WHEN WITS DIVERGE

Besides a hard-thought subject matter and title, I'm always miffed with one more ordeal each time I rest my two hands on the keyboard to start writing --- how to say what I'm thinking. Should it be in Filipino or English? Should it be in prose or poem? Should it be free-versed or structured? And most of the time, before I could even decide, all ideas just slowly leak off my fissured brain. Having to choose carefully sometimes defeats the purpose. 

Perhaps that was what stalled me from doing this thing less frequently back then. I have always thought of what others will think of what I do. But you know what they say, "Not one size fits all" or the simpler "You can't please everybody"? This for me is the perfect embodiment. I compromise form when I say ideas in straight lines, but I sacrifice comprehension when I conceal thoughts in poetic images. The minute I decide to choose how to say something at a certain point, that's also the minute I decide to let go of the possibility to be understood in some way. And that, I believe, is also where misinterpretation hails from. 

Coming up with one post daily for the past month has been both an appealing and appalling encounter. To be honest, I've never been subjected to a tug-of-war of comfort and discomfort at the same time. It's like letting your arm suffocate in a tourniquet, though you know this uncomfortable tightness will save the rest of your appendage. My essays were trash, and my poem-drafts were crap. But when I see even a single page view in my stats, there's a baffling sense of optimism that crops up within me to deem that there will always be someone who will listen, even just a single soul. I know I'm being heard --- and that's enough for me to carry on.

There's not one formula to doing what we want to achieve, so I suggest we all keep on trying. The fear of being misunderstood? Don't even bother. And do away with thinking and containing yourself to what other people will think because there's just so much to learn and discover. Whether you choose to be heard through a prose or a poem, it wouldn't even matter. Your very own message is all there is to it. And when it's heartfelt, everything else will ensue. #

photo credit: The Saunderton Split

WHAT LIGHT MEANS TO THE MOTH

And I knew it wasn't really easy.

The lights were out when I got home at 10 tonight. I just took a quick candlelight dinner with myself and went straight to my room to prepare for the last and worst one and a half hours of my day. Or should I say night. Using my phone's backlight as the only source of illumination, I've already written down a few sentences on my scratch paper, when my pupils suddenly stopped dilating. Brownout's over.

There's this one documentary from years back that never left my mind and which always reminded me how lucky I was as a kid, especially back in my high school days. "Gamu-gamo Sa Dilim" was the title of this I-Witness classic by Kara David, a documentary about young school children who travel for miles walking past mountains to get to their makeshift schoolhouse, and by the time they get home late at night to study, not even a single lamppost can help them see what they were reading or writing. But their determination to learn and reach for their dreams through this education served as the only light in finishing their race to life.

I had my laptop fully charged minutes ago but I decided to take that darkness-filled moment as an opportunity to experience perhaps what I may not voluntarily do had I had the choice. It wasn't really easy. And it just reminded me once more how grateful I should be for everything I have now, both bad and good. 

It's natural for us to always feel the least blessed when something bad happens. That, despite the fact that out of the 365 days of the year, I bet not even 30 days of it will be spent with such unfortunate events. And because we concentrate more on the negatives, we crumble altogether, feeling miserable, ruining the remaining 335 days of sunshine.

For ten years now that scene of the children in "Gamu-gamo" has been my leverage in reminding myself that things are not always there as default, like the simple lights that we take for granted. But I would not want to stop there, because besides being grateful for such, that light is supposed to be shared. And I sure am looking forward to it pretty soon. #

photo credit: matangapoy

11:11

Providential, they say; but who?

Some chap who happened

To gaze on a clock,

And saw one digit all aligned

Like valiant soldiers waiting

In the firing squad?

Wish. Discount the source.

Ignite lanterns come night

And let them flutter

To the sky, where soon

They are nothing but 

Indistinct flickers of wanting.

Sarcastic, to say with less empathy.

Pathetic, to denounce your "wisdom."

Perhaps the hanker was

Never as critical.

Or maybe just an amusement,

A comedy to give guise to tragedy.

Dream. Let the wish linger

A while longer in perception.

Kill time to witness it coming 

Once daily. Nine, ten, eleven.

Eleven eleven.

Who are we kidding? #

photo credit: burningman

ONLY SIX MONTHS TO LIVE

I have always been fascinated with the thought of dying young. When I hear of people leaving this earth in their 20's, I sometimes border on envy. Most people would say, "sayang," but for me, it's more of a "wow." Congratulations. Mission accomplished.

The very thought of death never really scared me. Well, besides my wish not to die with a gunshot or from a freak accident, death generally is something I know is natural and something that will come unexpectedly. I know I'm not holding on to anything in this world simply because they're all temporary. But to add morbidity to wanting to die quite young, I actually set a deadline for myself --- 24. Wait. I'm 24. So that means I've only got 6 months more. 

In my mind I've set the perfect life until my 24th year of existence: right after graduation, I'm going to earn 2 years of professional work experience, resign, take up a Masters degree outside my country, go back, and then... blank. So maybe that's where the "24" is coming from. I don't know where to pick up from where I'm leaving off. My deadline is an escape from the great unknown.

But fortunately (or unfortunately), the vision never came true. I've been working for almost four years now and flunked every application to study abroad (as if there has been that many). You know the feeling of knowing your end goals in life but not knowing the in-betweens from the now? That's where I'm exactly at. You may think I'm "malas," but ironically, it's when these plans got screwed up that I was opened up more to the beauty of life. 

Being 24 has been a turning point in my life. I've departed yet seen new places. I've separated yet met new people. I've unlearned yet was reminded. And because I know I'm 24 and in my mind got only six months to live, I've been opened to the reality that opportunities are but everywhere---I was just stupid to have stayed inside my barracks with all of my weapons for quite a few years, waiting for God-knows-what. I was quite confused then. But maybe now I'm ready.

Isn't it poignant that just when you've started, here seemingly comes the sudden end? But whether or not God will take that deadline seriously this year (and I'm pretty sure He won't because His timing will always be a bittersweet stunner), I'd still be grounding to that deadline to remind myself that I have better get moving now or it's going to be never. Come November, maybe I'll still wake up on my birthday like just any other day. But I'm not to bum around because if there's anything in this life, I want to get at least a death well-deserved. :) #

photo credit: teenink

UNREST

Run fast,
Walk tall.
Stand still,
Sit straight.
Spine on the rest,
Dissenting the unrest.

Miles are ran,
Alleys walked.
Stages stood at,
Chairs sat on.
Back against the rest,
Deviating my unrest.

Mind is of the matter.
Matters of the mind.
Talking to me,
Pathways are opened.
Talking through me,
Footprints are examined.

The mark of yesteryear
Is trickiest to cleanse.
Is it me from the inside?
Or all you from out?
I don't want to be
A product of my environment
It's tricky, Costello.
You should have known. #

photo credit: dirtisdirt

MATIISIN

You leave the house at 6am knowing you have to be somewhere early. As luck would have it, the ride you took was just the best so far. The aircon was broke, the driver stepping on the brakes like he's swallowed some brake fluid that morning, and pulled over to a gas station where the vehicle was misloaded by gas instead of diesel. You get to the metro and you see the line was unusually long, about 500 more people before you reach the ticket booth. And then you line up on another queue to get on the train. You reach the destination at 10am. You could have made it by 7:30am. "Ganun talaga," you tell yourself. No, my friend. You're just an emblem of pure, immaculate patience; that is, in the wrong context. 

Filipinos can be just too matiisin even to unbelievable heights. "'Pag maiksi ang kumot, matutong bumaluktot," this is what we were ultimately taught. We tend to make do with what we have despite the several options that we have. We stick to the conventional, to what we're used to, even if we know things could have turn out with better results had we chosen the alternatives. That's why we had 333 years of the Spaniards, 10 years of Americans, 20 years of Marcos, and 9 years of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo. 

I have all the respect for people who know how to look at the brighter side of things, for people who can smile despite the burdens that they carry. But sometimes, we have to draw the line between our patient endurance and our ignorance. Is it just 'hope' we're clinging to? Or we just settle in the comfort zone sometimes brought about by our indolence? Three paragraphs can't answer but this definitely opens up the wide array of different cultures, both right and wrong, that we were taught over generations. 

Yet no matter how frustrated I get when I see my countrymen in this situation, I still cling to the hope that there's a part of the pie who sees problems as opportunities and who wouldn't settle for a broke-down FX ride. Or maybe it's just me. After all, I'm Filipino. I'm a Filipino who's plainly, stupidly, and luxuriously 'matiisin.' #

TREASURED TRASH

Several years ago I was doing a little tidy-up in our shared closet. Making sure I don't miss a single piece of trash, I was opening boxes that looked suspiciously candidates for the waste bin. I stumbled upon this little tin coin box in the shape of the Filipino jeep which can be opened on its roof. Suspicious, I thought. With gnashing teeth I struggled to open that tin box. At one sudden pull, the contents burst out and holy smokes! Scattered around me were little candy wrappers from God-knows-when. I shrieked to call my sister.

In general, we are beings of sentiments, and we love to keep things that remind us of these treasured feelings no matter how small, stupid, or plainly pointless. "Remembrance," as we fondly call them. When we were in, say high school, we used to love keeping this scrapbook that contains the weirdest memorabilia that it makes it hard to store the scrapbook itself. Empty wrappers, receipts, tissue papers, band-aids, boxes --- name it. And when we look back and go over this 'collection' from time to time, we take ourselves back to the very feeling we felt when we acquired them. And even if the memory hurts, it still ironically makes you smile. It's the ultimate concrete manifestation of our sentimiento de asukal. These may just be simple things, but they symbolize a greater part of our culture.

I myself am keeping boxes of letters that were given to me over time, from the formal Palanca to the crappiest little note where someone wrote me "Hoy!" on a post-it and just signed her name on it. Besides my fixation with written words, it just goes to prove I'm also a keepsake keeper. I totally see nothing wrong with this custom, except that I occasionally feel guilty for it occupies a significant amount of space in my life, both physically and emotionally. Nothing wrong in looking back on them, but sometimes, it's the process of looking back that stagnates us and holds us back in our decision to look forward to the hopes of the future. 

Maybe we should try a little letting go sometimes. It's hard, but the moment we stop keeping physical things to remind us of our sentiments, it's when we recognize that what's important is how these experiences changed us. And there's no need to keep physical evidences of such because we ourselves are already symbols of sentimiento de asukal accumulated over time. #

photo credit: behance

A VERSE WITH NO NAME

Lines that don't
start and vaguely end.

Words, which make
you think beyond words.

Rhymes, giving sound
to the often inferred.

Form, that dares
the craftsman than you.

Emotion, dispensed freely
like idle Tuesday afternoons.

I hate poems;
they run in circles

Defining gravity yet
defying the very sense.

Intensely hidden gist,
sugar and pepper coated.

Killing punctuation that
uncovers necessity in stages.

I hate poems;
I will create more. #


photo credit: toothgap

DEOXYRIBONUCLEIC ACID

The jeepney ride to Commonwealth this morning was another topic-compelling moment for me. I was taking out a few coins from my purse when I noticed this kid of about 5 or 6 standing from behind the driver's seat, facing the rest of the passengers. He was wearing neat clothes and a cap that perfectly fit his little head, and was waiting for someone to say "bayad po" so he could reach out his hand to get the coins and hand it to the driver, who I assumed was his dad. The fast forward button auto-pushed inside my head and I thought, years from now, will this little boy become exactly like his father, or will he be one to break off from a seemingly inevitable cycle?

Most often than not, we are defined by what most of our family members have become. If you've come from a line of doctors or lawyers, then you must have been expected to be one yourself. Most successful artists have come from a pedigree of artists as well. Pressure, expectation, or simply the lack of self-derived motivation must have urged you to string yourself to what your ancestry generally dictated for your generation. But I find it quite staggering how some people can break off from these dictates, people who seem to have found the secret protein to alter their own DNAs.

It was never easy. I always knew that I will not be an engineer, a scientist, a schoolteacher, or a lawyer like what most of both of my lineage generally patterned me to become. For over thirteen years I was trying to find that secret protein to alter my life structure. But though you know what you're up to and you have the firmness to stay out of the stereotype, sometimes it just doesn't work out right. In this light a certain understanding creeps up to me to believe that our DNA is not simply a protein that may define our physical and personal attributes--- it may mean more like a life-pattern, one that's not easily broken off over generations.

But if one thing gives me hope, it's that DNAs are anti-parallel. They have nucleotides that run side-by-side in opposite directions joined by ester bonds, giving a complementary structure just like a simple family--- our families. We can run into opposite directions yet maintain a bond that will hold us for the next million years. And because some DNAs are found quadruplex that branch out, I have reason to believe that though these blueprints could not be broken, they can probably be altered over time given the right push, the right modification process, and the right purpose. #

photo credit: drmomma

CITIZEN JOURNALISM

Eight years ago I was staring at my college application to UP really hard, wanting so much to write "AB Journalism" in the field Course 1 but ended up taking something totally different to avoid an uncalled-for tension between my parents. Today, kids who want to take up Journ probably wouldn't need to defend it that way as the rise of online media now heavily promotes and encourages 'citizen journalism.' Defined, citizen journalism derives from public citizens "playing an active role in the process of collecting, reporting, analyzing, and disseminating news and information." Facebook and Twitter have obviously been one of the best venues for this over the years, where millions of blogs, links, and status messages are shared daily over the net. 

A couple of weeks back, this has been the topic on Rock Ed Radio, my Thursday night radio fix on Jam 88.3. I'd love to share some points the two notable guests (Maria Ressa formerly of CNN Asia, and Roby Alampay of Interaksyon.com) raised during the two-hour discussion (thanks to storify.com for these feeds):

@robyalampay: I don't really use the term "citizen journalist." I'm more focused about the process of journalism.

@maria_ressa: Anyone who publishes is a journalist. A citizen journalist is someone who can publish.

@robyalampay: Whether you call yourself a citizen journalist or not, if you can publish, then you can be sued.

@robyalampay: I don't think Edu Manzano was being a citizen journalist when he tweeted that Grace Lee, President dated in Greenhills.

@robyalampay: We should be responsible as we can in protecting the integrity of that information.

@maria_ressa: Now, the people speak for themselves. The danger there is what standards do they use?

Quite obviously, there are a lot of things to discuss and to question on this topic, and even journalists themselves could not install police lines on the roles of 'citizen journalists' especially that they have all the avenues and that the availability of information has never been this fast and free.

I for one have been using blogs for years to create awareness and express my views --- but I could not consider myself a 'citizen journalist' despite draping these articles online for anybody to read. Facts are accurate, sources are cited, but the 'process' Roby is referring to may have been what I lack. And that for me simply differentiates the professionals with all those publish-hungry uploaders who feed useless and/or inaccurate information, not to mention habitual errors in structure and grammar, proudly claiming "Look, I'm a citizen journalist!"

I will forever be grateful to the online media for these kinds of tools where we can express ourselves more freely, compared to when, eight years ago, I was on a struggle to get published. But given these tools, let's remind ourselves that whether we want to call ourselves 'citizen journalists' or not, our role is not to gossip, but to educate. It is our responsibility therefore to feed our readers' minds the kind of education they deserve. And again, it's our sole accountability if we get sued. Heaven forbids. #

photo credit: jgold517

CUENTA REGRESIVA

It was a seamless scheme
jotted on a leather-bound notepad
by hand, to take down the most
unadulterated of emotions.
Timetables sketched
on succeeding blank pages,
hoping to attract the likelihood
of its probable occurrence.
Thin circles are but default,
on dates imagined to be
momentous, momentarily.
Momentarily. Because the scheme
was not about to probably occur.
The scheme was to be screwed.

Detour, divert, deviate.
Go find some other way.
Prove that it should be
In your custody, your clock.
But bleed yourself dry
because here comes somewhere,
somewhat. Someone.
Palpably, plainly, patently,
the scheme was screwed,
all the more screwed as
imaginary probabilities make you
detour, divert, deviate
in longer stretches than usual.

A momentary bliss
from a pretty purple wild weed.
An ill-advised pretense,
Like a half-act play.
Significance fails.
Reason falls short.
Misplaced, mislaid, missing.
Astray, adrift, at sea.
Start counting down
to when you ought to forget.
Hoping that come one,
All will just be gone. #

photo credit: bigkungmaster

FIXATIONS OF A FRESH GRAD

Tell me something more about yourself that's not included in your resume. If you're currently part of the white-collared army or at least have been part of it, don't tell me you were never asked that question. We know it would be asked; but still, we get all flustered, stammer, and all we can say is maybe something canned, something probably already written down your CV. That's because either you were so eager to decorate that CV that you wrote everything down to the last detail of your telenovela-worthy life story, or you're simply living in a world where everything is about your job.

I never applied too much pressure on my life until I was a fresh grad. I felt like I had to get the best first job that would hopefully be my last. I felt like I always had to prove myself to other people, and to myself more than anybody else. Four years have gone by and I eventually moved to a different company. Now I'm seeing how I was four years ago with my younger sister, who's now taking on all the pressures of a fresh grad like air that can't get out from a bottle of hairspray. The sight's pretty painful. But no matter how much I tell her that her first job's does not equally going to determine who or what she's going to be, I know she'll never comprehend unless she gets her feet on the water. And I can only be here to lend her some good old recycled sanity anytime she needs one.

We humans always want to learn things the hard way. But realistically speaking, sometimes there's just no other way to learn than to feel them in our own, hard ways. Experiences are what make us stronger; it's what makes us 'human.' For me four years have been pretty long and I sometimes feel really old. But I can say it was long enough to identify a part of myself that will separate my job from who and what I am. My job is part of who I am. But I am not my job.

Whenever I look at my CV I still feel like a fresh grad, with all those fear of the unknown and the excitement of what I may write next. But when I'm asked, "tell me something more about yourself that's not included in your resume," I now understand it's actually a happy question that you can ask yourself every now and then. It's an opportunity to discuss something more out of what is being dictated to us by the stereotypes of being in the working class. And that's actually the whole point in all these asking, because your resume is obviously a mere understatement. #

IN PURSUIT OF A STAR

She pulled out a gauzy sheet of black canvas,
Grabbed the biggest brush with the finest tip.
On the white paint left on her sullied palette,
Randomly draped tiny flecks which she called 'stars.'
Pointillism, realism, impressionism ---
Nary a term to describe this portrait
In her mind it was a mere picture of wanting,
Of longing for things painfully distant, yet beautiful.
She painted them fast--- little white dots converging,
Yet from one another kept an acceptable distance.
She wanted to finish the picture before she forgets
Her vision that night, a mental picture of inexplicable ardor.
It's going to be a masterpiece, she thought,
Still filling the lifeless textile with pristine speckles.
It's through. But somehow she sensed emptiness.
Staring at the magnum opus of constellation,
She felt nothing but an unwarranted exhaustion.
Ah, the twinkle! she blurted in discovery
But how, just how do you paint a twinkle?
It's the air that's make them dance, I told her.
She sat down and put the palette down.
You can take that home, she told me,
Looking at the dead canvas she just junked.
Thanks, I said, but I'd rather you breathe on it first. #

photo credit: blackpoolastronomy

DAYBREAK SONATA, FIRST MOVEMENT

The first song in my mind was what put me to sleep last night.
In my room, I'm staring at the color of midnight. It is dawn.
The lack of visibility and the languor to switch on the lights
Are just a perfect combination to augment my deaf perception.

I'm so used to the sound of daybreak.
My neighbor's chicken cock-a-doodling.
Forks and spoons in the kitchen clinking.
Sunny side-ups on a fry pan sizzling.
Man's best friend, at an early stranger, barking
Maya birds, from the leafless guava tree, chirping.
Jeeps, some in high-pitched whistles, belching.
In the clouds, a huge airbus hovering.
And the person next to me, breathing.
Or my own breathing. Or my thoughts breathing.
I just can hear my tiring thoughts breathing.

Nothing's more deafening than the bees in my bonnet,
Where, despite a last song syndrome and all those noise,
My sunup is pre-occupied by my own deafening fixations.
Thoughts that struggle hard to recall yesterday,
But thoughts that hope harder for a better today.
Or tomorrow. But tomorrow's still another daybreak away.

My mind wanders with my eyes still closed.
All the sounds I heard just recur.
I'm so used to the sound of daybreak.
Perhaps I'll cut my thoughts some slack tomorrow. #

photo credit: paintingmania

FROM TEARS TO DUST

The opposite of drizzle is mizzle.
Only intensity discriminates
But force is of no substance.
Rhyme is all that matters.
For it still is rain.
That sad thing that fall as free
From patches of vapor
Like tears from great big eyes.

The rain is my catalyst.
I feel vapor and I'm chafed.
I smell loam and my heart pulsates.
I see lightning and I'm petrified.
I hear the droplets reach the ground.
And I'm sad. The rain is just so sad.
Like hoping for something beyond you.
Like liking someone and you can't confess.
Like getting cheated.
Like being left.

How they push themselves to my window!
Sprinting down, clearing their pathways
They never leave a mark
Until they stop. And everything goes dry.
And everything is still. And everything is just mud.
Then stain. Then dust.
Summer rain. The cheater.
I let out a sigh. #



photo credit: loveamongotherthings

BLOOD PRESSURE

Come together, I beg. Press-gang if you need to. Key-in one, type the next, hit backspace thrice. Now I owe the white void even more. No, this can't be. Only thirty-five revolutions to deadline. The price is costly. More than money, more than pride. Or maybe it IS pride. Nothing can be more costly than that. Flow, thoughts, flow. Stream fast 'round the course inside my mind. Go straight to the edge where, like lemurs slipping on ice, you fall freely but nevertheless give life. Or give away life. Twenty-seven revolutions. How time flies. Like the weekend that just started, then suddenly it's Monday again. Nothing can make you feel more cheated. Wait. A vein is opened. Little tides of air-filled blood surge slowly down the capillary and squirts at the white space. Liberty for the blood. A breathing space for my conscience. Almost done. Spare me some sense this time; sagacity can wait. This is still 'art,' at least I did not cheat. Like the weekend did. #

photo credit: nursemyra

BLACK YARNS

You gawped at my eyes like you can't make me state otherwise.
For a second, you tricked me into thinking you can find out.
But I knew you won't because we've done this before.
So there I was, still and composed, unpredictably natural.

It all started when you asked me if I was alright.
I was on your bedside. You were smiling yet hardly breathing.
I was a kid. But how can I not let all those white yarns fly
When all I wanted was to ease your agony by saying I'm fine?

For summers it went on like a natural God-given talent.
At a snail's pace, I learned how to tell black ones, too
Not because I didn't want to hurt you or anyone;
I discovered it was a secret to burying an unraveled identity.

I mastered the furtive trick to my black yarn business---
You can't catch me through the windows to my soul.
I know how to hide evidence, and to weave them when there's none.
I know how to go around vicious circles, and I concede never.

Should I be shamefaced, mortified that I find fault in it not?
Tell me, mother, because at this point I just couldn't stop
I did it to you; to him; to ME, without any compunction.
The yarns, now all black, just did not leave any gap for guilt.

So who am I? Am I only somebody you thought I was?
Or 'somebody' I just made myself believe I was?
The story behind my story, I know not now if it ever existed.
It wasn't you; but believe me--- I know not now what to believe. #

photo credit: leadershipfreak

WAG KANG MAGULO, ARTIST AKO!

Parang mga land mine kung iwasan ng nanay ni Badong ang mga gamit nitong nakakalat sa sahig. "Badong!!!" bulalas ni mama. "Por Dios por santo, mag-ayos ka naman ng kwartooo!!!" Sasagot naman 'tong si Badong: "Ma, sinabi nang artist ako eh!" Yan si Badong. Artist. Misunderstood.

Pero misunderstood nga ba sila? Syempre bago natin masagot yan kailangan muna natin i-qualify kung ano ba ang 'art.' Art daw "is a term that describes a diverse range of human activities...most often understood to refer to painting, film, photography, sculpture, and other visual media. Music, theatre, dance, literature...are included in a broader definition of art." Ngayon may ideya na tayo kung ano bang pinaggagagawa ng mga weirdong 'to bukod sa guluhin ang kwarto nila.

Tanggap na nga ng makabagong lipunang Pilipino ang iba't ibang anyo ng sining; pero may mga guhit pa ring nagtatakda sa pinagkaiba ng mga 'artist' sa 'karaniwang tao.' Bukod siyempre sa malikhain nilang pagdadala sa sarili (long hair, tatoo, all black, rainbow colors, etc), ay naroroon pa rin ang konsepto na sila ay 'masyadong malalim' o 'hindi maabot.' Naalala niyo ba nang pinagtalunan natin kung tama bang ginawang National Artist si Carlo J. Caparas? Tanong ng mga supporter niya: wala na bang karapatan sa titulo ang isang galing sa hirap? Teka teka, 'di naman yun ang usapan ah. Ang tanong lang naman namin ay kung oras na ba para i-level siya kina Bienvenido Lumbera at Nick Joaquin. Sa'n galing yung pagiging mahirap? Kitam. Tayo rin ang nagtatakda ng guhit e.

Kapag pakiramdam ko minsan 'misunderstood' ako, palagi kong naririnig na sinasabi nila, "artist ka kasi." Waw, salamat. Pero hindi ko yata matatanggap yun dahil bukod sa hindi naman talaga ako 'artist,' ayaw ko lang din siguro yung konsepto na nilalakihan natin yung pagitan ng mga taong 'to sa 'tin. Kung tutuusin, wala naman talaga silang pinagkaiba sa 'karaniwang tao' dahil karaniwang tao lang naman din sila. Nagkataon lang sigurong yun ang trip nila, at nagkataon lang din na mas dominante ang kanang bahagi ng utak nila que sa kaliwa. Ano ba kasi ang layunin ng sining? Hindi ba para maipahayag at maipaunawa ang mga mahahalagang bagay na kadalasan nating nakakaligtaan?

Siguro nga mahirap mahalin yung paraan ng pagpapahayag o form of expression ng mga 'artist'---bakit nga ba naman kasi kailangan pang ipinta o kaya gawing tula imbes na sabihin na lang diba? Pero buksan mo ang isip mo. Dahil ang sining na iniisip mong di mo maabot ay araw-araw mo lang naman din nakakasalamuha. Kaya mas mainam siguro ang kahulugan ng art na ito : "the use of skill and imagination in the creation of aesthetic objects, environments, or experiences that can be shared with others." Kahit ano. Basta galing sa 'yo, at ipinapamahagi mo. #

photo credit: Wikipedia

TWO FAMILIES

Tomorrow will exactly be my fifth month in my new work. Oh yes, that was five months but I barely felt getting used to everything around me. Four years ago in my first job, I was so wary if I'd be regularized or not. Today, I don't even have time to think if I'd be regularized or not. And I don't have time to process if that's a good thing or not.

A lot has changed, definitely. The big place still hyperventilates me. Buildings and elevators sometimes make me claustrophobic. The late hours are a cause of paranoia. And the huge number of people in the hub make me a little schizophrenic. From where I'm coming from, and being the drama queen that I am, I know it's going to take me quite long.

I always told myself "don't rush, you're still in a stage of transition," and I usually averted the biggest question most of my old friends would pose: 'Are you happy?' Maybe there's just too much to consider. For all you know, I'm still attached to my old life --- the place, the habits, the routines, the stress --- everything in almost four years, especially the people. I definitely miss them, even terribly at times that people get random text messages or calls from me.

But for all I know, it only takes an open heart to turn these regular nostalgic attacks to be episodic. I always thought I don't have a choice but to fit in to this new environment; but I was actually wrong. It was I who did not give myself an option. And with this slow recovery, I know I owe my Google Team a lot. They never gave me the feeling that I was different. After all these months perhaps I still hardly know some of my 30+ teammates. But you get the picture. Every morning I don't mind starting and ending the day with these amazing professionals. In here I get to work with a trusted old friend, Sam. I have Donna, Ayen, and Meg, younger sisters who have way more guts than I do. In here we have a private pyschologist Darvy, and his equally talented antagonist/bff Eric. And of course nothing can beat the Mark-Knoi tandem plus Pareng Chelly in town. And the rest of them --- Joanna, Mariel, 'Te Les, 'Te Ivy, Arsie, Al, Rick, Mae, Gem, Apple(s), Alice, Hyungki, Jeff... argh there's just too many to mention!

When we get older, there's just nothing more valuable than the relationships with people we make along our journey. And I'm just so fortunate to have two families now in my work experience --- one that I will always look back to (with of course some occasional meet ups too!) and one whose company I'm really getting to enjoy and learn a lot from. I don't have to choose. And I know neither of them will let me. :) #

photo credit: marenlayne.wordpress.com

EXCUSE ME, DID YOU JUST SAY 'INTSIK'?

You probably must have heard of the "Bumbay" who took away children who didn't behave, or the "Kano"    to refer to just about any Caucasian guy we see on the street. But there's nothing more popular than the "Intsik" who must have been your neighbor, the store-owner, or the big boss in the corner office.

In the more recent generations though, Filipinos are being more sensitive with the use of certain words to refer to the Chinese or Filipino-Chinese in general. An elder might have told you or you might have just heard that the use of the word "Intsik" or "Tsekwa" has a derogatory connotation. Indeed, this has something to do with the continuous evolution of the roles the Chinese play in the Philippine society, especially in how they slowly took the upper right hand in the business sector over the centuries. And with the esteem that they rightfully gained, perhaps scholars found it proper to address them properly.

My dad always told us not to use any of those two terms, regardless if they're 50 miles or just a feet away. I understood him pretty well, because besides tracing back my patriarchal lineage to the "Uy" kin in the Mainland, I myself would not exactly feel comfortable with someone calling me something which I know has political color. Some claim that "Instik" came from "in chyek" in Fukienese which means "uncle," while others say it came from a Malay word "encik," meaning "an esteemed person." "Tsekwa" on the other hand came from a native Bisayan limerick that goes "intsik gwakang kaon kalibang!" (translated, "Chinese laborer eats and sh*ts). Funny though that I have a lot of Chinese friends who actually call themselves "G.I." (Genuine Intsik). I haven't really verified either of those; but whether it is correct or not, we all know that the "Intsik" most Filipinos used indeed has a derogatory connotation back then --- so part of this attempt to dig into its true etymology might simply be hand-washing.

Where the hell am I coming from? Simple. I have been trying to involve myself in the issue of the latest Scarborough shoal dispute on the headlines, been trying to read a couple of credible articles online. But the comments section? It saddens me to find how miseducated some can get, using the words "Intsik," "Tsekwa," or even "Tokwa" in the most derogatory manner possible! And then we got angry with Teri Hatcher's line about doctors/nurses in the Philippines. We seriously need some growing up.

This would be a 50-page article if you want us to delve into the history of Filipino-Chinese relations, and how the culture of our society has evolved with them. And no, this is not an attempt to bolster their claim on the shoal or defend an ancestry. All I'm saying is, taking an educated side on the territorial claim would not just be about knowing history and the law. Why not we try being a "Filipino" then let's see the difference? #

INVITATION TO RIGIDNESS

It always smelled fresh off the paper mills,
With ink that barely blots when water spills.
Today, she received the 8,759th invite.
And she knew it will wane again to the night.

But she nevertheless opened the letter,
Thinking, "maybe yesterday was better."
She wasn't a bit startled to see it was not.
But a smidgen vexed by what today has got.

That letter came every morn at her doorstep,
Thousands, but none of it she kept.
Dispatcher unknown, source, unsigned.
Quite naively, it preempted how her day was defined.

The Sender won't be too happy about it.
All He wanted was for people to grow in true grit.
But He thought, "Probably with the next,"
So He sat down again and wrote with no text.

So she went on to be more bereaved,
With the invitation to rigidness she received.
Because the portraits of yesterday that it contained
Made her feel more and more chained.

Look at your doorstep --- you have the same invite;
But don't be perplexed by its mere sight.
Look well, and see what in the pictures underlay ---
Yesterday was not meant to label your today. #

photo credit: colourmehappy

PROBABLY SOMEWHERE BUT NEVER NOWHERE

She marveled if it were true,
Like Paradise or Heaven or Nirvana.
Is it tangible?
Could I hold it in my hands
long enough to give birth to faith?
A faint whisper said "probably."

She asked because her feet hurt
From all the walking and refraining.
With squinted eyes she moved forward
Until a glimmer dilated the thin black film
"Oasis!" Her heart shouted.
But that strident voice shattered
What was left of the desert.

She sat down.
"Nothing more tiring than being tired,
And holding onto life as if it were 'life'."
It was then that I heard her, and asked,
"Are you going anywhere?"
A question to which she softly replied,
"No, I'm going somewhere."

With that I knew I am not to leave her,
Until her feet can take one more step
Back to the desert,
Where camels and cacti and the sand thrives.
"I heard it will snow this year," she went on.
So probably she's really going somewhere,
But never, never nowhere. #


photo credit: RAA.com