Sunday, May 11, 2008
chalkboard art
Long before I became a Starbucks barista, I always wanted to do the art I'd see on the chalkboards in store (mainly because I felt I could do a better job). You might think I'm a bit big-headed there, but tell me, have you ever walked into a Starbucks with signboards as fine as this?I do deserve some props for that, don't you think? Hahaha!
No stories today, just a photo:
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Sunday, May 04, 2008
post-show contemplations
Do you think you've ever found your gift? The one thing that you just seem so innately good at, it almost seems as if you knew it even before birth? We all have a gift, and I believe we're each crafted a specific way to perform a specific purpose.
I've always felt that I particularly have the gift self-expression, and it was evident at a pretty early age. All the things I can do well like drawing, writing, or performing, are all just by-products of that gift, the gift of being able to produce output.
We all have our ways of connecting with The Higher Power. To me, when I'm creating, I feel like I'm praying. I feel like there's this energy centre at the top of my head that just opens itself, like a satellite dish catching signals from The Source. Where else does all this creative power come from? I am only a channel.
And I always wonder if it really is possible for a person to be creative, and not believe in God. For what is creativity but an act of faith? Why embark on any creative project if not for the hope and belief of producing something beautiful at the end of it? Why would we venture out into dangerous, foreign territory if not for the hope of discovering something worthwhile?
We only feel dissatisfied with our output when we feel we have repeated ourselves, created not out of faith, but out of fear and our own self- judgement. This is why every true act of creativity is a risk, a leap, an act that requires courage.
And what is creativity but an act of transcendence, of growing a little bigger than we were before, of evolving into a higher being, of being one step closer to that Omega we're aiming for? Can a person aim for perfection and yet not believe in a higher power somewhere inside of him?
I could spend the rest of my life peacefully doing what I am already good at. But I'm really glad I got a big kick in the butt, which really shook me up, and forced me to come up with this:
Otherwise, how would I ever know I could do it?
It is truly an astounding thing to discover that your ideas can actually work.
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But yes, the show is finally over! 3 months of hard work to make her, then a few shining moments of coming alive under the stage lights, before going back to being a dead thing, a lump of painted polystyrene tossed out on the street, ready to be transported to my garage where she will be housed indefinitely till I decide what I want to do with her.
There was a lot of clowning around backstage. Being dressed in head to toe black makes you want to start acting like a ninja.
Or like a creature of the night.
Though other people chose to be gold, not black.
I've got backstage photos and onstage photos.
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Wednesday, April 23, 2008
maria clara
Weird, random thing happened today. Was walking down Castle Towers which I consider foreign territory (Westpoint, sadly, being my home). I was passing by a kiosk that sold Sea Salt beauty products, minding my own business, trying not to catch the eye of the salesman manning it. Suddenly, said salesman takes a step forward, points at me and goes "You!"
And I go, "Yeah!"
"I know you, you're the girl from Starbucks!"
"Yeah! You a customer?"
"Am I a customer?!"
"Oops, are you a regular? Sorry I don't remember you."
"I'm there sometimes!"
Anyway, before I know it, I am being given a Dead Sea Salt hand massage. These hand-product salesmen, I tell you. Such flirts. Don't even get me started on the notorious Brazilian salesman, Mathias, who sells manicure kits at Blacktown. The man is a PREDATOR! Be very careful, ladies, watch out for his killer smile, hand-massages, and oh-so-sensual Latino accent, you just might find yourself buying a manicure kit you don't need.
Anyway, I digress. After some chit-chat, where-are-you-from, and all that jazz, he suddenly says, "Tell you what, why don't we have coffee outside of Starbucks sometime, hmm?"
"Huh?"
"Just name the time and place, and I'll be there."
"Uhhh... umm..."
Damn, I hate how I get so flustered when men ask me out. Despite my often-times vulgar language, deep inside, I'm still a demure, old-fashioned, Catholic School-raised Pinay who was not taught how to react to the advances of aggressive, Western men. You won't find any men that aggressive back in Pinas. Pinoys tend to be very roundabout in pursuing women, always coming from honor and respect (which isn't always a turn on, but whatever works is fine).
Anyway, every time I am openly flirted with, or given a full-on sexual compliment from a stranger, the modest Filipina in me tells me I should get offended, hide my face behind my fan a la Maria Clara, and leave in a huff. But then there's this other persona in me, one dressed in leather and chains, smiling in satisfaction and saying "rawr". Hence, the mental gridlock.
I suppose the challenge is to integrate the two. Be a Maria Clara, with pull-up stockings, a garter belt, and lingerie underneath her skirts mwahahaha. Oh, yeah.
Anyway, basically I said I wasn't available, and he said it was okay, he didn't want to get in the way, and to have a nice day. All good.
Anyway, add that to my list of weird, random occurrences. Getting asked out by a customer. (I actually remembered him coming into the store mid-way through my conversation, and thinking to myself that I would never go out with him, haha). But you know, a reminder of one's desirability is always good.
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Tuesday, April 22, 2008
blood, sweat, and tears
From embryonic ideas doodled on wrinkled sheets of paper over a cup of coffee, to a more refined drawing...
To a miniature, working, prototype...
To the beginning of a new creative foray into completely unknown territory, feeling your way, taking things one bold step at a time, often unsure whether you are heading in the right direction...
And after a periods of stumbling around in the dark, of grappling with doubt and uncertainty, you arrive at a place where your idea acquires a heartbeat, and presents itself to you as the beginning of what could be a potential, working reality, so beautiful, so clear...
And then, slowly, through some magical process, through human hands and whatever divine source creative inspiration stems from, she becomes what she was meant to be, she lives.And all I can say now is that I'm glad the confounded thing is over and done with! The damn thing consumed my life for about a month, and drained me of a social life, rest, peace of mind, and finances! And all I've got to show for it now is an empty wallet, eye-bags, and well... an almost perfect score from my hard-to-please teachers :-) :-) :-)
Well, ok, so I'm proud, especially since this whole puppet making thing was something I never felt inclined to do. It's good to know I can do a good job on something I don't really want to do.
And admittedly, yes, I would do it again.
A more detailed evolution can be viewed here.
And make sure you catch the show.and happy birthdays are made of moments like this
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Tuesday, April 15, 2008
i absolutely loved this
I always say that I am a gay man trapped in a woman's body.april 17
It's a few days before I hit 25, and already I've got birthday greetings pouring in. Starting with my workmates.
Happy birthday Ally, Reese, Ala, and Keiran!They surprised us with a cake during our last meeting. Awwww. I was a happy girl. :-)
And on Thursday I turn a quarter of a century old. I never imagined myself to be 25. When I was a little girl, I couldn't wait to be 17. It seemed the perfect age. Everyone in Archie Comics was 17. My favorite New Kid on the Block was 17. All the character in teen movies were 17. My favorite magazine was Seventeen. I thought 17 was the be-all and end-all age, the apex of life, where I would be able to wear bikinis, go to cool places, and have boyfriends.
Thus, I never really dreamed past 17. 18 seemed a foreign, and alien world to me, a far-off planet untouched by Ala-kind. 25 seemed even more far-out.
Well, 17 didn't turn out to be the apex of my human development. I actually don't really want to be a teenager ever again. It's a stressful time. You think you're all that and you know everything. You have so much drive and energy that you waste on whinge-ing and tambay (hanging out).
I rather like being in my twenties. I'm old enough for my parents to actually take my decisions seriously. I don't break out as often. I've found a hairstyle I like, and I dress the way I want. I know what kind of friends I want to have. I don't feel like I have to be drunk every weekend. I like responsibility. I feel like a woman (no, I know I'm a woman), and it's not in the length of my hair, or the clothes I wear. I don't hate things just because it's cool to hate it. I can talk to my parents like an adult talking to another adult. I have some of my own money to spend, and my own savings.
So... it's nice being in my twenties (and in my mid-twenties by Thursday).
What do I want for my birthday? Black boots, a new iPod, and all my dearest friends and family surrounding me in a warm nest of looove and affection ;-) Hahaha!i cut my hair (again)
It's at the precise length and style I wanted. Which brings me to this:To the men who tell me I should grow my hair,
I cut my hair because...
a) I am no longer in a profession where my appearance is constantly compared to every teen star(let), and therefore
b) I no longer feel pressured to fit into the vast majority's idea of female attractiveness (which more often than not involves long hair), only my own, and also
c) My hair is no longer a tool for making money, and
d) Because I don't need long hair as a crutch to reassure myself that I am attractive and womanly, but most of all
e) Because the girl I want to be right now is this girl.
Love,
Ala
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Monday, April 07, 2008
would you like a kidney with that?
A couple weeks ago there was a report on CNN that a Starbucks barista in the US, Sandra Andersen, donated her kidney to a female customer to save her life. Wow. Talk about pushing customer service to a new limit.
Made me wonder what lengths I would go through for a customer. Imagine the exchange! Are you in need of any internal organs to go with your mocha? Before you know it, Starbucks cards will also double as organ donor cards.
Do I get an extra large tip for that? (Too bad Australians are not into tipping... my charm is wasted on a nation of non-tippers. I could be rich by now.)
I am all too familiar with the barista-customer relationship. It's a great relationship, and it will continue to be great so long as you don't majorly, majorly stuff up their coffee, and if you see to it that you always have the espresso bar to separate you from each other. You get to know each other always at arm's length, through chirpy, glib little exchanges once a day, without ever letting familiarity really take root and begin to breed contempt. You'll never get to know each other's despicable views on sex, politics, and religion. You'll never hear each other's secret, racist thoughts (which everyone secretly harbors in this multi-cultural stew pot). It's always how's the weather, how's work, how was your weekend, how's your broken arm?
Not to say that customer service isn't sincere. But it's definitely a distinct mindset you have to switch on, one that is sometimes prone to cracks and fractures, and would be unsustainable in the real world. This is the nature of customer service. It makes me wonder what spirit of compassion summoned Sandra Anderson to make the leap from customer service to humanitarian service.
I can think of only one or two customers I would donate parts of my body to, and it would have to be something minor like blood, hair, or fingernail clippings. Well, fine, maybe a skin graft.
I have, however, lent or donated my time, advice, listening skills, Magic Sing, and comic books to certain customers. Don't I get some sort of award for that? Or maybe a big tip.
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This is what I look like when I'm making my puppet.
A terrorist.
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