44th

Hail to the Chief! Barack Obama officially became the president of the United States of America and the most powerful man in the world last January 20, and I'm still giddy with excitement! It's the new frontier for American politics, and a new frontier for US diplomacy. Yes expectations are high for the man, and they should be rightfully so. Nobody expects mediocrity from this man, and I assume he expects only the best from himself. Concerns on the economy that has rocked the world's banking institutions, climate change, and the two-pronged wars is a big full plate to handle. No wonder his mantra is "We shall overcome" - very consistent with the Hope slogan during his primary and presidential campaigns.

Poverty as a Motive for a Film

Two years ago I drafted a script for a friend who was an aspiring filmmaker. The script was about a young boy whose mother was an OFW. The boy imagined that his mom was Darna, a comic book heroine created by the legendary Mars Ravelo. The boy's family was lower middle class, and his grandmother and elder sister were the ones who lived with him in their cozy and respectable apartment. My friend wanted the script to be a funny and quirky story. I opted for the tragic and surrealist approach, wherein the boy eventually becomes a ghost recollecting memories of his mother. In the final scene I even had the boy disappear like a bullet fired towards the sky, which was possible since he was already a ghost. I strongly assumed my friend didn't like how I transformed a story with a quirky idea to a cautionary tale, because I never heard him discuss the script after I gave all fifteen pages of it to him. Instead I offered another script, this time the protagonist is a cross-dressing thief who enjoys snatching expensive wristwatches and jewelries from hapless victims. My friend asked me what the protagonist's motive was for living a life of crime. I told him that my cross-dressing hero/heroine was orphaned at a young age and therefore had to resolve to snatching expensive items in order to live, and the probability of escaping an impoverished future would be easy if s/he was able to save enough money, start a business and come out clean. My friend scoffed at the idea of poverty as a form of motivation. Poverty has always been a motivation in most Filipino films. Couldn't I be more creative with the protagonist's motivation?

When I thought of it, I did notice that most substantial Filipino films are indeed motivated by poverty, from Himala to Scorpio Nights, Jaguar to Balweg, Crying Ladies to Magnifico. Even in Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros, poverty is an issue. Poverty probably had always been a scapegoat for stories. The old mother killed her child because she cannot feed her anymore. A young couple was forced to live under an old, decaying bridge because they cannot afford a home. A woman resorted to a career of crying in funerals because the opportunity to pursue her dream was bleak. But how do we escape poverty as an issue in our films when it is part of our daily lives? Wouldn't it be a great disconnect to the Filipino audience if the motivation was more first world in sensibilities? As artists, shouldn't our works reflect society's issues, and not just create art for art's sake by putting into story a motivation that may not even tickle the fancies of an ordinary Filipino viewer?

I personally believe that poverty should always remain a motivation in our films as long as it exists in our society. Even if my friend wants me to be more ambitious in looking for a different motivation, I believe that will be difficult for me to do. I don't want to pretend I'll be this "genius" with  a blind eye on everything around me and surrender in my ivory tower so that I can pull out an idea that might change the face of cinema. I'm mediocre, and I'm not afraid to say otherwise.

Hmmmm....

A little buzz is inching its way inside my cranium, almost to the point of my mind losing consciousness.

Scary thing for me to be in right now.

Poem i

I have a blog in my Friendster account, but it hasn't been active for the past six months. I still have some poems there that I want to extricate, but the system is not allowing me to even enter the settings. Aaaarggghhh!!! Anyway, I've got a poem to share:


Glance

How slow
the fishes swim
in the aquarium.

You swear
a glimpse of rainbow
fleetingly reflect
on their scales.

How fast
your gaze rests
on his speckless shoulder.

I swear
a little star
flashed brightly
in your eyes.

Dreamer

When I was nine years old, I remember sitting by our living room window and writing a story on our coffee table. The story was about a genie who ruled four worlds in a bottle. That bottle floated restlessly in space, its impenetrable and magical glass shielding the worlds within from cosmic forces that could cause havoc and destruction.



When I was two years old, the most vivid memory I had was doodling. I remember someone old teaching me how to write. What I did instead was doodle circles on cheap writing pad, the one that had the texture and thinness of newspaper.



When I was twelve years old, I started creating characters with superhuman abilities. One had the ability to fly like a rocket; another had the ability to shoot powerful light rays from his hands; and another one had superhuman strength. For each of these characters I paired them with members of the opposite sex who also had similar capabilities, albeit not as spectacular.



When I was four I already knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: an animator. Dazzled by Popeye, Mickey Mouse and Friends, Thundercats, Transformers, and Mask, and inspired by the success of Walt Disney and Jim Davis of Garfield and Friends, I made a promise to myself that someday I will become a well-known animator. If not, that I will make a fortune out of animation.


At thirty one, I am now working as graphic designer. You'd wonder if I have already forgotten my dreams, these personal legends I desire to fulfill. I haven't. I always see myself fulfilling these dreams, and what I'm doing right now is a stepping stone to what I want to be. For all I know I might have dreamed of what I'm doing right now but because it was never vivid I've completely forgotten about it. Or that I might be living someone else's dream, I'm darn lucky to be living it.

Twilight

Some people would rather stay away from the darkness or light entirely. They measure their existence by the scattered sunlight before it rises or after the day dies. It is constricting, but in such times, when either the world is awake or deep in slumber, these people see the brightest stars.

I, for one, tried to see the world during the magical blue hour. I tried to smell the flowers, since they were reported to smell the strongest during this time of day. Sadly, all I can smell is dry grass.

Fingernails

Fine time for me to remind myself why I need to cut my fingernails. Earlier I entered a cubicle in the men's comfort room when the cubicle door automatically bounced on the wooden pane with my fingers in between. Luckily my fingers were nimble to evade the door and avoid a minor injury. Unluckily my very long fingernail was chipped off, looking like it was chewed on. I honestly don't want to leave an impression that I have such an unhealthy habit, so tonight my fingernails will have to undergo some trimming.

Wanderlusting in your Imagination

A friend of mine forwarded beautiful pictures of earthly places I wish I was born in: a pink umbrella left on a lovely wooden bridge, complemented by pink cherry trees in the background; a solitary citrus green tree in the middle of a lavender field; golden autumn leaves lining up a forgotten road; winter glazing the trees and the fields white; a glacier glowing in the darkness of the Arctic region; a row of windmills standing still beneath a late afternoon sky; a shaft of sun piercing through a canyon gulch; a field of yellow flowers on the foot of a snow-capped mountain range. My eyes remained on those pictures for half an hour. I look outside our office, and see glass monoliths drenched in afternoon thunderstorm, the lightning slicing through the velvet darkness of heavy clouds. We only pass this way once indeed.

Resurrection

Time to start anew.

Old things are not forgotten easily, specially for someone who's got an elephant memory. People stay. People go. People forget to stop by and say hello. People you know pass by as if you're someone new. They forget your name, pretend you're a stranger, and when you strike a conversation, their first sentence consist of the words "Hey! Don't I know you?" You wish you'd slap them silly, then find it unnecessary, and surrender to the awful general view: they're human just like you.

But they're not like you. Not with your elephant memory. And you remember everything they do. And they'll keep doing what they do - forgetting me and forgetting you. But you'll remember that too.