RANT: Kings of Convenience

Yep, they are coming to Manila. Yep, they will perform at the NBC Tent, Bonifacio Global City, Taguig on Wednesday, March 31st. Yep, tickets are available at certain stores all over the metropolis, one of which is Kate Torralba's. Yep, I so damn want to see them perform live because they may not come back to this country again. Yep, I don't have work, since our schedule was moved to an earlier time, making it possible for me to watch them. Yep, I will move time and space just to get a ticket. Yep, I should be buying tickets now.

Nope, I've got other obligations to settle.

Damn.

Not so Strange Dog

A few months ago my office mate and I were taking a cab home. I took the cab with her since she passes along my route. On our way out of Araneta Center going to EDSA she then told me of a dog that usually trots by the sidewalk between 12 midnight to 2 a.m. I didn't find that odd since there were so many stray dogs scattered all over the metropolis. Then she mentioned that she always sees the dog during that exact period, as if it had a precise ritual to be in the same spot in the wee hours of night. I told her that she might be mistaken. It might be a different dog she saw passing by the spot. She believed it was the same dog - its left hind foot was strangely cut so it had to limp walking along the sidewalk. It was white, and not the hairy type as most stray dogs in the metropolis are.

The following day I went home at around 1 a.m. The cab I rode, like most cabs, had clear windows. I was looking at some people who were trying to cross the highway when a dog suddenly appeared from a corner street and limped its way to an old light post. It was white, not much hair on its body, and its left hind foot looked as if it was sliced clean from its limb. This is the dog my friend was talking about. It rummaged over the pile of garbage bags left at the light post, and started chewing the black plastic. I wondered if that was the reason why it was a frequent visitor of that spot. Stray dogs are peripatetic creatures, and they probably haunt a certain place if there is something for them that would support their survival. Leftovers are welcome treats. Dogs are seldom choosy. My cab continued to speed over EDSA. Inside I kept reminding myself to share my thoughts on why the dog visits that same spot. Nourishment is always a good reason.

I glanced back at the old light post to check on the dog one more time. I saw another tail wagging behind the garbage bags. I thought it would be cheesy to add this information too, but then there shouldn't be any use deleting certain information even if it may sound like it's fabricated.

Poem

I recently wrote a poem that targets teenagers. It's quite mediocre, but mediocrity is where I'm currently swimming nowadays :-)


Rollercoaster

We ride in pair
I'm glad you're there
just beside me -
I hope you'd be.

It's nice to know
you're here with me
to hold my hand
and calm my fear.

It looks immense
from where we are
this roller-coaster
chain of box cars.

You crack a joke
to make me calm -
hope you won't mind
my sweaty palm.

The cars go up
the iron rails
up to the top -
might as well dream:

when it goes down
and turn around
the loop we feel
like upside down

might as well scream

spell "aggravate"

Yesterday a friend of mine asked me while he was taking a call how to spell the word aggravate. You see in our business words have to be spelled correctly and every word should be typed or enunciated verbatim. I looked at his computer screen and contemplated at his spelling:

aggrievate

If history was tweaked differently this word would have found itself in Merriam-Webster or Oxford, the marriage of aggrieve and aggravate. I researched the etymology of both words in Merriam-Webster. I found out that aggrieve is derived either from middle English agreven, from Anglo-French agrever, and from Latin aggravare, meaning "to make heavier". As for aggravate, it is derived from the Latin aggravatus, which is the past participle of aggravare.

So as not to burden my friend with the period of waiting for my response, I advised him that the correct spelling was aggravate. I cannot blame my friend. Aggrieve and aggravate sounds very similar, being that both share the same ancestor word aggravare. It is quite interesting to learn that we might sometimes unconsciously misspell a word and if little research is done it actually makes sense why the word is misspelled.

Pantoum - Carousel

In the middle of the fairground
the carousel turns 'round and 'round
Around and 'round and 'round and 'round
in the middle of the fairground

The carousel turns 'round and 'round
Boys and girls on wooden horses
in the middle of the fairground
galloping in measured paces

Boys and girls on wooden horses
parents wondering why oh why
galloping in measured paces
restless time swiftly passing by

Parents wondering why oh why
must little children grow up soon?
Restless time swiftly passing by
morning must turn to afternoon

Must little children grow up soon?
The world is like a carousel
morning must turn to afternoon
time pirouettes in its own shell

The world is like a carousel
in the middle of the fairground
time pirouettes in its own shell
around and 'round and 'round and 'round

Boy Looking Through A Window

He charged through the busy avenue like a lost stray cat, and found me typing away on a laptop. Playfully he looked at me, inquiring silently what I'm doing inside a cafe deplete of customers. I answered with a stare older people would usually do to more inquisitive, curious kids. He looked like he spent most of his time in the street, unmindful of the wheeled contraptions that can easily squish his body with a careless swerve. I didn't mind his presence at first, but the intrusion of my private time caused my hands to cover my lips, imitate Auguste Rodin's "The Thinker" and accept the challenge of my younger rival.

His first move was sticking out his tongue - see if I respond with something more crazy. I have resolved to stay still - not move an inch, just stare. He opened his mouth, shaped it into an "O", then crossed his eyes. I conditioned myself to be like part of the furniture. He placed his hands over his eyebrows as if peeking through the pane, probably wondering how to move a stone without touching it. Swiftly he hid himself behind the cemented division of the wall, then quickly jumped out the window as if to surprise me. I almost lost my constitution, but remained firm.

A lady who wore a bob hair appeared beside him, and scolded him about nobody watching over the rice cakes she was selling beside the light post near the hospital. He followed her, jumping like a farm goat over the pavement. Our match has finally concluded. He might be disappointed that his conquest to get a certain reaction from me will be left unfinished.

But I lost. He didn't see my finger twitch.

Promotional Items

Whenever I’m at Starbucks ordering the usual mocha frappuccino, I find myself in front of a large cabinet of mugs, tumblers and stuffed toys that have the logo of the coffee shop imprinted either on the tag or on the item itself – promotional products that help market the coffee shop. I ponder at the tumblers, arranged uniformly on the shelves,  ready to entice this mocha frappuccino drinker into surrendering the few hundreds of pesos left in his three-year old wallet.

I might as well buy one. Any offices I’ve been to there was someone using a Starbucks tumbler, whether they be a call center agent, in-house fashion designer, or magazine editor. It’s conveniently spill-proof. I can easily fill it with water from the dispenser. I can sometimes use it as a container of a 15-peso goto I buy from one of those Oras ng Himala concessionaires. It’s not cheap, so I can boast I was able to afford one, even if it will still be the same tumbler I’ll be using five years from now.

On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t. I already have a tumbler, with the logo of the company I previously worked for printed paper white against its shiny metallic-blue surface. I got it as a freebie after my regularization, and I didn’t even have to shell out money. It has the same features and benefits as the Starbucks tumbler, with the exception of a black handle that makes it look like a hybrid between a tumbler and a mug. One time I brought it with me out of the office and into a convenience store where some fresh graduates can’t make up their minds which companies they would like to apply to. They saw my mug and wanted to have one as well. Needless to say, I had four new friends come with me to the front desk to pass their resumes.

Cloud

If asleep
I'm like Arctic night cloud
and you a star wanting
to embrace me in your glow.

Pardon
my stillness to your advances.

I want to gather more water
from the days you've become my Sun,
the days when I'm all puffed
morning white -
listless frenetic and obedient
wherever the arms of your wind
carries me;
a silver crown over a mountain,
a shadow over a lake,
until I'm nimbus blue and heavy
continent vast, battle-ready
to shower and gust
and thunder your love
until I dissipate
and evaporate in your light.

2 Poems

I found some poems I wrote last year in two notebooks.The first poem was written during my cousin's wake. I was alone that day. The visitors were scarce. The second poem I wrote after Valentine's day, also last year. It details an emotion that was waiting to explode that time. Enjoy!


Regret

Ask me what the leaves say
together with the wind -

Ask me what that voiceless wind
says as it settles over noon -

Ask me what an opal sky carries
in its early summer cape -

Ask me why white cotton candy clouds
dissipate under a hot butter sun -

Ask me why the birds hide
in the shadows of tree branches -

Ask me all these things now
before the music of the rustling
brittle leaves is done,

then the day ends -
and you gone.

-- for Jong, RIP
January 23, 2008





Suspicion

I will resist the devil
charging electrically through
my fragile synapses
about some thoughts
that poke my suspicion
whether you just lent
the yellow hanger
that carries his maroon towel
or it just took too long
for you to converse
with him in careful
whispers last night
or the frequency you drank
water from the second floor
when you usually never did,
or the way you described how
he looks more handsome
the longer you stare at him -
I will resist the devil
like a lost soul resists
burning in his own cauldron.


-- February 20, 2008

RIP Francis M.

It was summer break. Kuya and I were fighting over whose tape should be played in the cassette recorder. I was into 80's pop, the kind that you'd like to dance to silly in private. Kuya was inclined to this fresh new artist who delved into the genre of rap when rap, for me back then, was equivalent to country music - meaning it sucked. He eventually won, and bullied me with Francis M.'s "Cold Summer Nights". I hated every moment I was forced to listen to a man crying over spilt milk. It's not that the song wasn't good, because it was. It's just that I thought my brother used the song to irritate me for not being able to have my song played in the cassette.

The hate didn't last long. Because my brother had me listen to it so many times, I eventually had it memorized to the point that I sing the song to myself. One time I was going to school and I was singing "Cold Summer Nights", one big boy told me he almost wanted to shove me because I looked irritatingly lanky. He didn't because I was singing his favorite song. Needless to say, Francis M. saved my butt.

Fast forward, 19 years later. One of my favorite artists died from septic shock today at noon. I watched an online mini-video of Eat Bulaga hosts announcing his demise. I cried. Funny how songs remind you of days that will never return, albeit mundane and common. You still cherish them because something about those days reminded you of a good thing you still enjoy even up to now.

I hold that memory with me still. I hold that song more closer now. Thank you Kiko. May you rest in peace.

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.