Monday, July 25, 2005
boobs!
I had a nice little feature in Bulletin last Friday. Well it was nice but not exactly little: three pages to be exact, with a huge-ass picture on the cover page. I love the stylists because they didn't try fixing my hair even though it had frizzed out from the rainy wheather in that nightmarish way that makes stylists shudder before attacking it with a blowdryer. I look like my real gusgusin, cave-woman self, and I like it that way.
I've never had my boobs explicitly drawn attention to in an article before (read the intro, it's there). Hmmmm. I feel a bit odd about that. But anyway, here's a better glimpse of them:
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Wednesday, July 20, 2005
mi familia
Prologue: I wrote this entry over a year ago for my writing class. I abandoned it and left it uncompleted and only decided to ressurect it now. I tried to finish it but find it difficult as it is about my family and back when I wrote it, family dynamics were different then. We've all grown up and changed within the past year. Nevertheless, I think I was still able to capture some timeless sentiments. I just edited some parts, changed some of the grammar, and inserted a few paragraphs to make it more complete.
I wrote this as a "guide" for Ananda when she was newly born.
Listen well, Ananda. I’m writing this for you so that you won’t be so mystified. Everyday, you are surrounded by peculiar faces, peering down at you. They open and close they’re mouths, making strange sounds, and peer at you with wide, wide eyes. You don’t know who they are, or what they are trying to tell you. They are a blur of color, motion, and laughter, like clowns in a carnival. But each day they begin to look and sound more and more familiar, and maybe you have a vague notion of security when you are with them. When you grow up, you will realize that this security is love.
But that will come later on. For now, I want you to get to know this family, this pack of characters, that you have been born into.
The Mediator
Each time I sit down at the dinner table Ananda, I look with a mixture of love and fear at my father, your lolo, seated across me. Fear because I know that one day, he will be taken away from me and I will have to go through this life without my mentor, my teacher, my teammate... probably the only person in this world who will (at least try to) understand me when nobody else does. Who will I run to when he is gone?
Your lolo, Ananda, is the mediator of the family, the one blessed with the most clarity of vision. Those who seek compassion, comfort, and human understanding go to him. He has restored peace to this household many times. It is he who stands in the center of household squabbles, the mediator.
Aside from being the mediator, you lolo, Ananda, is a clown! He is always there, dancing in his boxer shorts and singing silly songs, trying to extract even just one little smile from you. He can’t wait for you to grow up Ananda so he can read you stories and make you laugh, just like he did with his children.
The Warrior
When I imagine my mother, I can never separate her outline from the child she once was. Hence, my mother has two overlapping images in my head. One is a sepia photograph of her self taken when she was in her teens. In the photo, she is riding shotgun in a car, with both her ankles propped up on the open window. She is wearing high-heeled, strappy shoes which I imagine to be bright red, holding a bottle of liquor, and tossing her feathered hair back in care-free laughter. She was a gorgeous girl, beautiful in a feisty way, with a hint of 60s-chick wildness.
The 2nd daughter in a family of ten, she was always a willfull one, and has always been a warrior, my mother. She has refused to share with us any of the wild tales of her teenage years, but my grandma, aunties, and uncles have secretly whispered stories of her hordes of admirers, the time she ran away, how she smoked marijuana in the bathroom, and the numerous screaming fights with her parents. She’s always been a fighter, my mom, always one to make her own decisions, and finally, at the young age of 20, she got married and left home.
The other image of her in my mind, is of her current state. Her hair, which always seemed to look as if the wind was blowing through it, is gone. Her face has remained young and beautiful, but she sometimes bears the sad, slightly bitter expression of a defeated warrior. She has finally met her match, Ananda, and this enemy put up a most cruel fight against her: cancer. Yes, Ananda, your grandmother is still a warrior, but an older, wiser one who has learned how to bow her head in battle, surrender to what she cannot control, and place her trust in a much higher power. In her surrender, she has found a new, quiet strength.
As feisty and hard-headed as she is, Ananda, she is also giving and selfless. My mother is a fountain that gives endlessly. She would tear the clothes off her back for anyone of her children, Ananda. She might be the hardest to argue with, but she will give and give down to the last drop, if it was for her children. Your grandmother is loving, Ananda, and like an ocean swallows all the suffering and pain her children unintentionally inflict. Perhaps all mothers are like that.
I love her but find it hard to express. If I say it out loud, it will mean touching something so deep. Perhaps all children feel this way towards their mothers.
The Rebel
My sister Erica, your mother, is like a firecracker, always bursting into color and laughter. She is fiery, intense, and like a fireworks show, a bit erratic at times.
In many ways, your mother is just like your lola, Ananda. That is why when they quarrel it is like the battle of the titans, two equally immovable forces trying to overcome the other. Like lola, she is very headstrong, always wanted to grow up too fast and be on her own. Like your lola, she is very proud and will never let herself be defeated in anything.
Your mother, my sister, is a rebel. She grew up knowing full well what she was capable of, and at a very early age, wished for autonomy. As another side to her independent personality, she could also be tyrant. Oh, she could be cruel to us younger ones. Like all eldest, she took advantage of the fact that we were younger, slower, and weaker. Oh she could be cruel, tossing back her head and laughing at hurtful she could be with her words. Sometimes, it seemed she was a merciless ocean wave crashing upon us.
Petty oppressions of childhood leave an indelible mark on you, which is why growing I always harbored a kind of subconscious resentment towards my sister, a thirst for revenge. But when I got older, I realized that older sisters never mean to be cruel, or if they do, they don't really think it hurts anyone all that much. It's just the way it works, and eventually we all grow up and everything evens out.
In our later years, when we had stopped acting like kids, we both discovered that we really liked each other and got along and could tell each other things. My sister is now the keeper of some of my deepest secrets, and we spent countless nights during our teen years talking in the dark in the bedroom we once shared.
Ananda, I love your mother to death, in that complex, love-hate way that sisters do. Who else can make me so angry? Who else is so easy to love? She is a part of my heart, a part of me, and will be for the rest of my life.
The Child
Your tito Mio is truly the child of the family. Mio has an infectious smile and is prone to spontaneous acts of compassion and kindness.He is the youngest, and like all youngest children, is blessed with a positive outlook that helps him bounce back quickly and easily from any disappointment. Like all youngest children, he is the most forgiving, the most generous, and the most affectionate. Like a child, he likes to play and although he may fall into fits of teenage angst, and bouts of laziness and procrastination, he has sunshine in his heart.
When your tito Mio was born, I was by his bassinet all morning and afternoon pretending to be his mother even though I was only 5. I read him books, even though he was just 3 days old and I knew he couldn't understand any of it. When we has older I helped him do homework, taught him how to read, and told him stories everyday (some adapted, some invented) and I remember how he would laugh, and laugh, and laugh. It's no wonder my maternal and protective instincts lean so strongly towards my brother.
He stands now, a young man of 15 and I worry about him every single day. I see him learning things, right things, wrong things, good things, bad things. I know I cannot be there every second to control what he does. I cannot be there at all times to beat up the people who are mean to him, or to shield him from the things I don't want him to know about. I know I have to let go, let him live his own life, let him be his own self. I can be so harsh with him, so criticizing, but I can’t help it, Ananda. He is my little brother. If something should happen to him, should he turn out to be less than I know he can be, I shall be the saddest one of all.
... and Me
I am your tita Ala, Ananda. Your mother made me your ninang, and when you were born, all 5 family members already had their arms stretched out to welcome you.
I am thee middle child in this family of 5. People always say, Ananda, that you cannot choose your own family. But even if given a choice, I would never choose another family.
Like me Ananda, you will someday realize that your family is your heart and soul, and they will be so, long after they are all gone. During our exchanges at mealtime, one can just feel the love that generates from our exchanges. This family truly loves each other Ananda, and this family is my greatest treasure, the only people I would give my life for.
So that is my short introduction to you, Ananda. These are the people whose hands you are lovingly held in, from one pair to the next, day after day. Already these people are prepared to love you unconditionally though you may not know it yet. You may not understand it what love is, or even be conscious of it, but we know you feel it.
Welcome.Epilogue: Things are alot different now: my mom has her hair back; my sister has begun her metamorphosis into a wise-woman and mother, no longer the rebellious child she used to be growing up; my brother has begun to spread his wings. Also, Ananda is older and knows every one of us by name.
You may have noticed that I barely wrote anything about myself. It was too difficult. Maybe I'll complete it one day.
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Friday, July 15, 2005
Happy 2nd birthday, blog!
It's been a trip! Thank you to all of you who joined the contest. I noticed many people expressed desires that were very relative to current events in Philippine politics (i.e. Gloriagate), others expressed sexual desires, while many of you expressed very exhibitionist desires (i.e. walking outside in bikinis or skimpy clothes). Some of your entries made me laugh out loud, while I found others to be very touching. I enjoyed them all! And that's why I had a really tough time choosing only 5 winners.But someone has got to win, right?
Contest winners can be viewed here!
*To those of you who sent me real non-contest entry email, thank you. I will reply soon. :-).it's been awhile since i've written one of these
I thought I was getting sick of them, that their magic had disappeared, and that they had become ordinary people... until I saw them play last night. God help me, I am still a flaming Razorback fangirl! Aaaaaah!
What am I to do? I get so rockstarstruck when I see any of them (and I don't get starstruck easily). Like all fangirls, I'm torn between wanting to be noticed by my idols, and feeling embarrassed that I'm such a fan and therefore wanting to remain inconspicuous and anonymous.
Unfortunately, I have no choice. My days of anonymity are long past. Thanks to the fact that I am their friend's girlfriend, they know me by name and by face. Some of them will even say hi to me in public, and when they do, I go into some kind of mental gridlock. Half of me gets so giddy that they know I exist, the other half gets flustered and tongue-tied for precisely the same reason. So I give a casual wave and look away quickly like an idiot. I have an archive of stories all about being introduced to the band, seeing them in public, getting chances to talk to them, etc, etc, and all of them involve me acting like an idiot. Whatever is a fangirl to do?
I know there will come a time when I'll have to outgrow my fandom and start seeing them as real people. But for now, I'm enjoying this too much. We all need to be fans of something or someone. We all need inspiration in our lives.bad vibes
Today I had to do some taping in a certain live music bar that I try to stay away from. God, now I remember why I hate the place.
Before today, I had only been there twice, both for Greyhoundz gigs. On both occasions, I never made it past the counter near the entrance. Just the thought of going any further beyond that point made me shudder. Maybe it's the crowd, maybe it's the smoke, I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that it's a firetrap, and should there be a blaze or an earthquake, people will probably die inside either from incineration or from a stampede.
And since I never went past the counter, I obviously never saw the bathroom either. I've heard the worst horror stories about it, and I preffered to just hold it all in till we headed home at 5 in the morning.
I hated the place. Nino thought it was his band I hated until I explained to him that I didn't hate Greyoundz, I just couldn't stand being inside the bar. You're given two choices there: suffocate and choke to death from the cigarette smoke inside, or stay outside in the pouring rain, and risk being eaten by the carnivorous cockroaches that patrol the sidewalks at night. I usually end up in Nino's car with the engine off and the windows down to keep out the rain, inhaling my own carbon dioxide, and waiting for all of it to be over.
Well today I was forced to return there. First of all, the place looks 5 times uglier in the daytime. They obviously want to skimp on lighting. There were two dominant colors: prison cell gray, and scab red. It looked about as cheerful and cozy as a concentration camp. Second of all, it was packed with an unwelcoming crowd of afternoon tambays, whiling the time away over their books, their cards, and their beer bottles. A menacing cloud of cigarette smoke hung above us like an ill omen. The thought of being trapped there alone gave me the shivers.
Here comes the worst part. I went past the counter for the first time. Not just past the counter, but deep into the bowels of the bar. Feeling like I was coursing through the infected guts of some foul beast, I went up the stairs to the second floor with our writer to see if there was anything pretty we could shoot there.
The second floor contained their head office, and some businesses. The whole floor was painted in a shade of "warning orange". "Danger", screamed the color. It was lit overhead by a cold, harsh flourescent light bulb. The corridors were dark, narrow, and stuffy (some completely unlit, like a passageway to a crypt), and the air was stale. Something about the place made me deeply uneasy, and I found myself imagining scenes of violence, people being beaten, raped, and killed in cold, dark, secret corridors. Weird.
Then, said writer turned around and left me without a word. I wasn't sure if she was going to come back or if she wanted me to wait for her or what, so I stayed. And the longer I stayed there all alone, the more I had this feeling that something dreadful was going to happen to me there. The whole place just seemed so ominous, and two minutes later, as I retreated hastily and nervously down the stairs, I found myself thinking of the word "evil", and also that scene from "Return of the King" where Aragorn is about to enter the pathways of the dead, and they hear a ghostly breath rushing out of the cave that scares their horses away. Very weird.
"Ang evil naman ng place na toh", I told our writer when I saw her outside, half-joking, half-serious. "Oo nga eh. Grabe, bad vibes", was all she said.
As it turned out though, she apparently could sense spirits and later on while we were taping by the stage, she suddenly grabbed her head and moaned "Ang daming mumu dito!" Then she explaimed that the reason why she ran downstairs so abruptly awhile back was because she was getting dizzy from sensing the bad presence all around us, troublesome spirits who were zapping her energy. She continued to be dizzy throughout the shoot, which is probably why we were taping in such a hurry.
Yeesh. Now I definitely know why I hate the place. I don't care if it's a band hotspot. It's just not a positive place. We were relieved to be out of there after. That's the last time I set foot there, and now I have a good excuse why.
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Sunday, July 10, 2005
full circle
Yesterday I found myself at the Ramon Magsaysay Center along Roxas Boulevard shooting a video on the late former president's life for the renowned Ramon Magsaysay Foundation.
One scene was shot in the library's memorabilia room, a mini museum of sorts that housed the president's photo albums, ribbons, medals, and alot of his favorite personal belongings. Looking at the glass cases and photos mounted on the wall, my eyes were somehow led to a shadowy corner of the room where I could make out the obscure outline of a crude object that seemed to be beckoning to me. As I walked towards it, a shiver went down my spine because I already knew what it was.
It was a 2-foot long piece of twisted metal pipe, or maybe a skewed section of metal railing, tarnished with age. The ends were sharp and jagged as if this piece had been ripped off from the whole by a great force.
To make sure it was really what I thought it was, I read the caption through the glass casing. I was right, and I felt momentarily stunned before a sort of uneasy reverence washed over me.
In our history books, the year 1957 signified the loss of what many consider to be the greatest Philippine president, Ramon Magsaysay, when his airplane crashed into Mt. Manunggal. But for me, 1957 was different. I grew up knowing my lolo Jess Paredes died in a plane crash. It was only secondary that he happened to be on the same plane as the Philippine president. My dad was only 5 years old. I've only been introduced to my lolo Jess once, and that was when we opened his crypt a few years ago to gaze at his bones, still semi-intact and charred black from the hurtling, raging inferno he died in. They didn't even need to cremate him. All passengers on the plane were incinerated save for one survivor whom, to this day, refuses to speak of the accident.
Now this piece of metal pipe, once red hot, and falling through the sky, and once part of a vessel that contained my grandfather, lay here before me, a testament to the story that was told to us over and over when we were kids. The story had always seemed like a work of fiction, something wonderful to tell, but not something I could connect to or really imagine as true. It seemed so remote, so distant. But here was a piece of the airplane wreckage, clear as day. It was real.
Stumbling upon this shard of metal, I had a haunting feeling that events had somehow gone full circle. The snake had bitten it's tail and I had reconnected with the past. This twisted pipe was a puzzle piece of my past, and was invariably connected to me. It was a moment of affinity, and it was an indescribable feeling.
Next to the relic, I saw a sepia photo of the plane wreck. It looked like a toy smashed to bits with a baseball bat. I thought of how my lolo died, a plane full of the presiden'ts best people, respectable men in suits, hurtling through the sky, bones shattering upon impact, and finally feeling the flames licking at their skin, their hair, their eyelashes. What was my lolo thinking as he died? Was it all clear to him at that moment?
I asked myself if I would exist today had my lolo not died with the president. My dad would have grown up in another house, in another place, under a different kind of upbringing. Would he still have started making music? Would he have met my mom? Would they have fallen in love?
48 years after the accident, the tragedy has produced 29 grandchildren, me included, from the offspring of my lolo, Jess Paredes, and my lola, Ester Misa. Because of that maimed piece of metal piping, I exist in the world today. One generation's tragedy is another generation's pathway into existence.my new favorite blogger
I highly recommend that you all check out waiterrant.blogspot.com. He is really something!in the afternoon
There's a certain point in time each afternoon, around 2 o' clock, where I just like to step outside and admire the magical way the sun hits the leaves in our garden. The harshness of noon time has begun to die down, but hasn't yet diffused into the golden light of late afternoon. The light is white enough and sharp enough to form little dancing points of light on the leaves, and radiant enough to make the green shadows of the overlapping leaves really pop out!
This afternoon, I took out Ananda out into the garden to photograph her in that wonderful, heavenly lighting. I'm no photographer but I love the results ;-)
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Friday, July 01, 2005
the city of dreaming spires
Two weeks ago, my sister Aycs left for the U.K. to get her professional license in make-up and beauty.
Today my dearest little brother Mio left for a 1 month stay in Oxford University to attend the same summer program that so enriched me and my sister during our day, The Oxford Tradition. It's his first time in that big, big world all alone.
Me, Erica, and Mio have always been used to our parents leaving us behind for months at a time for APO concert tours, or travels to the exotic places they love to frequent: Nepal, India, Amsterdam, etc. But I gotta say, my two siblings leaving me behind is a first. I'm the only kid left in the house now, just me, my parents, and Ananda. It looks like I'm going to be doing alot of bonding with my parents within the next month. Seems like it was only yesterday when I would help Mio with his nursery school homework (imagine!), but I would never stop my brother from going.
Oxford, wow! The one month I stayed there studying theater and philosophy, were undoubtedly the best days of my teenage life. To this day, some of my fondest memories are of the ethereally beautiful campus-city of Oxford. A mix of medieval and modern, it has aptly been named "The City of Dreaming Spires". Once home to monarchy and scholars, it is now a highly cosmopolitan city though the air is still richly permeated with history. How can it not be when amidst the grocery stores, boutiques, cafes, and fast food places, ancient castle-like structures, bridges, and cathedrals still peak over the horizon? It's not so unusual to stumble upon an old graveyard, chapel, or chapel on the way to class or on a brisk morning jog. Meals are held in great, decorated dining halls, making dinner a truly dignified experience. "Harry Potter" was shot in Oxford, and so were parts of "Elizabeth". It is one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, and the fact that it's swarming with students and young people, all there to learn, gives the city a breath of life.
So go, Mio, go! I just know you're going to have the time of your life. Have adventures, meet interesting people, and get to know this beautiful city intimately. May your experience be as wonderful as mine and Erica's. Just remember to write once in awhile!i needed catharsis
As much as possible, I try not to use certain words against people because I feel that it only reflects my own ignorance/ intolerance/ insensitivity/ pompousness.
Like, "stupid", for example. I don't like calling people stupid. I regret using it after the wave of anger has passed through me and I am in my calm, sane mind again. Sure, a person can act stupid, but that doesn't mean the person is stupid, because the action is different from the person. A person is never stupid, which is the reason why we get upset when he acts stupid. Otherwise, we'd accept the him just the way he is and wouldn't question his behavior. I also don't like the word "stupid" because most of the time it tends to be dismissive. We all have lapses in judgement (sometimes very long lapses even), and everybody makes mistakes. All the same, a person who does stupid things is also capable of great amounts of wisdom and insight. "Stupid" doesn't seem to recognize that.
I don't like calling people ugly either or denigrating a person's physical appearance in general, especially if I know I'm doing it just because I've got personal issues with this person. I'm not going to say "That girl is fat" or "That guy is ugly" just because I don't like them. Not only is it cheap, but it only reflects your own inferiorities or your own poor standard by which you judge people. Either that, or you just couldn't think of anything smarter to say. Which ever way it is, you lose.
There are some words that were created solely to defame and destroy people, and aren't capable of healing or nurturing, no mattter what context you use them in ("sl*t" is one of them). These words are lethal weapons. Think very hard before you use these words... will it make you a better person if you drop a verbal nuclear bomb on a person's self-esteem? Will it make you happy? Will it make you a winner? Is it something you'll be proud of years from now?(On the side, why are there so many destructive words created to address women, but only so very few for men? What is that all about? There are so many more ways to verbally abuse women than there are for men.)
And now, "hate"- it's a very easy word to use: "I hate him", "I hate her", "I hate this and that". People tend to use the word hate when they actually mean completely different things. "I hate him" can mean "I was frustrated with him", or "I can't understand him", or simply "I didn't give him a chance". Be careful when you use the word hate.
I have used "hate" many times in my lifetime and didn't really mean it 95% of the time. One reason is that all the people I have ever hated intensely are all people I've really, really loved at one point. I hated them because I was hurt, I was hurt because I loved them so much. So what is hate anyway?
My other reason is a little harder to stick to, but it has worked for me in the past. A very wise person once said that to harbor hate towards someone is like taking poison and expecting someone else to die. Sure everybody feels hate, but the key word in that statement is harbor. To harbor hate is to allow a very malevolent and toxic force to take residence and grow inside your body. Are you sure you want that?
So when you use the word hate, think: Is it for catharsis, or are you feeding the flames that will eventually consume you?
And finally, the word "worthless"- nothing and no one is worthless. Ever.
So why am I writing this? I'm writing it to remind myself why I shouldn't use these words against anyone. Especially since I just had an argument with someone whom I thought was saying some unbelievably stupid things. It turned into a whole long dissertation. I guess I just need to put things in perspective every now and then.
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