what it was I wanted. But I sent the email, and a few days later, was floored when Luisa's reply stared back at me in my inbox.

Bewildered, I printed the e-mail immediately, stuffed it in my bag and went home. I half-expected the e-mail to be part of my hallucination; that I was simply mistaken. It doesn't seem like such a big deal, but it meant the world to me back then.

But there it was, Luisa thanking me for the Chinese poem I sent, sympathizing with my dilemma and confusion as a young writer, and encouraging me to submit my works to be published. Those e-mails kept me afloat, gave me hope, even during times when I was torn between working to support myself and help my family and committing to my passion, writing full-time.

For some reason that I don't remember, we lost touch with each other. I think she had gone to Iowa. Our paths crossed briefly during one of her readings. But there were so many people, we didn't get the opportunity to talk for long.

Now that I am picking up the pieces and recommitting to my writing, I realize that she was, indeed, my Muse. My poems are written differently from hers, and I have chosen to take the non-academe path. But she pushed the seed into the ground for me, when I was tentatively waiting for a sign if this was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. And she doesn't even know what she has done.

My other Muses, too, I found in the womb of the library. William Stafford, in particular. Reading "The Darkness Around Us Is Deep," I felt like I was hearing my own voice from the future. He has a very masculine voice in his poems, but it resonated with mine, and for the first time, I felt brave enough to write outside the Philippine imagist convention. I felt brave enough not to be someone's protege. It wasn't a kind of arrogance, but more of a sureness I had never known until I read Stafford's poems, and his writing life.

He wrote with simplicity because the power in his lines was enough. His words were for himself, and he crafted his words everyday. "Write a poem a day," he said, "and you will have a book of poems in a year." He was a simple man, and he wrote his poems like a carpenter crafted his firsborn son's cradle.

I consider writing -- and art, for that matter -- a vocation. And working according to my vocation in life is to be true to myself. This was how Stafford saw it, too: his vocation was writing, and he did the work demanded by his art.

There is a fine line between a true artist and someone who merely thinks he is. And I think that apart from real talent, the defining quality of an artist is his dedication to his work.

Millions of brilliant images and ideas are probably percolating in the minds of billions of people in the world right now. But without the dedication to use this talent to create something out of these visions; without working toward the ideal in one's mind, then one cannot be called an artist, but a liar. In the sense that he is not being true to himself. Or maybe this is a truer definition of failure; choosing to remain a could-have-been; not fulfilling one's true potential because of laziness or fear, and making excuses for it.

Call for Submissions

2006-08-31T19:04:00.000+08:00

The first issue of Philippine Genre Stories will be launched on New Year's Day 2007. Finally, more venue for writers of fantasy, sci-fi, mystery horror/suspense.

We are looking for a few good stories.

Ones that catch a reader’s attention and captivate them so much that they lose sense of time and place in the real world because you, the writer, have drawn them to other times and places, ones of your own creation.

We are a small publishing firm based in Manila, Philippines, and we hope to receive quality stories with something about the Philippines in them. The stories could be set somewhere on any of the archipelago’s 7,100 islands (give or take a few—is it high tide, or low tide?). Or they could be set anywhere else: in another country (real or imagined), in another time, under the sea, in a haunted house, on a plane, on the moon, in outer space,…but they should have something about the Philippine culture or people woven into them. (more details here)

The Ultimate Reality Show and the World Turns Away

2006-08-28T00:26:00.000+08:00

Almost irreparable damage caused by an oil spill from a sunken tanker hired by Petron will affect millions of people and the natural biodiversity of Guimaras island and the Visayas Region.

It took exactly one day to ruin the chances of Guimaras island to be the next biggest thriving economy of the Visayas in this decade. Famous for the only export-quality fresh mangos in the Philippines, home to fisherfolk, farmers and ethnic minorities, Guimaras is now officially an oil sludge wasteland.

Mango farms like ours will soon be affected by the drastic changes in air quality, water acidity and even soil composition. The delicate balance of weather, temperature and insect population will be tipped over by the oil spill, and there isn't even enough time to consider what this going to mean for the rest of the farmers and landowners of the island.

No time because we have no choice but to become nearsighted, and tend to the more immediate concerns (clean-up operation, containment, restoration, health risks), for the time being.

One local fisherman already succumbed to the toxic fumes, hundreds of fishermen have lost their source of livelihood, Guimaras island's mangrove forests, coral reefs and white-sand beaches are ruined, maybe permanently, the oil spill is threatening to reach other islands and fishing villages, including hot tourist spot Boracay --

--All these merited a 30-second to 1 minute spot in BBC, CNN and FOX News.

By contrast, a recent plane crash in Kentucky, U.S. -- a commuter plane that carried 50 passengers (one survivor) -- has been running in almost all news networks for the past hour.

One local commuter plane crash caused by an error at take-off. Fifty people. Equals hours-long up-to-the-moment updates, blow-by-blow account, and maybe even a TV movie and book deals soon. And this story will probably run well into the next week.

While hundreds of fishermen and their families starve.

While a whole country has just suffered the loss of decades, even centuries' worth, of marine resource.

While millions will be undoubtedly affected physically, economically, socially and emotionally by the second-worst oil spill in the world this past decade.

I understand the passengers on the plane had loved ones, families, hopes and dreams. I sympathize for the families who have lost someone dear because of that crash. I appreciate the fact that there is a thorough investigation going on in the U.S. right now.

But I will be naive and lament and ask the question: how can such devastating loss to the environment and to a whole country of 10 million people be less newsworthy, be stale, compared to a plane with 50 passengers on board who crashed in the U.S.?

This is the ultimate reality show, worth its eight minutes' of fame, and neither CBS, Mark Burnett nor Donald Trump are anywhere in sight. Too bad because they could have milked this for at least another 30 to 45 days.

All the colors of the rainbow: a small percentage of the oil spill that
envelops Guimaras island, threatening to reach across as far as
Negros and Leyte.

--

I can't be a bystander in this national disaster. The blogs of Lia and Jeline have a couple of bright ideas to start with.

The Patronizing of Art Instead of Children

2006-08-26T15:12:00.000+08:00

apologies to Adrienne Rich ("The Burning of Books Instead of Children")

Reading Jeanette Winterson's Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery as a college sophomore was painful. And the pleasure that came from finishing the last page was a giddiness I'm not sure I will ever feel for a book ever again.

Years later, thumbing through Ms. Winterson's book of essays, I reread it with surprising ease and familiarity. As if I had never struggled with the concepts of the different art movements and ideologies in that same book, as if I had always comprehended Virginia Woolf's creative process when writing "The Waves" -- as if I never wondered whether I could manage the kind of life I wanted after university.

To be honest, I don't remember much from Winterson's essays in "Art Objects" anymore. But a couple of things have stuck with me and became part of my inner monologues when it comes to art and the creative life:

Ms. Winterson and me after her reading at the Edinburgh Book Festival 2004

We find we are not very good at looking.

"When was the last time you looked at anything, solely, and concentratedly, and for its own sake? Ordinary life passes in a near blur. If we go to the theatre or the cinema, the images before us change constantly, and there is the distraction of language. Our loved ones are so well known to us that there is no need to look at them, and one of the gentle jokes of married life is that we do not. Nevertheless, here is a painting and we have agreed to look at it for one hour. We find we are not very good at looking."

Art has deep and difficult eyes and for many...better pretend that art is dumb, or at least has nothing to say that makes sense to us. If art, all art, is concerned with truth, then a society in denial will not find much use for it.

The next time somebody dismisses art or poetry as irrelevant, inconsequential, obsolete, I must ask how the things they consider otherwise have truly made a difference in the world.

...the calling of the artist, in any medium, is to make it new. I do not mean that in new work the past is repudiated; quite the opposite, the past is reclaimed...This is not ancestor worship, it is a lineage of art. It is not so much influence as it is connection.

This is one of the passages I wish all Filipino writers took to heart. There so much premium given to being somebody's protege, or to a work that parrots the style and voice of the Old Greats. It's sickening, it's disheartening, and it's killing Philippine literature.

...I asked (him) how I could learn about wine. "Drink it," he said.

I am guilty of lingering too long, dreaming. It takes some time for me to plunge into the creative process, and even harder for me to ride through to the end. I tend to leave things undone, partly from fear of failure, partly from fear of accomplishment and where it may take me.

The past two months I've been burning to do something: a project, a program, a body of work, a statement. Something inspired, something I can call mine. Somehow, being broke is not so terrifying as it once was. It's clear to me now that I have to do things for myself now. Learn now. Create now. Drink the wine now. Or it will never happen.

...to profess a love for painting and not to have anything original is as peculiar as a booklover with nothing on her shelves...

Finally, I bought two original paintings by Carlo Eustaquio, an artist whose works I admire immensely. He is someone who won't stay under the radar for very long. There is something raw and palpable about his works, and I've always wondered what it would be like to have them on my wall. Now I know, and want to keep on knowing.

...real things, those things have a pace of their own that haste cannot impose upon...the way I shop (little and often), the time it takes to read a book, to listen to music, the time it takes to write a book, none of those things can happen in microwave moments

My mother brought me to the market at a very young age. I learned how to recognize freshness, ripeness, correct heft. I took in the colors, the sounds, the heat, the tastes.

The experience of going to the market, and now, grocery shopping, reminds me of those moments. And although I had been advised for many years to buy in bulk and hoard in the name of savings and/or emergency contingencies, I've decided to shop like Ms. Winterson ("little and often") to keep myself connected to people and the irreplacable experience of unhurried living.

Atrocious Journalism 101: Gerry Lirio and Philippine Daily Inquirer

2006-08-25T11:56:00.000+08:00

cf Status Quo Among the Filipino Herds

PDI's apology was no apology, and Jim Paredes lives up to his high moral standards by letting it go.

The "apology" doesn't apologize for anything. In fact, it justifies the article, saying that the error was merely in the headline, implying that Jim Paredes had overreacted to the whole thing.

But reading the offending article once again, anyone who has high-school level reading comprehension can pick up the patronizing and often mocking tone of the piece. Lirio also chooses to patch together interview tidbits implying the writer's disdain for Jim Paredes and his decision to move to Australia. It's a horribly-disguised insult piece, if I ever saw one.

And PDI has the gall to issue a non-apology, stating that the error had been in the headline and nowhere else.

If I had half the influence Jim Paredes has, I would give an interview to as many major publications as I can, and disembowel that Gerry Lirio article word-for-word. Then I would sue the Philippine Daily Inquirer through the support of friends in the legal and political community, making sure that the scandal gets TV coverage.

I would even put up a foundation made up of lawyers, researchers and media experts (probably supported by PCIJ and the Konrad Adenauer Foundation) that would raise funds specifically for advocating responsible journalism. A good chunk of the funds would go toward lawsuits against journalists and publications senseless enough to print misleading headlines and emotionally-damaging articles against celebrities and media personalities.

Then I would make sure that Gerry Lirio publicly apologizes both in print and on TV. A real apology this time -- as real as a sleazy, sensationalist writer like him can muster. If possible, I would even get him fired. Then he can go on and get a career as a fictionist.

Alas, I am not Jim Paredes, and the real Jim is a decent, forgiving human being. This is one of the very rare times when I am suddenly proud of being Filipino -- in spite of unethical gloryhounds like Gerry Lirio and smug embarrassments like the Philippine Daily Inquirer -- if only to be part of a heritage that gave birth to people like Jim.

Anti-Prejudice Flash Mob

2006-08-25T09:59:00.000+08:00

HOW TO Screw Some Evangelist Maggots Right In The Wallet

The link above courtesy of Warren Ellis' LJ tells you how to make a stand against prejudiced religious cults like Focus on the Family, the horrid anti-gay evangelical church based in Colorado Springs.

Basically, you go to their website where they give away free DVDs, CDs, and other "resource material." Of course, they have a "suggested amount for donation," but whether you give or not, they're obliged to send you a copy of the materials you requested ($100 limit). Among the selections are the Chronicles of Narnia DVD and Les Miserables CD collection sandwiched among "How to Raise Non-Gay Children" and other lovely cult-brainwashing material.

Obviously, Focus on the Family gets their funding from donations and sponsorships. By asking for these DVDs and CDs for free without donating any amount, Focus on the Family will have to keep sending these material to different people around the world (no questions asked, by the way) and start losing money.

No way was I going to pass up this chance, so I promptly did my part and requested several DVDs. Making big bucks off of people's prejudices in the guise of religion is one of the biggest crimes against humanity -- and there are far too many of these organizations.

I would invite more people to join in, but the website crashed a few hours ago from the amount of traffic this flash mob has caused. It would be interesting to see just how Focus on the Family reacts to this. In the meantime, I'm seeking out other pro-prejudice websites and see if I can't do the same thing.

Status Quo Among the Filipino Herds

2006-08-21T16:19:00.000+08:00

Been reading a lively discussion lately over at Jim Paredes' blog (via his daughter's post), triggered by a tactless, tabloid-style piece written by Gerry Lirio for the Philippine Daily Inquirer.

I commented that the article was an example of classic Filipino crab mentality, a tired, but surprisingly apt cliche to describe most Filipinos' irrational desire to bring down his countrymen when they seem to be enjoying a particularly high level of success or happiness in their lives. It's sourgraping pressed to extremes, destroying long-standing friendships and familial relations in a single blow.

For a long time, I attributed this Filipino behavior to poverty. Living hand-to-mouth everyday is more than enough to form a callous of cynicism and jadedness around anyone's spirit. And seeing somebody getting out of the vicious cycle of poverty and crime triggers desperation and a sense of loss; it's hard to be happy for someone who is headed to a better life when it seems that he is no more deserving of good fortune than you are.

I can't reconcile this kind of behavior among the middle-class and elite Filipinos, though, who are clearly not lacking in the basic necessities and can afford to indulge in personal luxuries. If you're in the middle-to-upper echelons of society, why the need to malign and scoff at another's achievements and successes when you have the resources to be a success in your own way?

Filipinos are generally seen as open, friendly and communal people. We eat together, pray together, sing together, live together up to the third degree of consanguinity. But the more I think about the behavior or my own relatives towards each other; the more I observe the dynamics of friendships, office politics and community organizations in the Philippines, the more I see a kind of veiled individualism among Filipinos.

It seems unlikely that Filipinos, who seem to crave company for every activity, would be individualistic. But by definition, being individualistic is looking out primarily for Number One. And from strict personal observation, I can say that this is the major driving force behind much of the crab mentality I've seen (and experienced) among family and friends.

Which leads me to think that maybe the masses band together not because of a sense of community or desire for companionship, but primarily for sheer personal advantage.

Like in animal herds, there's safety in numbers; there's validation in seeing many suffer daily like yourself. And maybe their failures will distract from your own faults, like bad decisions, addictions or unwillingness to change.

I don't buy the Filipino sense of bayanihan anymore. It's an outmoded sociological trend that I personally haven't witnessed in my lifetime. The so-called bayanihan efforts I've seen have been either political media stunts or gimmicks by networks concerned only about ratings.

Filipinos hate to be alone. But push comes to shove, they will bolt for as petty a reason as saving face. Usually, Pinoys will suddenly have nothing to do with a kumare or kumpare if it means risking their reputation. Worse, there are one too many cases of Filipinos fanning the flames of hostility towards people who used to be their closest friends, if it gives them an edge over them in business or social standing.

For all their warmth and friendliness, Filipino communities are generally a landmine of social ills; mini-versions of the state of the country. We're close-knit in the sense that we want to make sure that no one outside our family makes us feel insecure or look bad by -- God forbid -- making something of themselves through hardwork and perseverance. We're united as long as everyone is equally miserable or equally obscure.

And woe is the handful of Filipinos who even try to improve their situation or make the country a better place (like the Paredeses)! Because the herd will make sure you almost never get out of this community where you belong.

My Exodus

2006-08-18T12:26:00.000+08:00

The more I think about leaving Manila and "setting up shop" in another country, the more it seems like the best thing for me is to stay put. For years, I've tried to get scholarships or some sort of sponsorship, travelled in the US and UK, playing it by ear. But in the end, I still don't see myself happier in any other place. If forced, I'm sure I would thrive in another country, but I doubt I'd have what everyone believes to be a better opportunity.

How can earning in dollars or pounds can matter so much when I'd have to live like a refugee -- scrimping on everything, clipping coupons, mending clothes, watching movies only once a year -- because the standard of living is so high, coming home only a few weeks in a year, blowing the money I worked for, then heading back out to repeat the vicious cycle?

Even with a different scenario, say, studying abroad. I still would have to find some work to afford my room and board, and little luxuries. And after I finish a wonderful and successful academic career, then what? I'd have to go back home and start from Square One. It just feels like so much wasted time.

I'm not belittling people who choose to work or study abroad. For many people, these are the things that may bring them fulfillment. Especially if they have the resources to live and study in a foreign country without having to work. But I'm so tired of moving. I'm tired of starting over in a new place.

Travelling is something I enjoy very much, but only because there's a return to look forward to before the loneliness sets in. Right now, spending more than three months outside Manila just doesn't seem worth it.

Don't get me wrong. There are so many things I dislike about my own country. It seems passe to rattle off a list right now, but let's just say I find myself cursing this country and/or its native population at least once day. Still, this is paradise compared to the living situation I would have to endure in another place.

Sometimes I'm inclined to think I'm just too afraid to step out of my comfort zone. But then, this is Manila. Ever tried the public transportation system lately? Or getting anything fixed? Or shopping in malls on a Sunday? Or registering a business? I don't think a real resident would use the word comfort to describe life here.

So no, I don't think it's fear of change or the unknown that holds me to this place. It's tough-going here, too. And frankly, becoming more familiar with this place as I get older has made life even more tedious. But I've only recently realized that I've decided to stay a long time ago. I was simply in denial. Because I didn't want to be accussed of limiting my horizons or my potential. I didn't want to be seen as a Ludditte. I didn't want to be seen as the one who didn't even try.

When I was in college, most of my friends had predicted I would leave the country and thrive. I believed that was what I was meant to do, as well. And I couldn't understand why some of my young, talented professors seemed to pass on this opportunity when they had it, choosing to stay in the Philippines. Now I see exactly what they see.

Refusing to join the exodus from our country doesn't mean passing up an opportunity or limiting my horizons. I know I will keep travelling and exploring new places in my lifetime. But the most important thing is for me to make crucial life decisions in my own terms. If I ever decide to leave, it will be because I know that is the best thing for me to do, not because I am compelled by other people telling me about opportunities that are not theirs to pass up. And if I stay, like I have decided for now, it is because my happiness lies here, and I have the freedom to choose my happiness in this crazy, hopeless country.

Invisible Handshake

2006-08-03T09:42:00.000+08:00

Michael Mann's Miami Vice, as expected, didn't go over well with the 2Fast2Furious/Tokyo Drift crowd -- drones who mostly want escapism, rap/hiphop music of the nauseatingly generic kind, and no-brainer, billion-dollar budget spectacles no matter how absurdly farfetched. In fact, the more stupid the music and the more farfetched from the laws of physics, the louder these drones would cheer.

Unfortunately (thank god!) Miami Vice throws you over the side, into the deep end of the story from the get-go, and forces viewers to actually fire some neurons and show signs of intelligent life to catch up with the gritty, tight fiction about the never-ending war between big-time criminals and the law. And of course, those unfamiliar with the sensation of stimulating brain activity while experiencing a creative work would understandably feel betrayed.

This may seem like an ungenerous observation on my part. But it's offensive to me for someone to say that they expected a full-on action movie, when what they really mean is they want an extended trailer displaying special effects and stunt choreography insterspersed with sex scenes involving extremely beautiful women portrayed as whores (except they have sex for free because they're impressed with the macho protagonist) -- all in less than two hours.

A real action movie is the kind that Michael Mann sets up using music, camera movement, silences, simple, sparse dialogue without a word wasted, building to a nerve-wracking crescendo swell that finally breaks over your head, tripping the adrenalin switch on.

And in the end, Mann still successfully retains what makes Miami Vice, well, Miami Vice: the partnership of two undercover agents as weapon against organized and powerful criminals.

It's not a masterpiece, of course. It's not The Insider or Heat. At some point, you want to throw a bucket of popcorn at Gong Li's projected image and shout, "What's happening to you?!?" And the bookend shower scenes make me wonder about the fine print in Colin and Jamie's contracts. But it's all good fun, Michael Mann-style.

--

That said, the movie made my envy for male friendship even more intense.

I'm not sure what makes friendship among men different than women's. I only really started paying attention when my cousin Lewis' friend, Andy, arrived from Scotland (via Dubai). I felt left out immediately, not because I couldn't participate in their conversation. There's simply something they are experiencing that I clearly can't be part of.

What is it?

Sure, women friends appear more intimate, but it somehow feels more superficial than men who consider themselves friends. There's this invisible checklist that they tick-off before they dare consider someone their friend. And I guess that's where part of the difference lies; women tend to make friends too easily, and play out the expected "friend behavior" rather than act out of genuine feeling. I feel that while we are more concerned about not breaking friendship rules, men seem more focused on putting in time with those they genuinely get along with.

There's also the matter of me as a woman, consciously trying to make friends with women I'm incompatible with because I was raised thinking that if I don't make the effort, I'm automatically unsociable. And the word social is a pretty accurate description of most friendships I have with my women friends. A handful of them are truly my close friends. The rest of the time, it's more of a mixed-nuts situation; I can't throw the whole can away just because I don't feel strongly for some of them.

I envy the simple, straightforward, unspoken friendship between two guys. They are what they are, they can say, or not say, what they mean, you can make an utter ass of yourself without a word of criticism or jugement, and there are no eggshells to step around because, goddamit, you're a man, and you should be able to take it! Sometimes I want that so badly.

Mittens Will Live Another Decade

2006-08-02T16:36:00.000+08:00

Reading Karen Winters' post about her old and ailing cat, Mandu, set me off crying again. Mandu was 22 years old and he lost his hearing and, most recently, his vision. His weak state (arthritis, kidney problems, blindness, deafness, growing immobility) finally prompted Karen and her husband to put Mandu to sleep.

I'm emotional about these things because I'm aware that Mittens is also getting on in years. She still fools plenty of people into thinking she is a spry young pup because of her size and disposition, but some things jolt me back to the reality that she is, in fact, more than a decade old. I noticed that she has found it harder to jump onto sofas or beds more than she used to, she naps more often, her vision and depth perception are not as keen anymore, although, thankfully, her hearing is fine, cataracts have started to form in her eyes, although the vet has assured me that it's nothing to be alarmed about -- little things like that.

The Winters' were extremely fortunate to share 22 years with Mandu. If possible, I want Mittens to stay with me for another decade -- without pain and health problems, of course. But I know this is a wish that may not come true for me no matter how careful I am or how observant. And the thought of having to part with Mittens is enough to drive me to tears. I don't know how I'd be able to bear it.

It's foolish to worry about this now, when she is perfectly healthy and happy. But reading the entry, I'm faced with a question: will I be able to do the right thing for Mittens when it's her time? And knowing how stubborn and relentless I am, will I be able to let her go?

Right now, I feel that I can't. I just won't.

Life On Hold

2006-08-02T13:09:00.000+08:00

I've put so many things on hold for too long, and now I'm bursting with so much remorse-driven resolve. So August is the month for mending broken promises and finishing hanging bridges. Why is it so hard to close doors when they are so easily opened?

Also, I've resolved not to let a day pass without immersing myself in inspiring creative work. The easiest way for me is to grab a book or to watch DVDs. Recently, I've rewatched "In The Mood For Love." I saw it once, and thought it was the film I least liked of Wong Kar Wai's works (except for Days of Being Wild). But when I started watching it last week, it felt like a totally different film to me. It was shorter than I remembered; it's actually the shortest film of Wong Kar Wai at an hour and a half, but the first time I saw it, it felt like a three-hour film. I saw so many details that I missed at first viewing. It was a complete revelation to me. The film was so sumptuous, I could eat it. And now, years later, I think it may be my favorite Wong Kar Wai movie after Chungking Express.

One of the final scenes of "In the Mood for Love" was open for interpretation, and Ramon and I had totally opposite takes on it.
The scene is this. Mr. Chow (Tony Leung) returns to the old apartment building where he and Lizhen (Maggie Cheung) used to live. He meets the new occupant of the apartment he once shared with his wife. Chow looks longingly at the nextdoor apartment that Lizhen used to live in with her husband, and asks after the new occupants. The man helpfully tells Chow that a lady and her son live there now. Giving the place one last, long look, Chow leaves quietly with a faint, bittersweet smile on his face.

The camera cuts to the interior of one of the apartments. It is Lizhen, getting ready to go out with her son. If Chow had knocked on the door, they would have crossed paths again.

The question is this: had Lizhen -- terribly conscious about tradition and societal taboo -- mustered the courage to leave her husband years after his betrayal? Or was the husband simply uncaptured by the camera because he had left for one of his frequent business trips?

Ramon thinks it's the former. Which is a more romantic, and a more likely conclusion. But I tend to think Lizhen hasn't changed and is still with her husband. In my mind, she has simply learned to focus on her love for her son instead of her frustrations. Then again it's a movie, and there's license for more romantic notions. I just realized that even in the realm of fiction I find myself projecting my hopelessness about people and change in the real world.

Bilateral Symmetry

2006-06-20T23:09:00.000+08:00

big guy
big hair
big house
big league
big lie
Big Man
big name
big noise
big science
big screen
big shot
big stick
big time

Instincts and idiosyncracies

2006-06-18T00:10:00.000+08:00

Maybe my maternal instrinct was (mis)directed towards animals. I say this more often as I grow older simply because it's a more comfortable explanation for my relatives and acquaintances to hear. I've adopted strays, chosen unwanted, underprivileged pets in kennels, rescued collapsed animals, fallen younglings, nursing them back to health.

But I don't think there is anything altruistic about my actions. I feel happiest around animals because I feel more responsible for them than for my fellow humans. My feeling of responsibility towards animals doesn't seem like a burden at all, but, ironically, some kind of freedom. And I know that given the opportunity and financial privilege, I would adopt all the strays and unwanted animals I could fit in my home.

For now, though, my only "baby" is my dog, Mittens. Found at the back of the kennel being trampled mercilessly by a beautiful and superior white spitz. The minute I laid eyes on her, I knew she would come home with me.

Now she owns me as much as I own her. She is stationed permanently at the foot of my bed at night, and doesn't budge until my alarm rings. Or if I'm having a nightmare.

She's a jealous one, too. Never lets anyone have the privilege of waking me up in the morning. Stubbornly squeezes herself into chairs, sofas, beds where I am. Guards the bathroom door everytime I enter to make sure she doesn't miss me when I come out. Casually and spitefully steps on my PowerBook whenever she can get near it (she hates how I spend so much time on it). Doesn't let anyone in my room until I say so. Doesn't let Ramon hug me until she gets her tummy scratch first -- we know each other's itches and scratches, and this is the closest I've been to feeling maternal.

Mittens is ten years old already, and I'm doing my best to keep her in my life until...I don't even want to put an until. There are very few things that I need to be constant in my life, and Mittens is one of them. If it means giving her walks even when I'm riddled with arthritis and bent over, if it means carefully mixing her food just the way she wants it every single day, if it means reliquishing a good part of the bed every night...

Marooned

2006-06-17T23:20:00.000+08:00

I realize I am practically an orphan. At this point in my life, I don't have parents anymore. I'm scraping by on my own terms, fulfilling my daily obligations, and running and taking care of a household. I say this without bitterness or smugness. I know I didn't get where I am now on my own. And I would be lying if I said I don't need anyone's approval anymore.

My mother has finally found her happiness in a new family now. And while my brother and I are welcomed warmly into their world, we know we don't truly belong there. My father is a classic lost soul who never had a cause in the first place. I am unofficially parentless.

I'm not very sad about it. I know I'm not alone. I have the good fortune of finding a patient, loving partner, and dear friends who have seen me at my best and worst (and still accept me). It's just that I didn't expect to experience something like this early in my life. It's been a such a sudden and strange turn of events for me that even now, watching families on film or TV, I can't dismiss them as unrealistic portrayals.

I'm not going to have my own child. I don't want the joy. I don't want the fulfillment. I don't want the responsibility of a human life; its birth, its survival, its formation as an individual who is part of a community -- I don't want it. Not because I think the world is hopeless, a dark, merciless pit of suffering, etc. My reasons are purely selfish. I don't want the burden. Fathering and mothering myself, my brother and my own father for all these years is enough parenthood for me. I quit.

People keep telling me the maternal instinct will kick in. Or the biological clock. But I don't think so. It's just a solid certainty inside me. Maybe one day I can say out loud that I do NOT want to have kids, and not be judged harshly or pitied or reprimanded or ridiculed or ostracized for it.

--

Unmended

2006-06-12T11:47:00.000+08:00

The source of my biggest heartbreak is my father.

He's a thorn on my side, the stuff of my bitter disappointments, my Achilles' Heel.

He has been a failure at life because of his laziness and unwillingness to take control of his own life. His whole life he has depended on the kindness of his relatives and friends, and until now, at 54, jobless for more than ten years, business plans unrealized, sitting at his desk, he is still lying in wait for the apple to fall into his open mouth.

He depends on me. And try as I might to cut him off from my life, I can't. He has me in an emotional trap, and even though I am aware of it, I can't break free. And I hate him for it. I hate him because I can't abandon him. He was a good father to me and my brother while we were growing up. A good father who spent time with the kids, but not enough at work. And he certainly was not a good husband, depending on my mother to take on two or three jobs at a time for us to get by, ridiculing her in front of her colleagues, taking the side of his relatives instead of his own wife in crucial issues.

Then my mother left to work abroad. Good for her. Good for us. We got out of the dangerous, rat-infested housing project we lived in and went on to grow up healthy and happier. Their separation was the best thing that ever happened to our family.

It's a funny thing, growing up. The world is suddenly presented to you like you've never seen it before. The truth is even more puzzling than the lie you believed when you were a child. And slowly, horrifyingly, I saw my father for who he really was: a perpetual sloth who cared little about anything else, so long as there was someone he could leech off from. Dignity wasn't an issue for him. He was happy enough to let my mother pay for his rent, his food, his clothes for the next few years.

Until I'd had enough and moved out of the house. My mother stopped paying for anything once I left. He suffered. He was going hunry, and he still didn't do anything about it. He played the pity card on his dearest friends, who believe his schtick every single time. And he took money and food from them. Then he started his emotional onslaught with me. And each time he won. He is still winning. And I hate it. I hate him. I will never be at peace until he changes or I find a way to get him out of my life forever.

My heart will always be broken because of my father. My whole childhood has been betrayed. And I will spend my whole life carefully plodding through a sea of men, avoiding anyone who so much as resembles him like the plague.

Eruptions

2006-06-10T14:38:00.001+08:00

This is the second volcano eruption dream I've had in a month.

Two weeks ago, I dreamed I was in my bedroom, looking out the window at a gigantic volcano. Here. At the heart of the Makati Central Business District. Suddenly, without warning, it shook, then erupted, spewing lava at a incomprehensible strength and speed. The whole place was suddenly shaken with earthquake, and I could see the lava sweeping over the buildings and cars like a tidal wave. I scooped Mittens in my arms, and ran to the master bedroom where my brother was. For some reason, Ramon was there, as well, and I was telling them that we needed to make a run for it. My brother grabbed his computer, Ramon grabbed Emily (my Powerbook), and we all ran down the fire escape.

The other night, I was looking out of my bedroom window again, in my dream. I was somewhat aware that I was dreaming; I remember asking myself, "Didn't I dream about this already?" But this dream was slightly different. The volcano erupted, but before I can run to the next room, the lava had already reached the building. Even more amazing, the lava flow reached up to the windows of our 12th floor unit. All the windows were closed, and in that dream, lava was incapable of penetrating glass. After a few seconds, the lava hardened. (It was a dream, after all). Only the tops of the windows weren't covered with hardened lava. We were trapped inside. My last memory of it was me wondering how we could get out.

Then I woke up, and was greeted with this news item.

I wonder what it's like to live within the proximity of a volcano, whether active or dormant. There's no assurance that a dormant volcano won't come alive again, like Mt. Bulusan. How does it feel to spend most of your life in such a place, with the knowledge at the back of your head that, in a worst-case scenario, the land and people you know well could be wiped out in a matter of hours, forever?

Just Another Mall, Believe Me!

2006-05-23T16:40:00.000+08:00

Been to Mall of Asia last Sunday.

First thing I noticed was the design of the mall parking was a mess: uneven inclines, uneven headroom, bad spacing, etc. (trademarks of SM pa rin talaga). It was very full so people started parking outside, and, what a surprise, the mall guards were understaffed and ill-equipped to direct a smooth flow of traffic. It was mayhem.

Of course, there was a severe lack of proper directional signage. You have no idea where the mall entrance is once you park your car. It was even worse inside the mall.

When you get to the mall, there are no directional signage to the directory and map. And when you check the map, there are no corresponding letters or numbers for the places you want to go, only COLORS. And the colors are all bunched together depending on their area, so you have to count and guess which of the squares is the actual store you want. Don't even hope to get directions from the guards or the swamped information center.

Some design details are impressive, though. Particularly the dome inside and how it opens to the view of the sea and sunset. But the downside to this is the smell of stagnant seawater (not the usual yummy smell of the sea) is so strong in that area of the mall. It smells like a fish market!

Predictably the aircon was strong (inside "SM Proper") because it's a new place. We'll see how it fares in the long run, and whether or not the Sy's would deign to spend money on mall-wide maintenance.

Plus there are, technically, just TWO floors for the whole mall. It's just wide. But in number of stores and variety, I think the mall in Hong Kong still takes the cake.

And don't get me started on the poorly-organised and horrible layout of the Food Court, which is, as expected, near the skating rink.

At least that's one good thing that came from all of this: Filipinos can finally compete (figure skating, hockey) in the Olympics because we have a regulation-sized rink.

It's a big hulking monstrosity. But then again, what did I expect of SM? Plus, I don't know why a SHOPPING MALL should be something to be proud of. We're just prone to overhyping the wrong things. And for most of us, anything shiny and new automatically equals "good," even if we haven't really given proper reflection about its purpose and impact in our lives.

Does a new mall really help create new jobs or does it simply give more venue for the unscrupulous labor practices of companies like SM? The building is built on dangerously soft, reclaimed land; in the event of an earthquake or freak storm, is this badly designed mall going to be a sturdy shelter for shoppers or a deathtrap?

Meanwhile, historical buildings like the newly-renovated National Museum, and ingeniously designed CCP and Folk Arts Theater hardly get acknowledged as architectural milestones and point of pride for us Filipinos.

Paano, walang skating rink at Jollibee sa loob!

Previous entry: D-day

D-Day

2006-05-20T15:02:00.000+08:00

Nevatalladen.com is finally live.

Thanks to Jorem Catilo of spoonmarks.com for the super design, and to Cynthia Bauzon, an inspiration to me online and off.

And to R. Of course.

Announcement

2006-05-13T10:11:00.000+08:00

Hello Friends,

In a few days, my website, nevatalladen.com, will finally go live. (Yes, one more annoying URL to add to your ever-growing friends' links.)

I've decided to get my own website to serve as a catalyst of sorts. I feel that if I have an official presence in the World Wide Web, I'd be forced to be more creative and productive, and finally do many of the things I said I would set out to do. And hopefully, get more paying projects from "good" (prompt paying, respectful) clients.

But more than these things, having my own website is a way for me to tie up certain things in my life with what I am doing now, or what I plan on doing. So many times, I make the mistake of forgetting the lessons I've learned from working with so many people and from my travels. I miss the signals. I lose my footing. Then I wake up miserable, wondering how I got to that place or why I am stuck in the same rut.

The website is small and simple, but it's mine. And I must constantly remind myself of what's mine, what's me. It's so easy to lose my bearings when people around me -- especially the ones I love most or look to with high esteem -- throw good intentions at me that don't quite fit. (They never will.)

At the same time, I want to share the joy I get from looking through the "pages" of my own digital space. It's a drop of water in the ocean, but the ripples go far.

Cheers,
Neva

some lessons and instructions

2005-10-31T14:25:00.000+08:00

in no particular order:

1.) Great mascara is always above P900.

2.) Never try to remove your own ingrown toenails.

3.) Put down your groceries before attempting to unlock your door.

4.) In the Philippines, stick out your arm outside the elevator door as you are getting off. This will ward off the mob that will plow into you head-on as if you weren't there. Do the same for getting off the MRT.

5.) In case of the above, it is perfectly acceptable to shoulder-butt or elbow-butt stubborn mob to make way for yourself.

6.) Always assume there is someone getting off as the elevator door opens; make way accordingly.

7.) When being harassed by Makati Police very late at night, call your father and pretend that you are talking to a lawyer instead. Punctuate your "conversations" with "Yes, Attorney" or "Yes, Sir." Act meek and innocent and squint at their nametags, pretending to read their names to your "lawyer."

8.) Have your full-body photo taken by a friend or sibling at least once a month. You'll never know how much weight you've gained or lost just by looking in the mirror.

9.) Never ask your boyfriend if you've gained or lost weight. He'll never give a straight answer.

10.) Diet pills alone don't work.

11.) They really don't. Unless it's shabu in a capsule.

Have you ever witnessed firsthand someone above 140 pounds trim down to 110 pounds JUST by taking diet pills (before and after photos don't count)?

12.) Waking up early in the morning is great. But not so great when you want to sleep in after a hard night of partying.

13.) Playing tennis makes your dominant arm bigger than your other arm.

14.) Shoes below 200 pesos LOOK like they're below P200.

15.) If you're going to buy knock-offs, don't buy LV.

16.) Don't buy pets no matter how cute they are if you're not willing to feed, bathe, groom, walk and play with them yourself for as long as they live. Yes, even if you have 100 maids.

17.) If you have the resources, time and space for a pet, adopt one from the pound or PAWS, especially the ones less likely to get adopted.

18.) You can't outrun a cat.

19.) Don't lend more than you can afford to lose.

20.) Don't borrow money from or lend to a good friend. Take out a bank loan instead.

21.) Driving isn't as great as it looks. In fact, it's really tiresome.

22.) Travel light.

23.) Keep your umbrella on your lap when riding a cab or public transport. If it's not in your hand or on your lap, you'll leave it behind.

24.) Banana is good for you.

25.) Ask your parents (individually) about their "sordid" past lives as teenagers and single adults. Recognize the same patterns in your own life and steer clear of the mistakes they made.

hey, elliott...

2005-10-13T18:15:00.000+08:00

I heard your voice again today after so long. I know it's selfish of me, but I wish you could've endured living a few years more, if only to make more of that beautiful music of yours. But I know.

I know it was unfair how the world you made so happy made you ever more miserable. I know you loved in a way I will never learn to love in my lifetime. I know that I will never understand why erasing yourself from the world was the better choice for you.

But I have to tell you. You failed. You're still here.

You've made yourself even more present to me and the world by leaving it. And I think that's what hurt me most of all, silly as this sounds. It hurt that you would go but leave pieces of you inside me: your words, your music, your voice. Your voice. It's even more a part of who I am now than when you were here body and soul. Your face, which I have never seen, will forever appear in dreams I won't remember in the morning.

It wasn't really about her, was it? It was about you. It has always been about you. People like me have to live with ourselves every waking moment of our lives. People like me have to go on enduring -- for better or worse -- what's become of ourselves. Why couldn't you? It has never been easy; how was it harder for you?

You left, but your shadow is still upon me, upon many others than you ever cared to know. Why is it the ones who seem to know the world most can't seem to wait to leave it? Why is it better to disappear?

Did you know you made the world unbearably beautiful? You made the pain and the bittersweet embraceable; my tears may as well be pearls. Because of you and your words.

And they're still here. You're still here, Elliott.

I thank you and curse you...

coffee...sigh

2005-10-12T14:17:00.000+08:00

I like the smell of fresh, hot coffee. In fact, I love it. But I can't drink the stuff. Nothing life-threatening or anything. It's just that for some reason, caffeine in cuppa-joe form gives me headaches. The kind that squeezes my head in a vise-like grip and makes my head almost explode.

Strangely, Coca-cola and cold frappucino are fine. So is coffee cake. And coffee candy. But a hot cuppa joe will disable almost all of my motor functions automatically. I envy people who can start their mornings with a cup of coffee. It makes them look so grown-up, so in control of their destiny.

killing time

2005-10-10T02:22:00.000+08:00

The following are the TV shows that have really influenced me as a person for better or worse (listed randomly):

My So-Called Life
Felicity
The Office
Growing Pains
Quantum Leap
Sesame Street
Batibot
Spaced
Chika Chika Chicks
OK Ka Fairy Ko

And now, back to work.

awakening

2005-10-09T01:47:00.000+08:00

Now that I'm more or less adept at cosmetics application, the memory of myself as a stranger to make-up is a bit hazy. But yes, most of my life, I've never cared for the stuff, even when my own mother was (and still is) a self-confessed patron of all things related to cosmetic beauty.

I did play with -- and destroy -- my mother's favorite Chanel lipstick when I was 10 years old. And I remember fiddling with her pot of rouge when I was 12, hoping to recreate that natural cheek-flush my German cousins had. I only succeeded in getting teased to no end by my aunts and cousins. There was also that period when I was 15, when I used my mom's Lipsyl (lipstick sealer); I had rashes on my lips for a week.

Make-up was superficial to me; something I didn't need. And of course, that's basically true. Nobody really needs make-up. And cosmetics are all about playing up what's on the outside.

Being the nerd that I was, I came into the magic of make-up discovery very late in the game. I didn't even experiment with lip gloss when I was in college. I had the odd lipstick and powder, of course; gifts from well-meaning friends and relatives. But I only truly explored make-up when I hit 24.

Mary Kay cosmetics was my first exposure to make-up. And I think it helped that the emphasis of Mary Kay was skin care more than cosmetics. Saved me from premature aging and discoloration, as well as inculcating the importance of good skin over covered-up skin.

A few years and dozens of make-up counters later, I'm at a point where I can say I've struck a balance between being a make-up junkie and a "natural" girl afraid of the slightest color. Believe me, I've been through the must-have-every-Allure-featured-make-up phase. Go around the MAC, Shiseido and Bobbi Brown counters, and they'll be familiar with my name. Same with drugstore brands like Maybelline, Max Factor and Revlon. They can spot me from a mile away, and start texting me when I don't pass by for a week.

Then my credit card bill jolted me awake one day, and I decided to take matters at hand and be more practical. Make-up withdrawal is NOT a pleasant experience. I guess it's the same with all addictions. But I coped somehow. I turned my attention to make-up technique instead. Read every make-up tome from Kevyn Aucoin and Bobbi Brown to Vogue and InStyle. Making friends with make-up artists at the MAC counter also had its benefits. I learned what styles and colors worked for myself and developed an eye for what worked for others.

I can't imagine why I was so resistant to make-up before. And so many Filipinas, I noticed, still are. But the funny thing is, I get lots of feedback about Filipinas being afraid that make-up will destroy their skin, and yet most of them don't even wear sunblock on their faces and load up on pore-clogging talc (Johnson's Baby Powder, anyone?).

But I guess fear of the unknown is natural. It's the despise for the unknown that's puzzling. I know a nurse who was ostracized by her colleagues because she was fond of make-up. Make-up seems to be associated with frivolous vanity (everyone is vain in their own way) or ditziness. I can't argue. These stereotypes are valid because they are true to some degree. But I also think women who forego the experience of make-up -- correctly applied make-up, that is -- are closing themselves to a wonderful life experience.

As with suddenly immersing yourself to a new environment or situation, experimenting with different colors and looks for my face forces me to look at myself in another light. Ironically, it gives me a clearer idea about who I am. And I like the sense of control when I have to decide what image or impression I want to express everyday.

I guess clothes and shoes would give a similar feeling. But make-up can drastically change an appearance more than clothes and shoes ever could. It's the eyes you tend to look at first, the mouth, the face.

So every chance I get I try to make make-up look put-together, but effortless and fun. I try to look the best I can because it somehow reinforces who I am and who I want to be. Make-up for me is an expression of desire to constantly improve myself. And if I can help someone with their make-up awakening, it would be my tiny contribution to this world of beauty.

hairy proposition

2005-10-08T00:19:00.000+08:00

Yes, I should really stop with the "witty" titles.

I never knew I had an abnormal amount of body hair until I was about 15, and the bullies in my all-girl highschool started teasing me about bigote (moustache) and kamote (apparently, my leg hair was so thick you could plant camote on it).

So I started shaving my legs and depilating my upper lip religiously.

There is nothing wrong with shaving legs; it's the most convenient, cheapest and fastest method of hair removal. But after doing this a few times, hairy girls like me realize that I have to do it almost everyday to get the desired no-stubble, flawless effect. The chicken skin is also a problem. Moisturizing and exfoliating legs help, but not by much. The regrowth of hair is thick and raised, an awful sight. And if you run your hands upwards over your legs -- even newly-shaven legs -- there's that unmistakable glass-shard feel. Not very appealing for moments when -- well, there will be moments that call for running hands (not necessarily yours) up your legs, believe me. And it will not be very appealing.

So I've tried waxing. This is a great way to get rid of body hair anywhere, and I do mean anywhere (I'm a fan of the Brazilian wax myself). The chicken hair effect is almost nil, the regrowth is slow and finer and not immediately visible. But heaven help me, it's an expensive habit. It will set you back more than P1,000 pesos for both legs. For the works (whole legs, eyebrows, underarms, upper lip, nether regions) get ready to shell out around P3,000. But if you have the budget for this, go for it. I recommend Brazilian Bare at the 5/F of Rustans Makati (beside Belo Medical Clinic). They're the best I've tried. Reggie is the one you want if you want thorough but fast service.

Threading may be considered the HG (Holy Grail) for hair removal because it does not, repeat, does NOT produce chicken skin or skin irritation. At all. But it hurts like a mother. For the sake of beauty, I've endured threading on the legs, underarms, brows, upper lip and bikini area and it took me 3 hours because I kept crying from the pain. Now if you were someone like my Aunt Evie, whose tolerance for pain in ridiculous, then this is the technique for you. All the benefits of waxing and more. Hair regrowth is even slower and finer than waxing. And because all you need is thread (any sewing thread will work just as well), it's unbelievably cheap. Of course, you pay for the labor, which will probably set you back around P1,000 at most for the works. Not bad, considering you will probably only need it every two months or so. Get your threading fix at one of the salons in Park Square 2 or Salon de Magallanes in Gateway Mall, Magallanes. Pain management tip: to minimize pain, try applying Emla cream (buy it over the counter at any drugstore) over the area you want treated and put scotch tape over the area for about 40 minutes before threading. Or you can numb the area with ice.

Depilators are convenient and not so expensive as well. The good ones I've tried are Veet and the Sally Hansen range (face and body). I have to say, the best I've tried for body depilatory is Sally Hansen Lotion Hair Remover (green squeeze-bottle). I spread it on with my fingers and leave it for about 4 minutes. It gets everything during the rinse and doesn't leave a smell. Almost no chicken skin as long as I moisturize and hair regrowth is the same rate as waxing. The only thing is I can't use this for the face. But Sally Hansen's Brush-On hair remover works (although regrowth is faster than desired). The lotion hair remover costs P350 and is good for about four generous whole-body applications ( so about 4 months). The brush-n hair remover costs the same, I think. Veet is good for sensitive skin and cheaper, but regrowth is fast.

Wax strips and MOOM are good, too, but only if you have enough time to do it yourself. Moom is particularly great because you can wash right after (unlike hot wax) and you don't have to heat it. But Mooming your legs and underarms by yourself is a daunting and exhausting task. Believe me, I've Moomed for about 4 months until I got wiser and used depilators instead. For the price of Moom and the wax strips (around P600 or more), I suggest just going to a waxing clinic instead and have it done professionally. The jar of Moom gets used up pretty quickly and the time you end up wasting is not worth it.

For eyebrows, it's better to just have it professionally done, whether waxed or threaded (shaving is not advisable unless you are willing to commit to plucking regrowth everyday). The shape of the brows do a lot for your appearance so better not leave anything to chance. It's cheap enough (P150, normally) so you can have it done monthly.

Now here's a friendly advice after hair removal, especially for the legs and underarms: leave it alone for 24 hours to avoid irritation or discoloration. No deodorants, no powders or lotions. After that period, I swear by VMV Hypoallergenics Id Exfoliating Lotion (comes in a blue glass pump bottle). If I remember right, it costs around P600 or less. This is the solution to chicken skin, folliculitis and mild skin asthma. It can be used on the face as well. To be safe, use this only in the evening or on areas not exposed to the sun. It's great especially for back pimples.

it's all about protection

2005-10-07T21:41:00.000+08:00

So it's been two weeks and the benzoyl peroxide regimen has been working like a dream. My skin has that "glowing" look and really noticeably smoother (no more whiteheads on my forehead and nose). It remains to be seen if the bp can keep my monthly pre-menstrual breakouts at bay. But so far, I'm satisfied. My back has also improved; the pimples and blackheads are almost all gone.

The only drawback (although it's not really a disadvantage for me because I have really oily skin) is that bp is drying. It's advisable to use a hypoallergenic moisturizer after applying bp at night for those who have normal and dry skin.

And in the morning it's very important to apply sunblock all over the face, neck and other exposed areas -- even during rainy or overcast days. It's worth the trouble. I see so many acquaintances who had great skin in college who look older than their age all of a sudden because of sun exposure. Yes, genetics plays a big role, but so does prevention.

Facial sunblocks I recommend:

Armada face and body sunblock spf 70: you can choose to go lower spf but not lower than 30; this will set you back anywhere from P600 to P1,000.
Godiva green tea facial sunblock spf 30: it takes time for it to settle on the skin, but gives lasting sun protection. If I remember correctly, this sunblock costs along the lines of P250 to P350
Neutrogena Facial Sunblock SPF 15: this costs only about P200 BUT must be reapplied twice during the day.
Shiseido sun protection: this sun protection range is excellent, but extremely expensive (costing around P3,000 or more); you're really paying for the brand name. it also contains fragrance that may be irritating for sensitive skin.
Hypoallergenic sunblock by Dr. Mary Jane Valdecanas (Stresscape Clinic): decent sun protection at affordable price; you have a choice between the standard cream sunblock and the gel type sunblock for those who have very oily skin. She also makes tinted moisturizer with sunscreen.

skin care class #1

2005-10-04T21:22:00.000+08:00

Been trying out the ProActiv skin care line for the past two months on my face and upper arms (I have skin asthma). It worked pretty well, reducing my pre-menstrual breakouts and the tiny bumps on my arms. But I don't think it's working as well as it should be, especially for the price. The set of cleanser, toner, mask and treatment solution is a whopping P3,995. The ProActiv outlet in SM Makati (Watson's area) is even more expensive.

So I found this website, which makes use of the same ingredient as ProActiv, benzoyl peroxide. Some of the products he recommends aren't available here locally, but I found some good substitutes.

The routine:

1. Remove make-up with gentle make-up remover (VMV Hypoallergenics or
MK Signature)

2. Cleanse - Cetaphil (for face and/or body):This one took a bit of getting
used to because Cetaphil feels so watered down. But it really does clean
well

3. Pat dry. Avoid rubbing towel over skin

4. Toning is completely optional (use gentle, non-alcohol
kind)

5. Benzoyl Peroxide 2.5% - PanOxyl :This is the only one I can find
with this concentration. The rest seem too strong with their 5% and 10%
concentration.

6. Moisturizer with sunblock - the recommended product is Neutrogena but I
use Armada sunblock or Bobbi Brown tinted moisturizer (this one is
pricey)

At night, I don't use the sunblock anymore, but I make sure I won't be exposed to the morning sun while sleeping.
The total amount I spent for these products was P300, give or take (not including the tinted moisturizer and sunblock, of course). And I've been more than satisfied. All these products can be found in Mercury Drug, by the way.

I know not everyone will have the same reaction to benzoyl peroxide, but this is by far the best, most consistent result I've experienced without adverse reactions. Of course, I have to be vigilant in applying sunblock. But I've gotten used to the routine, anyway.

I like the benzoyl peroxide treatment better than AHA and salicylic acid because my skin doesn't turn lobster-red after a few minutes under the sun (even with sunblock). Also, my oily skin reacts well to it, giving me a dewy instead of greasy appearance.

And some good news: studies about the connection between chocolate and acne are inconclusive. Meaning, a regular diet of choclate may make someone prone to obesity, adult-onset diabetes and heart disease, but they are NOT the major culprits as far as pimples are concerned.

I think I'm about overdue for a Hershey bar, anyway...

soulmate

2005-10-02T13:37:00.000+08:00

The moment I saw Mittens I knew she was the one. I had decided on an adorable lhasa apso that clambered onto my lap when I noticed something struggling at the back of the kennel. It was evening so I couldn't see very well, but I could just make out a large white Japanese spitz fussing over something. My mother reached in and pulled out a very black, very tiny ball of fur. The white spitz had been stepping all over it.

I put down the lhasa apso and went over to my mother. She put the puppy on her lap and held up its forepaws. They were white, like socks. So were its hindpaws. And the tip of its tail. And its little chin. I looked into its eyes. She slept in my room from the very first night.

My little brother Angus wanted to name her Dipstick. I'm glad I stuck to the name Mittens, although that name is commonly used for cats.

Mittens came with another puppy, a beautiful labrador we called Mango. Mango caught distemper before she could be vaccinated and died in my arms, in spite of my round-the-clock vigils and treatment from the vet. I mourned for a long time. Mittens, in her own way, saw me through it. She almost never let me out of her sight. And I didn't let her out of mine.

Nine years later and we still take care of each other. My room is her territory and anyone who enters it have to "pay tribute" to her first by scratching her tummy. She sleeps where she can keep an eye on me. I have nightmares frequently, and when I do, she wakes me up. She tries to keep away anyone who attempts to wake me up in the morning. But she'll also be the first one to get me out of bed and drag me out for her walks.

Mittens is a polite but sneaky dining companion. She patiently sits at your feet and doesn't try to jump up the table. But if you happen to sit at floor level while eating, she will go right behind you and try to swipe the food in your hand.

She likes to eat vegetables and yoghurt as much as her usual dogfood fare. She prefers rice to pasta and can scarf down a muffin in seconds. Don't let her small size fool you.

After eating, she commences with her rolling-on-her-back-and sneezing routine. This is how she shows her appreciation for her meal. This is also my cue to rub her tummy.

She's the resident cat-terror for a mile radius. When she spots one, she can easily outrun it -- if only I'd let her. But she knows I like cats as well and she has never done anything more than terrify them. She gets frustrated when she doesn't encounter any cats during her walk. Most of the time, the cats know when she's coming, so they are wise enough to keep out of her way. That's why every now and then I change the time of her walk to catch the cats unawares.

There are times when she just doesn't want to eat. She won't complain or do anything to inconvenience anyone. But I'll know something's wrong because she'd just lie in one spot. Usually it's a stomach problem (the tummy grumbles and gas are clues), but a little coaxing and baby-ing usually works and she'll do her best to eat and keep her strength up.

When I am out of ideas I spend time brainstorming with her and my work becomes easier. She reminds me I need to rest every few hours. She doesn't like TV very much, except when its National Geographic because the animal sounds excite her.

I left her for three years with my father, but I couldn't stand being without her so I smuggled her into the apartment in spite of the building rules. Everyone lets it slide. Especially the guards. She provides them with entertainment during her walks and has never once soiled the elevator. She can only ever relieve herself on soil and grassy surfaces.

The fences around the landscape garden near our building were built because of her; they want to keep Mittens out. What they don't know is she can fit between the bars.

She loves water in whatever shape or form: fountains, pools, puddles -- especially muddy puddles. So her walks usually end up in baths, which she doesn't mind. As long as they don't involve hair dryers. She's terrified of the sound.

Mittens hates tiny kids because she's secretly afraid of them. She's confused with how they look; they're human but they're not the size humans are supposed to be for her. Strangely, she prefers to be in the company of dogs smaller than she is. Except jack russell terriers.

She doesn't like it when I start wearing my shoes; she knows I'm about to leave. That's why she has the habit of taking all the socks she can get her paws on and hide them. She hates being left alone but will wait patiently by the door. She knows I'll be back. I always come back for her.

the now

2005-10-01T14:01:00.000+08:00

Currently I'm obssessed with doing things way ahead of time. I guess for most people that's a normal preoccupation. After all, most people I know shop for Christmas gifts as early as September. It's October now and I want to accomplish the following:

shop for OR make Christmas gifts for my family and close friends
buy new luggage and laptop backpack and complete packing travel essentials for China
soup up Sylvia (512 RAM, airport card, wireless mouse, etc.) -- done!
raise intensity of workout and tennis practice
visit Cherry for lowlights and brow-lightening; visit Reggie for waxing
take Mittens to Dr. Siday and have her sheared
confirm reservations for New Year's Eve
finalize family arrangement over the holidays: who's going where for Christmas and New Year, who's taking care of the dog and birds, who's checking up on the apartment, etc.
register for the qualifiers in December
resume advanced Spanish lessons
buy roman blinds thick enough to keep sun out
have wooden shelf and chest of drawers made
mount favorite posters in my room
conceptualize holiday decor for apartment

Making lists really get me carried away. I'm just so sick of panicking about things at the last minute. I used to say it was exciting to be impulsive and just leave everything to chance. But looking back, all that's done for me is leave me stranded at airports in the wee hours of the morning, almost penniless, without any clean underwear left. That, and getting kicked out of shops on New Year's Eve. I think I'll try the other, saner way now.

anniversary gift

2005-09-28T12:23:00.000+08:00

My mother called me up from Nigeria last week. It was her wedding anniversary with my stepfather. She was frantic, excited, out of breath. She told me she'd won P500,000 from Smart Padala. My heart jumps for a second. But after that second, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. "We have to buy 22 Smart Pre-paid cards and text it to this number within the hour or we lose the chance."

I told my mother it was a scam. She couldn't believe I would say this. She couldn't believe I was arguing with her "at a time like this." She forwarded me the number of the woman who called her, Patricia Gatchalian, and asked me to talk to her soI'd be convinced it wasn't bogus. I did. And when I got to the point when I asked for the office number of Smart Padala, the woman says I was calling the office number. I told her that's impossible because I was calling her through a mobile number. Still, she insisted it was a "toll-free number." Then she hung up.

My mother calls back and tells me it couldn't be a scam because "the lady said Smart Padala wouldn't do that."

I couldn't believe my mother still thought it was really someone from the Smart office. And I couldn't believe the extent to which she was willing to stay in denial because she wanted something desperately to come true. She would believe a stranger over her own daughter because of an unfounded promise that she would get P500,000.

I called the Department of Trade and Industry to check the NCR Permit No. that this woman had given my mother to "prove" that it was a real promotion. There was no such number. The DTI representative told me that if it were a real promotion it wouldn't require a purchase to claim the prize. It turns out that it's possible to have to purchase a product to be able to join the promo, but it's illegal in this country to conduct a promo obligating people to buy something to claim a prize.

So by this time, my mother was furious with me. And even though I gave her the phone number of the DTI representative, I could tell she wasn't hearing anything I was saying. My mother told me that even if it were a scam, we would only lose a few thousand pesos, but on the off-chance it was real, we'd have P500,000.

When she said that, I almost pinched myself; this couldn't be real. My mother couldn't have said that. I already proved it was a scam but she was still hoping it wasn't. It took a phone call to the real Smart Padala office to make my mother believe that there was no Patricia Gatchalian, there was no P500,000, there was no promo.

And I got no satisfaction from proving my mother wrong. If anything, I wanted to be wrong. There's no consolation in seeing your mother defeated, for any reason, no matter how wrong and misguided they were. For the first time, I had to be the one to burst her bubble...because it was for her own good. Is anybody ever prepared to see the day when she would have to protect her mother from herself?

mid-week lookback

2005-09-28T11:44:00.000+08:00

Unexpectedly thrown into an inordinate amount of work. I'm not complaining; Larry always told me work saves, and I agree with him. But I always believed that work should be under my own terms, not the other way around. I work so I can live the way I want. If working meant the work dominating my life, there would be no point. I've been on that boat, I escaped and lived to tell the tale.

It's funny how my clients perceive the term "per project basis" or "part-time" or "consultant." Just when I think we're I agreement that I would work from my home at specific hours only -- with quality results, of course -- the clients call and demand for me to go to the office for meetings or briefings that could well be done through the phone or instant messenger. It's frustrating.

(My philosophy: I'm more comfortable and more productive when I'm writing at home. At an office, I feel compelled to "look busy," even when I'm done. I don't want to sit around feeling unhealthy when I can work with better results from home and get my much-needed exercise if I didn't have to be stuck behind a desk trying to "look busy.")

But thinking it over the past few days, I also have myself to blame for allowing these things to happen. I have to stick up for myself and avoid the guilt-trips I put myself through when I think about enforcing the work-at-home policy.

I used to be braver, I think. Not to belittle other people's suffering -- I know I am by far more fortunate than a lot of people. But in my own way, I have gone through a lot. My family is not particularly rich. I've had to get work when and where I can, I suffered financially when I didn't get work, I've had to support my father and brother (still do, to some extent), I've had to relocate my father because of his large debts.

And it's funny because years of going through this have made me tougher, but also more afraid. I think adversity doesn't necessarily make everyone a better person; maybe just more tolerant of pain. Because I always thought that these circumstances would make me into an Erin-Brokovich type of person and I'd have that dramatic breakthrough in my life that will make everything worth it. But real life has a funny way of not cooperating with one's hopes.

So yes, to go back to what I was really talking about, I think I've become more afraid. More afraid to be vocal about what I think is right or not. More afraid to displease clients. More afraid to confront. More afraid, but not totally scared shitless. So I can still speak up and give someone a piece of my mind. But I'm wondering if this fear will build up over the years and finally render me impotent (don't ask, Larry).

But yes, work saves. And right now I'm grateful that there is something to be busy with.

starts and stops

2005-09-18T00:23:00.000+08:00

The photo shoot went well. I hardly had any make-up jitters at all. I got along well with the model and the co-make-up artist/sponsor from Shiseido. If I had any doubts about the quality of this product before, they've all been put to rest after the shoot. Here, particularly, are the products that I find are as good (and sometimes better) than the hype:

Shiseido The Make Up Lifting foundation
Shiseido The Make Up shimmer stick
Shiseido Maquillage Eye and Cheek pallettes
Shiseido loose powder (any kind)
Shiseido The Make Up Volumizing Mascara
Shiseido The Make Up Finishing Mascara
Shiseido lip primer
Shiseido concealer in Medium 2

I didn't think the products would hold up well under the harsh lights for a photo shoot, but the effect was perfect: it truly looks like the model was airbrushed from face to legs.

Lois, the model, was very patient and Lee (of Shiseido) was fun to work with, but I think I won't be able to put on liquid foundation and concealer on myself for some days. Another thing I learned: I should keep my hands away from my face while doing someone else's make-up.

On Monday, another (exciting) writing project to begin. As usual, things are falling into place for me towards the last quarter of the year. Hoping to take advantage of this "plenty period" to build up my experience and confidence -- and hopefully I won't burn myself out in the process.

My physical fitness level is suffering a bit. Maybe I'm overdoing it with my activities. But I look in the mirror and see this double chin and pot belly and I just want to run on the treadmill and not stop until I trim down even more. Apparently, when you hit a certain weight, losing ten pounds doesn't mean a thing; my clothes fit pretty much the same way (they're more loose, but this is only noticeable to me), I look pretty much the same way. I know I have to lose weight safely and gradually, but days like this I would probably take one of those life-threatening diet pills in a heartbeat.

hands, do your thing...

2005-09-14T11:41:00.000+08:00

I know I've always talked about wanting to try out becoming a make-up artist. I've taught make-up workshops from my home-office (and they were successful to boot) and I've read books from the legendary Kevyn Aucoin to the Vogue Make-Up book. I've been experimenting on the faces of willing victims.

This Saturday's photo shoot with Yvonne Quisumbing should put me to the test. And I hope I can pull it off. I know I can handle it, it's just that I hope it will look right on film. There is a very specific look being called for and I've looked at pegs and started practicing. I've studied the face of the model. Hands, don't fail me now.

It's not so much that I want to establish myself among the ranks of Leo Posadas, Juan Sarte, Xeng Zulueta, et al. I simply want to fulfill this fantasy I've had of transforming faces with the wave of my (make-up) wand.

I was never really kikay growing up but I was exposed to all kinds of cosmetics and beauty knick knacks through my mother and my older cousins. Years of watching them go through beauty trends (frosted blue eyeshadow, chinchunsu, Angel Face powder, Aquanet...) unknowingly gave me an eye for make-up.

It seems strange that I can go from writing to tennis to make-up and back again. Well, maybe it's not so strange. It's just that I expected myself to be devoted to one thing for the rest of my life. In a way, I'm disappointed that I'm not one of those people who are so singularly passionate and dedicated to one craft. Sometimes I wonder if I should just find one thing and focus on it to the exclusion of everything else that might interest me.

Then again, I think I'm the kind of person who needs to be passionate about a broader range of things. I used to think there would be a danger of being a jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none. But it's becoming clearer to me that writing really is my "one thing," and that I need to experience other things to feed it. Even experiences as different as tennis (teaches mental focus and discipline) or make up (texture, color, engaging the physical senses) helps my writing.

So Saturday is D-Day. (What does D-Day mean anyway? I can only get a context of its definition in relation to war).

Return

2005-09-13T20:44:00.000+08:00

Interesting insight from Larry Ypil. He said my Muse must be malandi; a woman gets everywhere and experiences everything.

I haven't written a complete poem in a long time. Probably years. There are plenty of fragments and lost ideas in my journal, but nothing ever became whole. Two weeks ago, under the pressure of a poetry reading (where I was sure to be called upon), I wrote two complete works.

Of course I didn't want them to be about sex. Of course I thought I would come up with something totally different since I've been through so much and the changes in my life would surely manifest themselves.

But they were about sex. And I'm not sure where I got them from. They're obviously not autobiographical, in the sense that the things I've written haven't passed into the realm of my experience. But of course, I have an idea about how these things might feel.

I'm a bit disappointed that I can't seem to make a major departure. But then again, maybe I don't need to. I don't write these kinds of poems to seek the kind of approval I've received in college. I'm not afraid of never being able to reach the level I of writing I once had. And I certainly am not writing about sex for the sake of being sensational. There's a reason why my works still deal with sex and sexuality. And these themes are not necessarily something I have to live out myself.

It's as much a mystery for me where I draw these poems from. Then again, maybe it's not such a mystery; I am a woman, after all. And maybe that's enough explanation as it is.

Of course, the titles come from that LJ community called Post Secret, and the tone is based on the confessions posted there. I'm not sure why I chose it. I certainly wasn't thinking about the LJ community when I sat down to write. I just ended up writing "Post Secret" on the page, and took it from there.

Post Secret: Why I Can't Have Sex

A man's mouth
suckling a full breast
reminds me
of a morning
when I found
my mother
left breast in hand,
spilling her milk
into a bowl,
crying with the pain
and heaviness
in her nipples
and newly-hollowed womb.
There was no relief;
she let me watch
as if teaching me a lesson:

Desire leaves nothing
behind; nothing whole.
Giving in means paying
with all that you have
twice over. And one morning
it will be as if
you were gutted
completely, without trace
of the one thing you wanted
save for the crease in your hand,
the cut on your cheek.
--

Post Secret: Sex + You

I.
I told you
you weren't
my first kiss but
you were.

You were
my first sexual
fantasy.

Nightly, I wake up
wanting you
wondering if
I should
wake you.

I let you believe
I don't know
how to please
myself so you'd
touch me with dutiful
foreplay.

In bed, you should know,
I'm not the woman
you fell in love with.

II.
You hold your breath
at that moment:
buckling
underneath me,
quiet,

Your eyes open;
you can't see me.

After, you turn
my face. You
tell me to look.

But in the mirror
I can't see
my eyes
that you say
are beautiful,
beautiful.

I know I will revise these, and they may not resemble themselves when I'm done. But I have to allow my Muse to have her way with me at the moment. I know I have more inside me to write about. Right now I think these things have to come out, and I'll let them.

---

Last night's poetry reading was something I really needed. I think I've been in denial all these years; avoided poetry readings and book launchings as much as I could because I wanted something more in touch with the "real world." I didn't want to be like the old gods of the Philippine literary scene; I didn't want to be anybody's protege; I didn't want to be the next literary sensation; didn't want the expectation of winning the Palanca or any other literary award to prove I've "arrived."

But last night was just about the Written (and spoken) Word and about true friends. Last night was just about something I needed to do. Last night was just about being true to myself. I'm glad I went.

looting

2005-09-03T10:53:00.000+08:00

At the Superdome there were two reports of
rape, one involving a child, while police at the convention centre said there
had been similar reported incidents.

Everyone's heard about the terrible flooding in Louisiana where hundreds of people lost their homes, pets and loved ones. One of the most heartbreaking stories I've heard is the one about Poppy Z. Brite (the writer) who only had time to rescue two of her pets -- a dog and a cat -- in the wake of the fast-rising flood. The 20 other pets she had no choice but to leave behind didn't stand a chance.

There was also a man being interviewed on TV, his son in tow, too dazed and shocked for the proper emotions to register. All he could tell the reporter was, "She's gone (my wife)...she said 'take care of the kids'...she's gone. I have nothing left."

But what's even more tragic is that people still have it in themselves to loot and rape and kill (with high-powered weapons, no less) at a time like this.

It seems unusual for me because, over the years of calamities, tragedies and political upheaval that have plagued the Philippines -- a population of more than 70 million people, most of which live below the poverty line -- there have been no (or hardly ever) cases of looting.

Someone offered the explanation that these cases may not have been reported. But in our sensationalist tabloid culture, where even the most obscure (but embarassing) situation is being written about, I highly doubt that reporters would miss out on this kind of fodder.

In comparison, whenever there are reports of calamities, disasters or upheaval (in the US in particular), reports of looting and civilians shooting fellow civilians always seem to follow. Are looting and inhuman behavior during a natural disaster or tragedy a cultural trait?

beating up on myself or me, being ridiculously emo

2005-09-03T02:02:00.000+08:00

Whatever I do, I seem to unconsciously choose to be with people who have a tendency to be patronizing with me. I'm not sure why. Otherwise, these people would be very good companions. But they also never fail to treat me like an idiot at times when I feel most insecure about myself.

I admit my sensitivity is as much of an issue here as their self-righteousness, but I can't help wondering why I am drawn to these kinds of people at all. Do I have an unconscious desire to beat up on myself? Do I think I'm stupid and idiotic that I project this kind of image to these people? It feels like a vcious cycle.

Of course, I don't want to be with yes-men as well. I just wish that I could have more self-control and a more impenetrable defense mechanism against these people and the sort of situations I get into with them. It's not fun to get hurt, and however the current emo culture glamourizes being depressed and insecure and lonely -- getting hurt is not an achievement. It's not a good place to be in. It's not cool. And I would like to strangle the next person I see sporting a flock-of-seagulls-hair-and-layered-sweater-with-matching-courier-bag-slung-diagonally-across-chest. I'd like to shake him and shake him until by some miracle we exchange lives and then he can be genuinely emo and loathe himself to death.

You want to be tragically sad and hip? Want to know how it is to be so genuinely empty and desperate inside? Here. You can have it.

long-haired spanish men or how i became a tennis freak

2005-08-18T13:31:00.000+08:00

Ramon had unleashed a monster.

Take note that I am not an athletic person. My formative years didn't revolve around sports camps or swimming lessons like other kids. My elementary school didn't even have enough space for a parking lot. I was pushed into the track and field team in fourth grade, sure, but that doesn't count because I hardly went to trainings and competed only once (and lost). In high school, I got into the Dance Club by the skin of my teeth. I think they kept me on out of pity. And because in spite of my shortcomings as a dancer, I showed up at all the practices on time.

In college, at the prompting of my blockmate, I tried out for the Women's Basketball Team. My friend and I were accepted into the "Team B" group -- the reserves, basically, who practiced and sparred with the varsity team. I also joined the Air Pistol and Rifle Team, and even had the chance to compete in a couple of meets, but it wasn't anything I took too seriously, either.

By junior year in college, I didn't have any physical activity left. Unless you count commuting (a sport in itself) to and from the campus and scuba diving. But I could only afford to dive occasionally, so I don't think this qualifies, either.

So Ramon sits me down on the sofa one night and starts watching the French Open. I wasn't very interested at first. For one thing, I didn't know anything about the sport; didn't know the rules, how the points were won, etc. But almost every night, Ramon would check out a few matches and he would explain to me what the terms meant (deuce? volley? rally?) and how it was scored. He also gave me a background on the players he knew.

Soon, I was interested enough that I'd turn on the TV to watch the matches, even without Ramon. And in the men's quarterfinals, I saw Rafael Nadal for the first time. I'd never heard of him, but after a few minutes of watching him dash around the court like lightning, sliding in the nick of time to save dropshots, something just clicked in my head. Suddenly, I was a tennis fan.

I couldn't get enough of watching Rafael Nadal: his matches, his profile and stats, his interviews on TV and on-line, articles, photos, etc. And true to fanatic form, I also read up on the geography of Mallorca, his hometown.

And because I follow his activities closely, I've also come across another long-haired Spanish tenista to stalk, er, admire: Feliciano Lopez, one of Rafa's close friends on the tour and occasional doubles partner. Now this guy isn't ranked very high, but is one of the most graceful players to watch out there. And he wins just enough matches to earn a place in the major tournaments.

But here's an interesting thought: had I seen these guys just a couple of years earlier, when their hairstyles were still schoolboy short, I wouldn't have given them a second look. I examined their photos back then and can hardly believe they're the same guys. What is it about long hair that make these Spanish tennis players so darn attractive?

I mean, their faces looked the same in their old photos. It's just that the longer Rafael Nadal and Feliciano Lopez grew their hair, the sexier they seemed to become. Now they look like legends at the prime of their lives; they look like they could be deities.

If someone told me a year ago that I'd be a tennis freak, I'd have laughed. But here I am, defying sleep and throwing my body clock out of whack just to catch Nadal's matches live. Here I am buying tennis magazines and surfing tennis-related websites DAILY to make sure I didn't miss any important updates on Nadal and other tournament results. I kept track of who won which open and what were the current world rankings.

And I've been playing the sport avidly, too.

It's been three months since I decided to learn tennis. I know there's no chance to "turn pro" or participate in any serious competition, but my sessions with the tennis coach somehow fulfill a fantasy for me. When I'm out in the sun chasing balls down or hitting a backhand down the line, I feel almost invincible; I feel like I can be a legend too, even for a few hours.

something light this time

2005-08-08T12:42:00.000+08:00

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
1. neva
2. nev
3. inday (my dad's idea)

THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. admiralpye
2. professional amateur
3. kokoojomango

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. my eyes
2. my lips
3. my legs

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. my hair
2. my entire midsection
3. my teeth

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. filipino
2. tingguian
3. probably some chinese or malay blood because of tingguian heritage

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. the dark
2. cockroaches
3. heights

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS (for my purse specifically):
1. sunblock
2. lip gloss or lip balm
3. loose powder or MAC Studio Fix

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. denim jacket
2. Gap eyelet skirt
3. hoop earrings with princess-cut diamonds

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:
1. Elliott Smith
2. Billie Holiday
3. Tori Amos

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS:
1. Norwegian Wood
2. Waltz no.1
3. Superstar

THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. tenderness
2. compatibility
3. loyalty

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE (in no particular order):
1. I've shoplifted.
2. I have more bones in my body than the average person.
3. I have tried bungee jumping.

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE PREFERRED SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
1. eyes
2. skin color (i like them tanned or at the very least, not pale-skinned)
3. legs

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
1. reading
2. playing tennis
3. scuba diving

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. write a good poem
2. play tennis
3. sleep

THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING/YOU'VE CONSIDERED:
1. ESL teacher
2. make-up artist
3. writing correspondent

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
1. Polillo Island
2. Edinburgh (right NOW)
3. Shanghai China (in December)

THREE KID'S NAMES YOU LIKE:

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. Meet Rafael Nadal
2. Get my book published and displayed in bookstores for at least a day.
3. Find something I'm best at.

THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A GIRL:
1. I like shopping
2. I like make-up
3. I'm fickle-minded

THREE CELEB CRUSHES:
1. rafael nadal
2. john cusack
3. clive owen

THREE PEOPLE THAT I WOULD LIKE TO SEE TAKE THIS QUIZ NOW:
1. ramon de veyra
2. ernan munoz
3. sheryll tesch

more on being a woman in a feminist world

2005-07-15T10:58:00.000+08:00

Below is a very thoughtful and wonderful comment by Miranila to my previous post. I'm thankful for comments like these, whether they agree or disagree with my view, because they open my mind to things I may not have thought about otherwise.

You know why the powers that be have worked so hard and consistently at systematically demonizing the ‘label’ feminist? It’s because they fear its power. As we all know words have powers and the labels we attach to ourselves (whether its mother, student, poet, painter, comics reader) embolden us, encourage us to fulfill its full potential. And feminism and the movement it spawned has been a powerful agent of change. Consider this entry in wikipedia: Feminism has effected many changes in Western society, including women's suffrage; broad employment for women at more equitable wages ("equal pay for equal work"); the right to initiate divorce proceedings and the introduction of "no fault" divorce; the right of women in almost all countries to exercise a degree of control over their own bodies and medical decisions, including obtaining contraception and safe abortions; and many others. As Western society has become increasingly accepting of feminist principles, many of these issues, perceived as radical in the 19th century, are now part of mainstream political thought, such as the right of women to vote, own land, and choose their own marital partners, or decide not to marry. Almost no one in Western societies today questions these rights. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feminism#Origins) What we’re feeling right now is the backlash which began in the 80s and made its way into the 90s: We’re told that the feminist project is so over (it’s not. There are still a lot of gender-based inequities that need to be addressed: girls education [65 m worldwide don't have primary education], child-brides, domestic violence, etc). We’re not encouraged to look towards those who came before us (and who fought valiantly for the rights and liberties we now consider as our inalienable right) and consequently honor their legacy. Sure, there have been misfires and a number of misguided people who use feminist rhetoric to advance their selves, but then again that happens everywhere. But we cannot dismiss the power that’s inherent in the word “feminist.” I too have struggled with that ‘label.’ I am after all a product of our times. For me though, the struggle was whether I was worthy to call myself a feminist or not.Miranila :: THU Jul 14 2005, 04:16 pm

Miranila, I respect your views on feminism and applaud your commitment to being an upstanding woman. Here is my response, which I hope I can word as eloquently as you did. Specifically, why I personally reject the term feminist or feminism. I don't deny that it exists and that many women believe in it nor do I deny that it has enriched many women's lives. However, I have my own take on it, and here it is:

i agree with what you're saying: the discrimination and prejudice against women are still there -- maybe even more than before because more and more women, especially the more privileged ones, are becoming apathetic. And we should support each other as women because if we don't, who else will?

But the term feminist is also being exploited more than ever by women nowadays in a way that doesn't give justice to what it really stands for.

And correct me if I'm wrong, but women didn't coin the term feminist or feminism. It a category male academics came up with so we would be put in a "different" section and patronized, more or less; in an attempt to diffuse or distract our efforts for positive change.

As it is, I don't want this label for myself. Specifically because I don't agree with some of the tenets that feminism advocates. For example, the way feminists want total equality, many times at the risk of ridiculing women whose choices tend toward the traditional style of parenting. And the insistence that a woman is ONLY fulfilled if she has a thriving career and complete education.

And when you call yourself a feminist, you can't just PICK AND CHOOSE from their beliefs. You have to embrace everything. I cannot. Women CANNOT be easily labelled and our issues reach far beyond WESTERN cultural views. And that's basically what feminism is: a WESTERN CONSTRUCT. I would very much prefer to go my own way and build from my own experiences and capabilities as an Asian woman.

I am glad you brought up the fact that words have power. That is so true. It has the power to move us forward. It has the power to free us. But remember that words also have the power to ENTRAP us. Specifically, to be something we no longer are. Or to compel us to do something that is not true of ourselves. It's a paradox we must live with. Of course, we do need names. We do need labels sometimes. But I don't need or want THIS label.

I admire feminists and applaud their unwavering efforts. But I cannot honestly say that I stand with them. I don't want to be a hypocrite. If I say I'm for something, I want to give everything I have for it; I don't want to be lukewarm.

And just as feminists are free to speak their minds and free to fight for their beliefs, I know that I am free to fight for mine.

sometimes i'm ashamed to be called a woman...

2005-07-14T14:57:00.000+08:00

...when it means being lumped together with people who are PROUD to write like this:

“I hated the Times with their uppity tone of voice…They were Pride, as far as I was concerned, and I was Prejudiced.”

Lauren Baratz-Logsted is a chick-lit writer who wrote this impassioned essay because, well, her book wasn't reviewed by the New York Times Book Review. And as I said a few posts back, the thing that riles me is that Ms. Baratz-Logsted insists that she is rallying for the cause of women writers (particularly chick-lit writers) but in reality -- and it seems obvious even in her research-supported essay -- that she is only interested in the cause because the cause is, well, HERSELF!

I'm not denying that there is no sexism and discrimination present in the literary world. I'm not saying that chick lit shouldn't be considered literature and should never be reviewed.

But I sure do hope that the New York Times Book Rview continues to REFUSE TO REVIEW WORKS AND WRITERS WHO WRITE LIKE MS. BARATZ-LOGSTED DOES (see above) FOR THE SAKE OF ITS READERS.

Let me explain. There are millions of books being churned out every year all over the world; thousands in the United States alone. The New York Times Book Review, realistically, cannot review ALL the books that have come off the presses for the sane reason that it is not humanly possible to -- unless the quality of the reviews is compromised for the sake of quantity -- which its editors and the reading public, I'm assuming, don't want to happen.

I'm sure that while the NYTBR is regarded as a reliable guide to books worth reading, it doesn't mean that the reader shouldn't pick up books it DOESN'T review. But being a publication with limits, NYTBR does, as it rightly should, reserve the right to decide which books should or should not be reviewed.

In my opinion, for every amazing book ever written, there are a several dozen that are mediocre at best. And it would be such a shame if NYTBR devoted precious column inches to, say, a review Ms. Baratz-Logsted's novel when that space can be devoted to a review of emerging writers (man or woman) from the Asia-Pacific region, for example, whose works would greatly benefit from the review -- good or not.

As Ms. Baratz-Logsted said herself, people like chick-lit; in fact, these books sell well. And although there are many chick-lit books I wouldn't be caught dead with, I have read well-written, enjoyable ones and I admire these writers. But Ms. Baratz-Logsted's novels (The Thin Pink Line and Crossing the Line), sadly don't fall under the well-written category -- her essay and the quote above should be enough clues.

If Helen Fielding had written an essay similar to Ms. Logsted's, I would've taken it more seriously. And I'm assuming it would be written under no pretenses. She is secure enpugh about her writing to straightforwardly say, "Hey, where's the review of my book?" without launching into statistics and diatribes about the oppression of women in the literary world.

Ms. Baratz-Logsted's essay just reeks of pure self-interest and leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Great writers like Virginia Woolf, Jane Austen, George Eliot, to name a few, didn't whine. They wrote. They wrote VERY WELL. Through their works, they opened the minds of both men and women and opened doors for women who wanted to become writers.

I'm not saying women shouldn't complain or raise their voices for a worthy cause. But however way I look at it, it's just seems wrong to exploit any cause when it's obvious that one is only using it to advance herself.

and now i lay my arms to rest

2005-07-12T09:25:00.000+08:00

Typing is harder than I thought after straight days of boxing and tennis. I hope it's true what they say that I'll get stronger in time, but right now all I am is pounded Jell-O held together by skin and bones. Not that I'm complaining. I'm just hoping that the "getting used to" to serious physical activity comes sooner than later.

Watching "The Contender" a few months ago, I remember screaming to the TV, "Keep your arms up, you idiot! Protect your face! Keep 'em up and close to your body!" Well, never again will I underestimate how hard things are than they look. A very good lesson: Always assume things you have no experience in are harder to do than they seem.

i don't need this

2005-07-11T11:08:00.000+08:00

from untoward's LJ: Underrepresentation of genre lit in the NYTRB is the new racism, or, uh, rape? WHAT?

It's basically a half-assed attempt at a statement by some disgruntled chick-lit author to get her own damn book reviewed, disguised as a feminist cause. Again taken from untoward's LJ, a response to this incredibly dumb and insulting-to-all-intelligent-life statement:

Here is Jessa Crispin's response at the bookslut blog:

I think that might just be the most offensive thing I have heard all year. Your trashy chick lit novel didn't get reviewed by the New York Times, so you're going to compare your circumstance to a fucking rape victim? Holy fucking shit. Secondly, clueless girl, do your research. What you're calling for, in your best Martin Luther King Jr. impression -- because, again, not like that is not horribly offensive as well -- already existed. It was the Women's Review of Books. It was not wildly successful like you claim a women's book review would be. In fact, it's on hiatus because twelve people read it. And just so we clear this all up: Chick lit is not reviewed in the New York Times for the same reason that Nora Ephron movies do not win Best Picture Oscars. It's because they both suck. Now, I'm not saying the New York Times Book Review is not sexist. It is. So are the Academy Awards. But for this particular complaint, it is not relevant.

It raises another personal issue that's been eating at me for years: feminism. I am all for self-empowerment and bringing down the walls of discrimination and relegation of women as second-class citizens. BUT I am also strongly against being labelled. And for me that's what the term "feminist" is: a label.

For me, a woman can stand for her rights and for what she is without needing to call herself something other than a woman. The term feminist seems to be a desire to legitimize being a woman equal to man (equality is another term I have trouble with, but let's use that for the moment).

As if being a woman is not enough to earn myself the innate human right for self-determination. As if being a woman does not give me the right to choose freely and wisely for myself. As if being a woman was not enough.

That's why when people ask me if I'm a feminist, I say no. I'm not a feminist. I'm a woman. Period. The "politics" of being a woman in a still-patriarchal world is complicated enough without imposing this label on myself. Besides, it's a label that men chose to call women who didn't fit into the mold they wanted. Why should I call myself something that men think I should call myself to make it easier for them to categorize me?

Now, that is offensive.

left or right?

2005-07-08T15:09:00.000+08:00

why do birds suddenly appear?

2005-07-08T12:57:00.000+08:00

This clip (via Mindfuel) is disturbing, but is just my cup of tea. The Carpenters, unique choreography, a female protagonist (and robots) and make-up -- who could ask for anything more? I have a feeling Mirrormask will make my unusual and arbitrary favorite-movies-of-all-time list, along with Grosse Point Blank, Almost Famous and Nausicaa.

The clip made me feel nostalgic for Karen Carpenter. I was 12 when I became obsessed with her. Back then, RPN 9 would play "The Karen Carpenter Story" on the anniversary of her death (February) -- and I would watch it from start to finish, including the commercials. I would always feel sad during the last few scenes, when everything takes on a hazy, surreal turn, and they don't actually show Karen dying, but you can hear her singing "Song For You," her voice fading slowly.

I felt like Karen Carpenter and I could've been good friends, if only she wasn't a singer-superstar and if only she didn't have anorexia and if only she hadn't died. So I read, studied and took hold of anything related to Karen Carpenter: articles, TV shows, footage of concerts, and of course, the albums. I had almost all of the Carpenters albums, even the "Greatest Hits" release.

I memorized the lyrics of every song and tried so hard to imitate Karen's sultry voice. Of course, all this was done in the privacy of my room whenever my cousin (who shared my room) wasn't around.

My favorite songs were "Superstar," "Hurting Each Other" and "Yesterday Once More." I even memorized lyrics for the songs I didn't like very much ("Jambalaya," for example). I wrote her letters. I didn't know what I expected to happen. I just felt that no one else would understand me better than Karen Carpenter. Her wistful voice and her tragic death appealed to me because back then I had never met anyone who was not "all right" or "happy" (or pretending to be). I was a solemn-looking kid and I was always deep in thought or caught up in one of my daydreams. I wasn't "happy" or athletic or friendly like most neighborhood kids. And for the longest time I felt so odd and out of place. I guess I was glad that I wasn't the only person in the world who felt out of place and not "normal."

Because of Karen Carpenter, I really wanted to become a singer. But of course, you have to have talent and unfortunately, a good voice wasn't one of my gifts. No amount of voice lessons could even raise my singing prowess to above average standard. I don't mind it at all now, but back then, I would cry, terribly frustrated.

I'm not sure when I abandoned my obssession with Karen Carpenter. I went through unbelievably crazy phases: New Kids on the Block (hello, Joe McIntyre!), Debbie Gibson, Heart, Propaganda, X-Men (specifically, Gambit) and Anne of Green Gables (around the time I was starting to take writing seriously). But I still know the lyrics of her songs by heart, and it's impossible for me not to sing along when her songs comes on. And when February rolls around, I remember her as I saw her in that TV-movie and I find myself suddenly hoping that there is life after death, just for the possibility of finally meeting her.

Flash Elorde!

2005-07-06T12:24:00.000+08:00

One of my earliest memories of boxing was watching reruns of "Flash" Elorde's matches on TV with my father. I was excited because he was excited. And because here was a non-cartoon character who could punch as hard as Popeye without having to eat canned spinach. I didn't really understand that the sport was violent; that the boxers actually got hurt. I just enjoyed seeing knockouts and fast combinations that made Elorde look as if he was dancing rather than punching.

So going to the late Elorde's training center last night was a little bit surreal (I have Chris "The Contender" Costello to thank for this). It was an honest-to-goodness boxing gym, that was all sweat and heat and determination -- just the way I imagined it would be. There were boxing rings, punching bags, jump ropes, weights and gloves in the wide stretch of hardwood floors. None of the frills and strange machines of a high-end members-only gym. If you want to train, train the punch-and-dodge way.

I liked it from the first moment I saw it. I always hated the gym. I didn't like the machines and the people and the trainers because everything looked so polished and artificial and intimidating. The minute the boxing trainer wrapped my hands and slipped on my boxing gloves, I felt at home.

It was also incredibly tough. The whole training session took 1 and a half hours to complete. The area was packed with people, but everybody minded their own business/punching bags. Learning to punch properly was an eye-opener and a knuckle-crusher. But I think after a few more sessions nobody can accuse me of hitting like a girl. The punching bags were also a big challenge. Who knew an inanimate object would be such a daunting opponent?

The best thing about the whole routine is the feeling of accomplishment when you do the exercises right; when you get the right combinations, when you anticipate the direction of the blow, when you get the right footwork. Sweat becomes a welcome thing. It's the same high I get from tennis.

It's a good thing to know that somehow I can more or less keep up with the training. I imagine this was similar to how "Flash" Elorde trained. It's kind of thrilling to know that while trying to pummel the stuffing out of the trainer's sparring pads.

what did i do with my summer vacations?

2005-07-05T14:04:00.000+08:00

It really makes me wonder now why I was never forced into sports camps or acting workshops like most kids I know. Our parents basically left me and my brother to our own devices when classes ended and I know this was a good thing, in a way. We weren't idle at all, but sometimes I wish we joined more of the conventional summer activities that parents pushed their kids into.

I do remember going to a couple of SpeechPower classes, but they bored me after a while. Mostly, I'd hole up in my room reading Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys or play-act in front of the mirror with my brother (one day we were newscasters, the next we'd be Bio-men) or play in the streets with neighborhood kids after siesta. I did have fun and I don't regret those days.

It's just that I've been taking tennis lessons and I feel like this was something I should've been doing since I was kid. I'm enjoying myself immensely; it feels like such a release, like scuba diving. But unlike scuba diving, there's no hassle of taking trips out of town or the heavy equipment or fear of drowning. Also, I don't need a lot of money to play frequently. That's the main reason why I'm able to do it several times a week.

I don't harbor dreams of being a superstar athlete (although my mom was known in Iloilo as an all-around sportswoman). But I can't believe I've been missing out on the sense of well-being and, well, power that comes from hitting the ball or volleying successfully against an opponent.

The one-on-one aspect definitely appeals to me. My forays into team sports like basketball and softball have been laughable; I just can't get into the group dynamic. I can't take the expectation that comes with not letting "the team" down. I tried out air pistol target shooting in college as well, but it was hard being stationary for a long time; I was always too distracted and frustrated to be above average.

Bowling is the closest I got to a sport that I enjoyed very much. But, like scuba diving, it was too expensive to do on a more frequent basis.

It's funny how I discovered tennis at this "late" stage. I have Ramon to thank/blame for it. I'm not sure why I prefer it over badminton (maybe it's the contrarian in me who dislikes trendy games like badminton), but there's the rub. I feel at peace with my body when chasing down balls around the court -- a big accomplishment since I hit puberty -- and I feel a rather abnormal pleasure in hitting them past the player on the other side. It feels like it's just me versus the ball, and nothing else.

Later, I'm trying out boxing (the Million-Dollar-Baby-type boxing, not aero or kickboxing). If I survive tonight, I will probably keep on going as well; I seem to like the idea of hitting things very very much.

my dream playlist

2005-07-04T14:01:00.000+08:00

(in no particular order)

Que Onda, Guerro? - Beck
So Here We Are - Bloc Party
Staralfur - Sigur Ros
Major Tom - David Bowie
Save me - Aimee Mann
Way I feel Inside - The Zombies
This Mess We're In - PJ Harvey
Suddenly Everything Has Changed - Postal Service
How Can This Love? - Beck
Say Yes - Elliot Smith
New Year - death Cab for Cutie
Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime - Beck
Against All Odds (cover) - Postal Service
Sorta Fairytale - Tori Amos
4:35 in the morning - St. Etienne
Brick - Ben Folds Five
Under Pressure - Queen w/ David Bowie
Mad World - Tears for Fears

both fond of yeses

2005-07-04T13:51:00.000+08:00

A poem for me and Ramon -- both fond of yeses, we are.

YES
by Denise Duhamel

According to Culture Shock:
A Guide to Customs and Etiquette
of Filipinos, when my husband says yes,
he could also mean one of the following:
a.)I don’t know.
b.)If you say so.
c.)If it will please you.
d.)I hope I have said yes unenthusiastically enough
for you to realize I mean no.
You can imagine the confusion
surrounding our movie dates, the laundry,
who will take out the garbage
and when. I remind him
I’m an American, that all his yeses sound alike to me.
I tell him here in America we have shrinks
who can help him to be less of a people-pleaser.
We have two-year-olds who love to scream “No!”
when they don’t get their way. I tell him,
In America we have a popular book,
When I Say No I Feel Guilty.
“Should I get you a copy?” I ask.
He says yes, but I think he means
“If it will please you,” i.e. “I won’t read it.”
“I’m trying,” I tell him, “but you have to try too.”
“Yes,” he says, then makes tampo,
a sulking that the book Culture Shock describes as
“subliminal hostility...withdrawal of customary cheerfulness
in the presence of the one who has displeased” him.
The book says it’s up to me to make things all right,
“to restore goodwill, not by talking the problem out,
but by showing concern about the wounded person’s
well-being.” Forget it, I think, even though I know
if I’m not nice, tampo can quickly escalate into nagdadabog —
foot stomping, grumbling, the slamming
of doors. Instead of talking to my husband, I storm off
to talk to my porcelain Kwan Yin,
the Chinese goddess of mercy
that I bought on Canal Street years before
my husband and I started dating.
“The real Kwan Yin is in Manila,”
he tells me. “She’s called Nuestra Senora de Guia.
Her Asian features prove Christianity
was in the Philippines before the Spanish arrived.”
My husband’s telling me this
tells me he’s sorry. Kwan Yin seems to wink,
congratulating me — my short prayer worked.
“Will you love me forever?” I ask,
then study his lips, wondering if I’ll be able to decipher
what he means by his yes.

accident prone

2005-03-08T10:58:00.000+08:00

Then again, I've always been clumsy. I was clumsier as a child, of course, but if there's someone who could trip over a sofa leg, stub her littlest toe and suffer a mild sprain, that's me (couldn't wear shoes for two days).

To date, I've dropped several dozen eggs after having just walked into the kitchen door (so close to the refrigerator, yet so far!), broken entire sets of drinking glasses causing my father to cave in and buy sets from Tupperware, stepped on splinters and glass shards several times, tripped, slipped and fallen on my butt in front of people more than the average child, dropped too many valuables than I hope to recount and fallen from the stairs five -- count them -- five times.

So yes, walking around in the living room could pose as a hazard for me. My foot was swollen the whole night, but thankfully subsided before I went to work. But this is definitely an improvement for me, now that I'm a grown-up. I trip or drop things less, I'm more nimble at catching things that I do drop, and during awkward moments when I "strike" again, I don't feel too embarassed anymore.

long live the queen

2005-03-01T15:08:00.000+08:00

I just started reading the 512-page deluxe hardcover edition of "Palomar" by Gilbert Hernandez (of the Los Bros. Hernandez duo) -- a prized gift from Mr. Mindfuel himself.

So far, it's one of the best works I've ever read.

It took me off-guard at first because the euphemisms, the rhythm (pacing) and even how the whole thing was drawn was most definitely strange for me. But I think this aspect is one of the greatest things going for this comic book; the strangeness for someone who's used to reading American/British-type works is refreshing.

Another thing that really blew me away was how the art and the story were not competing with each other; the story and the art are so organic, so part of each other, that the comic book really becomes an authentic world of its own, although also seemingly an authentic tribute to the towns in Hernandez' home country.

After a while, the strangeness gave way to the bits and pieces that I could relate to -- that anyone can relate to, really, no matter what background or nationality -- things that existed in the neighborhoods and towns I knew as well. It's remarkable that although I never really knew a camadrona or banadora like Chelo, the central character of Palomar, the neighborhood I grew up in looked like, sounded like, felt like and even smelled like Palomar. The nosy and superstitious old folk, the brash, uncouth boys and the stories/gossips that flew around! Everyone had a story. And this is basically what Palomar the comic book is: a story about stories.

The narrator would follow one character who would cross paths with another character, and then we jump to that person, and so on. All this happens whether the story of one character finishes or not. So imagine my frustration at narrations cut short or unresolved just as they were getting interesting. But of course, patience pays, and a dozen pages or so later, I find myself threaded back to an old character whose story reaches a sort-of resolution.
I'm not done with it yet, but I can tell this early on, without exaggeration, that this is going to be -- is -- a masterpiece.

---

In other news (well, not-so-new):
Promethea is done. Long live the Queen.

2005-02-28T13:12:00.000+08:00

:) These were the happiest five years of my life. Thank you, Ramon.

if it's any consolation...

2005-02-28T12:41:00.000+08:00

Everyone knows Martin Scrosese should've won Best Director and Best Picture for "The Aviator". But he'll have to wait until he's frail and dying before the Academy gives him his due.

As Defamer so aptly puts it (he's blogging live from the Oscar's)

8:34: Clint wins Best Director! Martin Scorsese may have to work for another century before he gets his moment in the Oscar sun. The Aviator 3: The Milk Bottles Are All Full is going to be a lock for Marty, but it’ll be more of a Lifetime Achievment thing. Haven’t heard a word Eastwood’s
said. But he’s got the trophy, that’s all the counts.

I'm not sure Mr. Eastwood should be too happy about his awards, since it's basically the showbiz industry burying him before he's even dead.

cut.up.your.credit.cards.you.fool

2005-02-24T14:31:00.000+08:00

MP Dunleavy's column on MSN has become a free self-help resource for me when I finally recognized my financial state was out of control. Below are the articles I started with on the road to financial rehabilitation:

4 Ways to Simplify Your Life and Save
5 Steps to Total Financial Control
Young, Carefree...and Deep in Debt
The Money Myths We Inherit from Mom
9 Ways to Look Rich but Live Cheap

The titles sound simplistic, but they were written that way for a reason: handling finances properly and saving are two tough jobs -- mainly because of personal attitudes and beliefs.

Reading "The Money Myths We Inherit from Mom" brought to light why I feel bad whenever I have to skip going to the movies or buying a new pair of shoes in an effort to save money. I remembered that my own mother was generous in spending money. But it wasn't because she was careless or frivolous; she just had more money to spend. She was always in business, and always saving as well -- but she made it look effortless. Even when my stepfather earned more than enough to support her and the family, she put something away for a rainy day and didn't lose touch with her network of past clients and friends. But just by looking at her and her activites, you wouldn't guess that she was savvy at money management.

The sad part is I didn't "inherit" my mother's natural knack for business. She recognized an opportunity when she saw one, and when she grabbed it, she did it without stepping on anyone else's toes. I have a lot to learn yet about running a business and starting a the right business. And I'm only starting to rise up to the challenge or providing for a household while keeping my other personal affairs in order.

Sometimes I forget this huge gap between my financial situation and my mother's, the results of which are distressing whenever the next credit card bill comes. Now, of course, I'm more conscious of this compulsive desire of mine to be as generous as my mother, and I've started leaving my plastic and even ATM cards at home.

It's surprising, but sometimes the solution is as easy as cutting up or hiding credit cards, or simply not going to the malls more than twice a month. The hard part's always deciding to do it and actually following through on the promise.

miswanting

2005-02-23T17:02:00.000+08:00

Paco Underhill, a retail analyst and author of "The Call of the Mall," says acquiring various high-end lifestyle "accessories" gives a psychological lift to people "who have had to compromise on other things," he says.

Really, this brief article from MSN is a good read, but the quote above put into words what I already knew about myself. It's not that I spend so much on high-end products or services, it's just that I appease my frustrations by shopping more frequently than I really need to. So even if I buy a single chocolate bar each time I go into Mini Stop, I end up eating at my food budget because I stop by almost everyday. (I think financial advisor Suze Orman called this the "Latte Factor" -- owing to the habit of most Americans to stop by for a grande at Starbucks on their way to work every morning.)

Maybe it's because I'm still relatively young, but I find it hard when I have to compromise my time and energy -- and my creativity -- for something that has to be prioritized. Namely, making money, paying off bills and debts, keeping house, supporting family member(s). It's useless to complain about these things, but no matter how I recognize that these are sacrifices I need to make, my mind (and sometimes my body) can't deny the frustration and depression everyday. And when it comes time to vent, instead of pouring what's left of my energy to writing or learning, I buy things. Little things that seem harmless, but add up to a lot in the long run.

So now I have a schedule of sorts for buying things and several strict grocery list rules:

rule no.1: stick to the list;
rule no. 2: don't buy anything at the grocery that won't be used frequently by both me and my brother;
rule no.3: stick to basic necessities like rice, meat, some canned goods;
rule no. 4: nix the junkfood, or buy just one of the local brands

And when I come across a beauty counter now, I only try out the new releases or products I haven't tried before. But as a rule, I don't buy anything on the first try. I find that even if I'm really obsessed with a certain item or really feel the need for it -- if I give myself at least a week to think about it -- it'll pass.

Now books (including comics) for me are infinitely harder to resist than any cosmetics or gadget. And it's so easy to rationalize that these are for my edification or greater learning. But really, I have dozens of unread books on my shelf gathering dust, and I have to consciously think about them to stop myself from "adopting" another one. Of course, there's the risk that a certain book may not be available next time I look for it. But right now, it's important that I stick to my guns. Because if I give in to one indulgence, the domino effect on my wallet would be disastrous.

If it's any consolation, I'm not into buying CDs or DVDs recently. I appreciate music and film, but now I mostly borrow from friends. On the rare occasion that I do buy a CD or DVD, I play it over and over until either the CD or Ramon's patience is worn thin.

Thus far, the things I've proudly passed on:

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
Dress Your Family in Demin and Corduroy by David Sedaris
any Ray Bradbury book
Sharon Olds poetry books (Cape Poetry edition)
Simon Armitage book of poems
Rumi
The Coconut Miracle book
Hellblazer TPBs
Futurama lunchbox
Monopoly board game
Allure magazine
chips (or, if you're European, crisps)
Bread Talk (I don't really need the butterfly-shaped P&J bun, do I?)
Starbucks or Seattle's Best
Ellgy cracked-heel treatment cream
Jergen's original formula (I still have a lot of bottles of lotion in stock)
Facial cleansing cloths
loofah
foot soak
bath salts
accessories
Tote bags
Another pair of shoes
Yet another vitamin supplement (Centrum is as complete as it gets)
Yet another dog treat or dog toy

And the most amazing thing I've passed on the past few weeks:

CAB RIDES

What a difference between a P75 cab ride and a P5.50 jeepney ride going to work! I used to commute all the time, but since I started living in Makati, I used cabs more and more. But the truth is, if there's a way to get there by jeepney, bus, FX or MRT, it's better. Not only is it cheaper, there really isn't much difference in terms of travel time (they can all pass through the yellow PUV lane, and the MRT doesn't get caught in traffic jams).

Here's hoping I can stay "good" for the rest of the year.

cutting costs and cutting hair

2005-02-21T13:50:00.000+08:00

In my personal campaign to cut personal costs, I decided to cut -- trim, really -- my own hair last night. It was something swirling around in my head for a few weeks now, when I realized that my most expensive costs went to things like my regular waxing appointment at Brazilian Bare and my haircut.

So these things had to go. I use DIY depilatories now for hair-removal and I'm slowly learning the excrutiating lesson of try-but-not-buy in a retail setting. The withdrawal period, I think, has passed, and I don't feel deprived anymore if I pass up on a seeming bargain item that I don't really need. The first few times I really found myself breaking out into a cold sweat, itching to take out my wallet and get rid of another few hundred pesos. This must be how withdrawal from an addiction feels like: pupils dilate at the mere sight or smell of the object, nostrils flare, the mouth salivates then goes dry...

But being able to resist for a few weeks now, I feel sober. That's the most appropriate word for it. After a frenzy of New Year shopping and indulging, I'm finally coming off of my vicious cycle.

But the haircut, that was tricky. My hair is short and cut in a particular style that suits me. I pay more than the average cost for the service of getting the cut just right. Half a lifetime of bad haircuts have left me paranoid of all straight-and-neat cuts that Pinoys are so fond of. But I can't afford to get that kind of haircut right now. So I decided to try it my own way.

The short of it is, I survived. And my hair doesn't look drastically different, except it's neater now that it's back to its appropriate length. The cut was easier to follow than I thought. (The key was not cutting straight and positioning the scissors parallel to the hair strands, not perpendicular.) And I discovered that it's easier to cut my hair over the sink without anything on, otherwise you risk getting the itches after the cut. It was also easier to use a smaller type of scissors.

Pleased with the results, I proceeded to trim my dog's excess hair around her legs, much to her exasperation.

Maybe DIY haircutting is something doable without looking like I stuck my head in a blender. More later as I do research on this.

Mittens

2005-02-17T14:16:00.000+08:00

Mitenas Unpad, eater of Pedigree chicken and liver dogfood, terror of cats, tenant of bed-ends and carpets, wader of mud puddles and chaser of balls.

9 years old as of February 14, 2005

At 2 years of human age

college courses for the modern person

2005-02-16T11:31:00.000+08:00

Check out MSN's article on Top 10 Odd College Courses. These new subjects from the campuses of University of Iowa, Georgetown, Purdue and Rhode Island School of Design (to name a few) don't sound too bad. I wouldn't mind studying The Art of Sin and the Sin of Art or Comparative History of Organized Crime. And I'm sure there are many who wouldn't mind delving into Philosophy and Star Trek.

the skinny

2005-02-04T16:09:00.000+08:00

I've reopened The Skinny website. The updates aren't complete, but for those interested in reviews of cosmetics and skin care brands, do drop by.

there better be no bullshit like this in the afterlife or hell truly is on earth

2005-01-08T13:43:00.000+08:00

Time's Person of the Year (or This is Such a Load of Bullshit No Matter How Many Spins They Spin and Angles They Cut)

For sharpening the debate until the choices bled, for reframing reality to match his design, for gambling his fortunes—and ours—on his faith in the power of leadership, George W. Bush is TIME's 2004 Person of the Year.
-- What the fuck?!?

just another day

2005-01-02T02:17:00.000+08:00

I'm wondering if this is how it feels when the world ends.

Searing hot days and chilly nights, earthquakes (one after another), freak storms, landslides and flooding, a massive tsunami hitting several countries at once, snow for the very first time in the desert-mountains of United Arab Emirates ... it's a Hollywood summer blockbuster flick out there.

But it feels just like yesterday and the day before that. It feels like it always has. No hysteria or remorse or desperation. Just this semi-numbness from seeing the world cleanse and treat itself from its sickness; that's essentially why disasters occur in nature. We are simply collateral damage.

And of course, if all else fails, and the world needs to renew itself, we'll have no chance. This would only be a preview.

But it's the New Year, and there are wars still raging, governments falling or rebuilding, and people hungering, struggling to survive. It's the end of the world, and we go on like we do everyday. Only, on the calendar, the number at the end of the year reads differently.

closing my eyes

2004-12-31T13:31:00.000+08:00

Been looking (and finding) reasons not to post for a while. It's painful looking into myself, even if I have that tendency. I'm only starting to realize it was so much easier to look a year ago than it is now.

I still have the desire to become better: financially, emotionally, physically -- but my knee-jerk reaction has been to hope and expect less. I'm not sure this is entirely possible. But one thing is for sure: I'm nowhere near where I said I wanted to be five years ago. It's been that long.

I've never been one of those people who feel that time is always running out on them; I wasn't one who jumped into things blind. But for the first time in my life, I have the urge to push myself into something -- anything -- that cuts me off from everything I knew. Well, maybe not everything, but most of the emotional deadweights I've been carrying around.

It's hard to say what follows because they're promises, and I don't like making promises I can't guarantee I'll keep. But it's the last day of the year, and I'm going to say it.

I'm cutting myself off from my father. For years, I've felt guilty for moving out of the house, for his financial problems, for his attitude problem. For years, I've been coddling him and giving in to my guilt, feeding the vicious cycle of codependence that's crippling both of us. I have to let him go. I have to do this knowing that this is the right thing for me. My father is his own person, and he is able-bodied, well-educated, smart and willing to learn. He can take care of himself. And it's about time I took care of myself, as well.

I'm going to put in my time at work, no matter how tired or how undercompensated I feel. I will give this work a whole year, give it all I have and learn what I can. And after that year is up, if I feel I need to move on, then I will. The money I earn is just enough to keep me afloat, but not enough to save. However, if I don't learn to put in my time now, then I never will stay at something long enough to reap the results.

Financially, it's easy-come-easy go. Mostly because I feel responsible for most everything in my life: my father, my brother, especially. This time, I am going to draw a circle around my life and theirs. I will only move through my circle and spend my money on myself and my needs. I'll end this cycle of feeling deprived all the time because I had to help others. I will never feel fulfilled now will I be able to help anyone else if I feel I haven't helped myself.

Lastly, I'll finally, finally keep my word to myself and make more of an effort to do what I wanted to do all my life: write. To do that, I have to be in an environment that can help me develop my craft and support me financially; I'm taking serious steps at applying for a scholarship or grant for a short-term course. Preferably, somwhere where Ramon and I can both go and study at the same time.

As for making my mark and leaving a legacy to the world, that can wait. There are so many things to think about and so many things to accomplish -- there's no time to even think of how a small life like mine can grow greatly enough to be remembered. I just want to live for now.

Chalk up another one for us who are still here today. It's a new year.

looking back, I never wondered about winter

2004-12-09T02:12:00.000+08:00

So many typographical errors in my last post, it makes me cringe (will correct later). When it comes to editing something I wrote, I tend to procrastinate and leave it until the last moment. But it's strange how I'm meticulous when it comes to other people's works.

Looking at my own work and giving it a twice-over feels like the opposite of the highway-accident-wreck tendency to keep on looking. I don't want to see it. Ever again. But because I have to, because I want to get published or just out of respect for the act of writing (which is an act of creation for me), I muster the strength to do it.

It's just that going over something I wrote reminds me of all the times I chose to look at things I'd rather not see. There are choices -- mostly the important ones -- that you have to decide on before circumstances choose them for you. And for me, better to choose seeing something unpleasant or even devastating than being forced to see the same thing in the future, anyway.

I overdo it sometimes, I have to admit. Some things need time. And it's happened more than once that I get burned for rushing things that can't be rushed. Some people also need time to face things, no matter how inevitable. And I think the rift between me and my father is caused by my demand that he face certain aspects of himself and his life head-on, like I do mine. It was only in the past few months that it's occurred to me that there are ways to approach an undesirable thing other than my usual frontal-assault attitude.

These mellow, nostalgic, introspective, mostly-vague posts of mine can only mean one thing:

It's getting very cold.

Windows are shut, the electric fan is off...I'm still shivering. The cold is doubly difficult for me to handle; I can't stand it physically. And I shiver because, apart from the unbearable sensation of numbness, the cold reminds me of my mistakes and regrets. It keeps me still, and it's far easier to hit a target when it's fixed in one place. The cold makes me feel I'm in my sixties instead of my twenties.

Outside, my birds are bunched up for warmth. I hope they last another year. They've moved with me through three different apartments. Hopefully, they can see me through to when I finally own a home. Hopefully, with a yard or sunny balcony where I can perch their cage. Hopefully, these birds live to see the time when my dog, Mittens, and I are able to live together again.

--

Lately, I've had moments when I felt that I genuinely didn't want this life -- or life, in general -- but it's been handed to me, anyway. Whether it's random or not, it doesn't make any difference to me. I'm alive and still alive, and other people I once knew are dead. And it's not that I'm depressed or jaded or desperate. I'm just tired. And considering that I didn't ask to be alive (but I am), it feels strange that things seem to work out (or maybe even conspire) to keep me alive, just like billions of others who can still get up in the morning and go about their business.

Just a few months ago, I wouldn't even have considered the possibility that there is no meaning or reason to why I exist. Not to say that there's no meaning to life. I'm just starting to think that I wasn't "chosen" to be born; that I wasn't necessarily specially made by a Special Someone.

And that's all right. Come to think of it, the thought doesn't bother me as much as I thought I would. Not believing that I'm unique and destined for something is not the end of the world. Not to say that I don't believe in something anymore. On the contrary. Being more accepting of the possibility I might be wrong is liberating -- and even reassuring, in a strange way.

It's very, very cold. I'm very, very still. Except for these thoughts and these fingers that propel me into the next day.

loohoooser

2004-12-06T02:00:00.000+08:00

Well, that's that. Didn't get to finish the novel on the deadline, in spite of stealing time during lunch breaks and the wee hours when I should be sleeping. So if I'm not one of the winners of NaNoWriMo, does that mean I'm a loser?

I've learned some things, though: it's hard to write a novel. I mean, other than the usual obstacles of writing in general, it seems harder for me to write a novel than a poem. I'm not saying writing a poem is a breeze (Alan Moore: writing a poem is easy; writing a good poem is not); I just feel more at home with it than the ocean of words in a novel.

I'm swamped. I have so many words, paragraphs, anecdotes and dialogues, but they're all pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit.

At the Edinburgh Book Festival, Jeanette Winterson said she wrote her novels in a non-chronoligical order. She'd try to write a chapter and ends up writing five, as she exhausts the subject matter. Then she'd jump onto another idea, another chapter. At a certain point, her story starts taking shape, and eventually she becomes surer of the direction she wants to take.

I can't do that. I'd simply end up with several anecdotes without a thread. And that's what I have right now. A dozen or so different stories, musings and memories that mean nothing to each other.

I was hoping the whole process would be something like what Iain Banks calls an ideal scenario for writing a novel: you have to get the first sentence just right; the kind that reels the reader in and leads to a good second line, which hopefuly develops into a good paragraph, a good page, which, in turn, leads to a good chapter, and so on -- until one day the writing's over, and you find you have a pretty good story in your hands (loosely paraphrased).

The more I try to write fiction, the scarier it seems. I'm starting to be conscious of the fact that I have a hard time writing about things apart from my life. Whenever I try to write a story, the plot eventually involves some aspect of my life which makes the protagonist a thinly-veiled version of myself. I have to wonder how novelists create these worlds and characters from what they know without involving themselves too much.

And if I write a story that's identical to my experiences, how can it be considered fiction, or for that matter, creative writing? It feels more like catharsis than craft.

I can detach myself easily from a poem I'm writing, even if it's about something in my life. Most of the time, my works come about through possession. An object, a passing emotion, events (not necessarily a major one), a news item, a phrase or word someone utters -- they stay in my mind, nagging, prodding until I let them take over. Then a poem takes shape, and hopefully, becomes fully-formed. Technique and form are improtant, but secondary to intuition. This is how it works for me, and I won't pretend otherwise. There's a little bit of magic to it in the sense that a poem feels "handed down" to me from somewhere. But there's also a lot of work involved. It's very rare it comes out whole on the first try.

And when it's done I can step back from it. It becomes a separate entity from myself. It has a life of its own. That's why there are so many readings to each poem, I think, compared to the straightforwardness of fiction.

I have to find that place where I can easily detach myself from the telling of the story. But sometimes it's easier to be the teller than the listener. While poetry allows things to speak through me, I have to learn to be silent and let the story tell itself to me.

real clothes for real people, please

2004-11-25T01:20:00.000+08:00

Jeans: Is it not enough that we see the Paris Hiltons on TV and the glossies parading around with their navels and ass cracks in plain sight?

If you're built scrawny with a flat tummy -- congratulations. But the rest of the world isn't proportioned that way. My figure, in particular, looks ridiculous in low-rise, hipster, low-cut -- or whatever the hell they call it these days -- jeans. I'm not delusional; I know I can't get away with my potbelly sticking out above the beltline.

But I go into a Levi's, Guess, Girbaud, and even Gap (the one owned by Beng Tesoro n Glorietta), and all they have in stock are these ridiculous cuts that don't go up to your waist! Where did the other cuts and styles go?

There isn't only one body type in this country, so why are the stores acting like it? And everywhere there seems to be a lot of women who have been victimized by this heinous low-cut jeans phenomenon. Look around: the short-legged or vertically challenged, the hippy (big, birthing hips), thick-waisted, pot-bellied, abs-imperfect ladies -- they're punishing their bodies and self-esteem by wearing them because it's the current trend.

Sometimes I get the urge to walk up to them and express my sympathy. I know what they're going through, I know how challenging it is to find the right clothes for an imperfect, unproportioned body type. But trying to be someone's clothesclone -- like a lot of Filipinas seem to be preoccupied with, by the way -- doesn't solve the problem.

Some things, in my opinion, you just never do, no matter how many people seem to be into it. Like wearing blue eyeshadow or black lipstick (unless it's Halloween or you're a celebrity or your life depended on it) or peasant blouses or micro-minis or tassled belts (unless you're a "professional lady;" it's an occupational hazard). And one thing you don't want to do to yourself -- if your figure is anything less than starving-supermodel proportions -- is to wear low-cut, belly-exposing jeans. Yes, even if your top is long. Your tummy will just stick out even more. And if you've got less than perfect hip-to-waist ratio, the jeans would just look ill-fitting instead of hip.

I love wearing jeans. But I won't stand for the godawful low-cut trend that has monopolized clothing stores right now. If anyone knows a retailer that sells other, more real cuts and styles, be a saviour and let me know.

p.s. a non-smoker's smoker's cough

2004-11-25T01:12:00.000+08:00

I was able to go to work today. Been eating healthy and overdosing on vitamin C. But the damage has been done. I have to live with a recurring cough -- smoker's cough, if you can effing believe it.

You know how smoker's cough affects smokers only in the mornings? Well, apparently, that's another reason to jump in and join the Joe Camel bandwagon because victims of second-hand smoke, like me, develop a worse kind of smoker's cough; the kind that comes and goes in a fit whenever you laugh or talk for long periods of time.

I was watching Late Night with Conan O'Brien, and couldn't get a satisfying laugh in -- I choked and spluttered and coughed like my lungs were gonna come out of my mouth.

What can I do? What else can I do?!? I'm seriously considering that gas mask now.

my favorite prayer

2004-11-24T01:53:00.000+08:00

This has got to be my favorite prayer of all time. Years upon years of memorizing words of prayers that hardly mean anything for me, and one day, I stumble upon prayers such as this. It's such a feeling of affirmation and simple joy to read and recite a prayer that recognizes actual tangible things around me; elements that affect and concern me.

As a Catholic, I was taught that there was so much about the world -- material and spiritual -- that can't be grasped or understood fully by the limitations of the human mind. But what about the things I can see and touch? What about the things that I have to live with everyday? Why not dwell on those as well?

This prayer clearly addresses that concern. I believe (still) that God is everywhere and in everything (maybe even is everything). The canticle of St. Francis recognizes this. It's the small things. The everyday. There's a sacredness and awesomeness to these things. These are the mysteries I'd rather dwell on.

Notice, too, how death is addressed not in the typical, dreaded manner like in some prayers. Death becomes our Sister. A part of us. Something we live with everyday; a fact most people avoid thinking about because they perceive death as horrible and alienating, when it is in fact an essential part of our lives.

Few things keep me loyal to my religion. One of them is being able to recognize outstanding men and women -- the saints -- and learn from the way they lived and died. Another is that Catholicism is not afraid to use stories and poetry as roadmaps to truth. It's very important to be historically sound and accurate, but also very important to remember that the point is not the accuracy of a text or the series of events, but what the message is and how it is relevant to us all.

I'm not a very good Catholic. A lot of things I disagree with and question. But it was in this community that someone like St. Francis thrived and found fulfillment. It was in this church that he became inspired to write a prayer such as this. And that, for now, is enough.

Canticle of Brother Sun and Sister Moon of St. Francis of Assisi

Most High, all-powerful, all-good Lord,
All praise is Yours, all glory, all honour and all blessings.
To you alone, Most High, do they belong,
and no mortal lips are worthy to pronounce Your Name.

Praised be You my Lord with all Your creatures,
especially Sir Brother Sun,
Who is the day through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendour,
Of You Most High, he bears the likeness.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars,
In the heavens you have made them bright, precious and fair.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,
And fair and stormy, all weather's moods,
by which You cherish all that You have made.

Praised be You my Lord through Sister Water,
So useful, humble, precious and pure.

Praised be You my Lord through Brother Fire,
through whom You light the night
and he is beautiful and playful and robust and strong.

Praised be You my Lord through our Sister,
Mother Earth who sustains and governs us,
producing varied fruits with coloured flowers and herbs.

Praise be You my Lord through those who grant pardon
for love of You and bear sickness and trial.
Blessed are those who endure in peace,
By You Most High, they will be crowned.

Praised be You, my Lord through Sister Death,
from whom no-one living can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin!
Blessed are they She finds doing Your Will.
No second death can do them harm.
Praise and bless my Lord and give Him thanks,
And serve Him with great humility

---

(What would a second death be like?)

lifelong dream

2004-11-23T11:50:00.000+08:00

Finally decided to get my own domain after asking advice from Itchyworm's resident webmaster, Chino, and Ramon. It feels like the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, although -- let's face it -- it's just a domain among millions of domains.

Neva.com was taken already; so was the .net and even the .org TLDs. I considered a .tk or .tv, but Chino told me they really don't have much recall (as if I'm going to do major marketing, riiight). So I thought of a short phrase with my name in it, and thankfully, no one has thought of using it before.

Having my own .com domain makes me feel like I'm going to become famous or change the world or do something big for humanity. But the truth is, statistically speaking, it may become one of the thousands of obscure domains that only my circle of friends knows about.

I've got big plans in my head, though. But basically, it's going to be a hodge-podge of things that interest me: my hack writing portfolio, my poems and stories, blog, interviews with writers in Edinburgh, articles on cosmetics and skincare, Philippine animal rights advocacy -- I want to put in a lot.

And I'm thinking, the only way this is going to look acceptable is if the format is like my personal notebook, my "brainbook." So I found this free template design on-line: a nifty spiral page out of a notebook with tabs on the side for the different sections of the site. I hope I can handle the ins and outs through Dreamweaver. I'm still a bit nervous about how it'll turn out.

Initially, I asked Cynthia to help design it. She's the best, and I was actually willing to pay her. However, her calendar's simply swamped with all her work for the magazine. (I'm glad she's busy, though -- hers is really a fairy-tale story of freelance life). Now, since the people I can think of are mostly busy (i.e. Alia and Brian), I'm fumbling along, pestering my little brother about it once in a while.

Also, working on a 35,000-word thing for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It's becoming an obsession for me to finish it, but it's not shaping up very well at all.

Mt grandfather's biography has been on hold for a while. I need to do more research about the Japanese period. There are important things I don't know where to find: archives of the old Leyte newspaper owned by the Lopezes and some military documents. The Lopez Museum has been a dead-end. I'm trying the National Archives in January.

But the real reason this book is stalled is because I'm not really sure how my family will take it. My Lolo's biography is not going to be a glory piece, although I'll certainly recount his amazing adventures there. I'm going to write as someone who's inside it all. I'm going to write about how I found things out, the things I saw and felt, how the stories were told, and how they were sometimes contradictory to each other. It's not a smear piece. It's just the truth. It's about my Lolo and, inextricably, our family.

And it's hard because no matter how I try to be strong and independent, anything my family says affects me. One word, it seems, can be the difference between affirmation to complete breakdown of my self-esteem. They matter. And that's why it's scary. But, I think, that's why it's necessary, too.

killing me slowly is your f***ing inalienable right

2004-11-19T13:04:00.000+08:00

At the crack of dawn, my coughing and retching finally let up. I was able to sleep after an agonizing couple of hours. Then I woke up with chest pains and a raw throat. I'm still coughing.

Last night, I was at Ciudad's 10th anniversary celebration in Eastwood. They're one of my favorite bands, not to mention my friends, so I wouldn't have missed this celebration for the world. I really enjoyed myself.

Except for the smoke. I could hardly breathe, my eyes were stinging, my throat hurt. I realize this is your standard experience in a gig, or even in an ordinary bar. But it was only last night that I realized I was paying a consequence for something I wasn't even responsible for. I was getting sick because most people around me were smoking like there was no tomorrow.

It was so smoke-congested inside, but there's nowhere to go. I didn't want to miss the performance of Ciudad and the other bands. And outside the room, there were also smokers. There was no escape.

And now I'm sick from breathing second-hand smoke, which according to extensive scientific studies, is even more harmful and carcinogenic than actual smoking. No one really cares, though. And who wants to be the asshole who tells her friends to please not smoke because she might just get lung cancer, or even adult-onset asthma and emphysema a few years down the road?

I've just been to the doctor, and she told me that my lungs weren't as clear and healthy as it should be, especially since I'm not a smoker. She also said I may also be at risk of developing asthma because of my work and social environment.

I sympathize with smokers, I really do. I smoked for more than a year during college. I know what it's like; how it feels. But one of my friends got pregnant, and I had to stop smoking because she had been staying at my place. I never took it up since then. But I know it's not easy to quit when everyone you know seems to be sucking smoke. I know that there are people who are at a point where they can't function normally without smoking. I understand that.

But what's the compromise? The smoking ban here is a joke. People still smoke wherever they want. It's their right, their choice. But don't I have an inalienable right to have a healthy body as well, if I wanted it? Don't I have the right to live until I'm 80 years old, cancer-free and asthma-free? Don't I have the right to breathe clean air?

I want to have naturally clear, young-looking skin even past my 30s, which is next to impossible (even with expensive skin care) when you inhale collagen-killing smoke everyday. I take a bath everyday and wear perfume, but I smell like a burnt garbage within an hour of stepping out of the house.

If there was a way to immunize myself from lung cancer and other smoking-related diseases, I would have lined up for my shot a long time ago, and shut up about the whole thing. If it were a simple matter of wearing a face mask to keep the nicotine from my lungs, I wouldn't be writing this entry.

But it's not.

The doctor told me that wearing a face mask -- even a good one -- woudln't protect me from the effects of the smoke. Unless I wear a gas mask, which I wont. I have no desire to look like a freak (I already have a problem with my physical appearance as it is).

So I've been literally cramming myself full of vitamin C, multi-vitamins and anti-oxidants. But my immune system really is no match for five smokers in my immediate vicinity every single time I go to a gig or party or bar. Even in my workplace, I can't win. How do I tell my boss I'm bothered by his chain-smoking, when his wife has expressly told me wouldn't quit, even for his kids?

I'm at a loss. I don't even want to mention how smoking puts smokers at risk -- they just get what they deserve. I'm more concerned about how I'm being put at risk for something I don't even enjoy.

The last thing I wanted was to make a big deal out of this. But right now I'm at home, miserably sick, coughing, retching, sniffling, still put out after my doctor told me my lungs looked a few years older than it should -- and I should take this lightly? The only way I'll feel slightly better is if at least one of the smokers from last night was retching and coughing and feverish like I am now.

But I doubt it. They're all still smoking away, oblivious, exercising their wonderful, inalienable right to destroy other people's bodies.

so what becomes of you my love...

2004-11-16T19:00:00.000+08:00

...when they have finally stripped you of
the handbags and the gladrags
that your grandad had to sweat so you could buy...

It's on my mind these days. And I'm in danger of laughing out loud for no apparent reason whenever I think about the show.

It's just funny in a way that a show has never been funny before. Funny in a real, poignant way. But I'm starting to hate the word poignant now, to tell the truth. It's become a keyword for book or film synopses or lazy reviews. But it is. It really is. The show, I mean. Poignant.
And intelligent. Not high-faluting or cerebral. I mean, I don't have to try hard to understand it. I feel respected, that's what it is.
My desktop wallpaper's Wernham-Hogg. and I'm pining for Tim and Dawn. I can't believe there are only 12 episodes for the whole 2 seasons!
But in a way, it's refreshing. No long, drawn-out storylines that turn too absurd, i.e. Alias turning mystical and surreal in season 3 (I love the show, but I really can't believe that there's a proper end to it anymore).

Does anybody have the Christmas Special and the special reunion episode?

if i die of this, i will be very, very mad

2004-11-16T17:21:00.000+08:00

Lung cancer now leads cancer deaths among women
Reported by Susan Aldridge, PhD, medical journalist

A new study reveals that lung cancer is now more important than breast cancer as a cause of death among women. Tobacco use among American women increased dramatically during the 20th century and now it’s payback time. For, in 2004, lung cancer is set to cause as many deaths among women as breast and all gynecologic cancers combined. Meanwhile, the rate of death among men from lung cancer continues to decline.
Researchers at the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York now point out that lung cancer in women is different than in men. Women show different enzyme changes during the disease, for instance. They are also more prone to adenocarcinoma, a form of lung cancer found among those who have never moked. However, there is also some evidence that women may be more vulnerable to the cancer-causing effects of smoking.

I am seriously at risk. Both my parents are smokers, I work back-to-back, at close range, with a chain-smoker and most of my friends like smoking even in confined places. I've developed a slight cough, which comes and goes, but is freaking me out. My skin is suffering, too, I think. Not to mention the awful rotten smell on my hair and clothes.

I know they have a right to smoke, but don't I have a right to be healthy, especially since I don't abuse or enjoy drugs, nicotine and alcohol?

Is the moral lesson here really just you can't beat 'em, so join 'em? I already smell and even cough like a smoker, anyway...

In the meantime, as long as my boyfriend isn't smoking, I am holding out hope for a wonder drug that can immunize somehow from lung cancer. I've been taking massive doses of vitamin C and am seriously considering wearing one of those 3M SARS masks to work.

here i go a-trippin'

2004-10-24T10:14:00.000+08:00

There's a fairytale about me (well, about my name, really)!

I suggest you watch it if you have broadband or DSL connection, though. I'm not sure if it's stop-motion animation or what, but it's lovely.

Also:

Garnering critical praise from around the world, NEVA DOLLS® has become one of the fastest growing doll companies in America.

why should kyla be proud of it?

2004-10-24T09:23:00.000+08:00

At 23, R&B princess Kyla admits she's still a virgin. And she's proud about it.

Why?

Being a virgin isn't an achievement. It's a choice you make. It doesn't make you better than other women. I know many Filipinas who have made the decision to express their love physically and live full lives, taking responsibility for their actions. Having one's hymen -- which every girl has from the get-go, by the way -- remain intact is definitely not a measure of one's womanhood.

This is just another load of bullshit from the spin doctors handling Kyla's career.

(And what a career it is, being touted as a star for, what, covering songs other artists already made popular, singing like a black balladeer, which she's not? Why is she even called an artist? She doesn't create anything. In fact, she's just another pretty face who may be nice in person, but still doesn't deny the fact that she doesn't deserve this kind of popularity. Only in da Pilipings.)

Bullshit is a fact of life, but when it affects others significantly -- other women, in this case -- it's a different story.

It bothers me that someone like Kyla, who sings like your dime-a-dozen videoke enthusiast, is held up as a standard for Filipinas to live up to. It's ridiculous for her to name one of her achievements as being a virgin. And it sends the wrong message, too: a woman has to be a virgin to be admired?

I have nothing against virgins. We all make our own decisions about our bodies: whether we think the time is right to give ourselves physically to the right person or whether we choose to follow the dictates of the Catholic Church and remain unpenetrated until marriage. But when virginity is given such a premium in a country where men are already full of unrealistic expectations about their "ideal woman," it just makes it that much harder to be a Filipina.

It would've been a little better if the article was an issue about artists who chose to remain virgins -- both men and women. But the writer was only concerned about perpetuating the image of the Maria Clara that Pinoy men still cling to.

I think Kyla should be ashamed that she is presented like this. Also, I think she should be embarassed that she doesn't have talent other than copying American artists. Even when she sings her own songs, she's trying to imitate the style of the latest R&B hitmaker. But that's another issue...

If she really wanted to be a yardstick, she'd pry herself from the clutches of her managers and do something original; maybe write songs that don't sound like every other ballad on the radio or do something that's her own. She'd stop dressing like an MTV music video, and be herself in her own terms. She'd start listening to herself, and not always drift where the media current wants her.

Also, I'd have some respect for her if she dropped the stage name "Kyla" and used something closer to her real name -- Melanie Calumpad. She'd at least sound more like a Filipino.

one of the many

2004-10-23T13:50:00.000+08:00

I dreamed that I had two shadows. The other one was evil, and had a mind of its own. I didn't know this until someone pointed it out. I was so scared, I couldn't move. It happens to me sometimes when I'm having nightmares. I get so frightened, then I become literally petrified. I find myself trying to rise to a wakeful state, and get stuck somewhere in between. My consciousness rises to the surface first and I can feel my body, but I can't move. I can't move and I panic. I find it hard to breathe. I try to call out, but I can't move my lips, either.

So I concentrate very hard. It takes a great effort. It takes my whole will. Even before I saw The Bride do it in Kill Bill vol. 1, I would focus on a small body part, like my toes or fingers, trying to move them first.

Last night, I moved my big toe first. It felt like ages before I was able to do that. Then I moved my whole feet, then my legs, then my hands, then my head. Then I could breathe. Then I opened my eyes.

I was still afraid. But at least I have a fighting chance awake than asleep.

the harm

2004-10-23T13:18:00.000+08:00

The best source of information on GMOs can be found in the Greenpeace website.

But basically, from the environmental fiasco that happened in Thailand, GMOs are counterproductive to an already ailing worldwide agricultural situation. Crops containing GMOs which were planted in Thailand killed off larva of helpful or non-harmful insects such as the Monarch butterfly. It also encouraged new herbicide-resistant species of weeds, which prompted the development of a more potent (and therefore more environmentally lethal) herbicide in Germany.

GMO crops also promote soil leaching. Meaning, huge amounts of harmful chemicals and toxins flow into bodies of water, another food source for us that may potentially be contaminated with GMOs in the long-run.

Although there has been no lethal effects on humans, GMOs have not been proven to be safe for human consumption. I don't understand how big corporations producing GMO crops can say that there's no risk since there have been no adverse effects on humans so far. It's not a matter of perspective. I, for one, am not willing to become a guniea pig. The effect may take years to appear, but I'd rather not take the chance.

---

Some additional information taken from Infoserve:

GM crops can be more damaging to neighbouring flora and fauna than ordinary strains of sugar beet, maize and oilseed rape, the Government's farm trials have shown.
The experiments have disproved the theory that GM plants would interact with other species in the same way as their conventional counterparts. In particular, the impact on insects, weeds and hedgerow plants has proved radically different, the trial results have revealed.
GM enthusiasts have argued that the crops will not affect the countryside. But sources close to the trials say that the findings, now being assessed by experts, prove that the "null hypothesis" about GM crops is wrong.The three crops in the trials, GM maize, oilseed rape and sugar beet, have all behaved differently to the conventional varieties grown beside them.
Some have destroyed more insects and weeds than conventional varieties, although one crop, believed to be maize, is thought to have had a more positive effect on killing unwanted common "weeds".One senior source close to the trials said: "The null hypothesis is wrong, that's what's come out of the trials clearly. What is consistent is there are differences in the impact of GM crops and conventional crops."Three varieties of GM crops have been tested in hundreds of farm-scale trials.
The Government is to base its decision on whether to grow GM crops commercially in Britain on the results of these trials.Whitehall experts believe
ministers will give the green light to grow one variety of GM crop in Britain,
possibly maize, to send a signal to the Americans that they are not anti-GM. But
two other varieties are expected to be rejected because they may damage the
environment.

it's here: greenpeace test results on food containing GMO

2004-10-23T11:57:00.000+08:00

Done some research to help my father prepare for his talk on the GMO issue at a conference sponsored by DTI.

For some time now, I've been hearing about GMOs in the news and in talkshows. But I never really cared to know more about the issue. Now I'm thinking twice before dismissing news pieces like this. The only way to really know anything is to do your own research. I don't trust the news on TV and the radio anymore. In the end, the news networks have stockholders and corporate sponsors to answer to, so it's hard for me to believe that they have the public interest in mind. There is always going to be a spin that will influence how the news and issues are going to be presented.

The Internet, still being the last free frontier, contains a more balanced view important issues. You get the media's take on it, as well as that of independent public interest groups and even individuals (through their online journals). It's harder to sift through, and may be frustrating, but at least, you get most, if not all, sides of the story.

So while researching on-line, I found several Greenpeace studies and articles on GMO, and was surprised that we are hot on their list, not only for food containing GMOs, but environmental issues as well (e.g. our coal-fired power plants, Pasig river, toxic waste disposal problems). We have a considerable impact on the world's environment, more than I imagined.

Right now, though, I'd like to focus on their findings regarding GMO-contaminated food:

On Dec 19, 2000 Greenpeace commissioned an independent Hong Kong food-testing laboratory
(Hong Kong DNA Chips Ltd) to test 30 common consumer food items available in Philippine
supermarkets. The laboratory used a standard PCR test (polyemerase chain reaction) to check for the presence of gene sequences from the two most commonly grown types of genetically engineered crops:

· Roundup Ready crops (primarily soya and corn) which have been genetically engineered
to resist Monsanto’s herbicide ‘Roundup’ (Glyphosate).
· Bt Crops (primarily corn) that have been genetically engineered to produce an insecticide
toxin.

Of the 30 products tested the following eleven tested positive:
1) Bonus Vienna Franks
2) Rica Protina Hotdogs
3) Campo Carne Moby Hotdogs
4) Purefoods Beefy hotdogs
5) Quality Foods Budget Franks
6) Foodmart Enterprises Crab Cake
7) Hong Chi Food Yung Ho Soya Drink
8) Doritos Smokey Red Barbecue
9) Nestlé Nesvita Natural Cereal Drink
10) Isomil Soy Infant Formula
11) Knorr Cream of Corn Soup

All 30 products were chosen for testing because they contained either Soya or Corn ingredients. All products were bought from a supermarket in Metro Manila. Other products tested on behalf of Greenpeace included those made under the following brands:
Swift, Nissin, Lucky Me, Campbells, Kelloggs, Humpty Dumpty, Jack and Jill, Granny Goose,
Pringles, Rosarita, Milupa and Wyeth.

this stephanie

2004-10-21T01:47:00.000+08:00

I didn't know her very well. It was easy to take someone for granted when you're surrounded by people in high school. She just stood out because of her height and light complexion. The first word anyone would think to describe her would be "tall." Thinking about it now, maybe she wasn't as tall as I thought. There were just so many of us who were average in height, average in looks, average in everything.

But she shone. She joined the COCC in junior year, just when the school declared it voluntary instead of a requirement. So when she became a senior, there was no question that she would reach the rank of Captain. Captain Sy.

I don't think I ever said two words to her. Aside from being an upperclassman, Stephanie hung out with the attractive and smart girls in school. The closest I've been to her was when I fainted during one of the First Friday Masses. She was the one who yelled for a Medic, and she helped carry the stretcher.

When you lose consciousness, you don't really black out entirely. Not always. Sometimes, like in my case, you don't realize what had happened to you, and in your in-between state, you think you're awake. But I saw and heard bits and pieces of what went on around me. That's how I knew Stephanie had been there.

She graduated along with the seniors, and it was our turn to lord over the school. I decided, whether because of that experience or not, to become a Medic myself. I would still see Stephanie from time to time, visiting her favorite teachers and student-friends, who were now seniors.

From what I heard, she went to U.P. I forgot what course she took. I don't remember what she wanted to do after college. All I knew was that one day, in front of a 7-Eleven in Marikina, she struggled against a man who tried to steal her necklace, and got stabbed to death.

The necklace remained in her hand; her grandmother had given it to her.

It was ridiculous that someone so young and so -- cliche but true -- full of life like Stephanie could just die like that. She was a block away from a hospital. Nobody helped her.

I don't know why I remember her in particular. I know more tragic stories like this than I would have liked. But this in particular -- Stephanie's story -- sticks in my mind. It's like that bit of trivia that you knew from when you were five years old. For no particular reason, it's in your head, and you keep saying it over and over until you run out of people who'll listen to you.

the magallanes incident

2004-10-21T01:34:00.000+08:00

There were two incidents of bag-snatching at the Magallanes Shopping Center (Starbucks area, particularly) recently. On both occasions, after the bag had been stolen, the perp, who had walked some distance away, suddenly turned around and went back to stab his victims. Fortunately, one of the victims managed to stop the knifeblow by gripping the blade with her bare hand. The snatcher gave up and ran away, leaving the woman, who, except for her wounded hand, was relatively unharmed.

The people outside Starbucks, if you were wondering, did nothing to help the victims during and after the incident. The guard wasn't even looking. They all appeared shocked as it was happening, but even after the snatcher left the scene, none had approached the victims to offer assistance or solace. I thought people like these would mostly be found in jaded Western cities, like New York.

I was expecting more of our malasakit culture to come out. Like our malasakit for convicted criminals like Joseph Ejercito Estrada and Imelda Marcos. Hundreds of people cried for them and took to the streets to show their loyalty, but not one person at fucking Starbucks cared to ask the two victims if they were okay.

little earthquakes

2004-10-14T03:03:00.000+08:00

I'm surprised this hasn't been a major topic of discussion in the news and radio...or in blogs, for that matter (aside from the occasional mention of the incident).

There have been four (four!) earthquakes within a week or two of each other. Earthquakes that were strong enough to be felt; strong enough to topple over our foldable clothesline. Earthquakes in a country that isn't even included in the infamous Pacific Ring of Fire, where most earthquakes and major faultlines are located.

Is it just me who thinks that this is something to be concerned about? Is there a news bulletin that I missed on TV or in the papers?

I mean, I have been asking most of the people I know if they knew what was going on. What is causing these earthquakes? Why are they recurring? And is this a sign that some bigger catastrophe is about to happen? Because I'd really like to know. Better to get the worst-case scenario now when my loved ones and I can fully prepare for it.

I've tried researching on-line for information about these earthquakes, but all I've come up with is the PHIVOLCS (Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology) website, which recorded the occurences and magnitude of these earthquakes. Aside from that there's no attempt at an explanation for this. The site doesn't even mention if our scientist at PHIVOLCS are corresponding with foreign agencies or other scientists to try and get to the cause of these frequent earthquakes.

If this earthquake had been a one-time thing, or even months apart of each other, I wouldn't give a second thought about it. But I find it hard to believe that four consecutive earthquakes occuring within a week of each other is something I shouldn't worry about. I like looking at the brighter side of life as much as the next person, and as a Catholic, I relinquish most worries over things I cannot control (like the power of Mother Nature). But it's foolish not to know more about this situation and do nothing, when proper preparations may save some lives in case a catastrophe does happen.

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