Friday, November 24, 2006
i hope you never stop feeling bad
Tell me, why are some people so senselessly malicious, especially under cover of anonymity? Do they enjoy it? Are people's sense of morality so false that they lose it the moment they know they can hide their identity?
Somebody posted the most malevolent thing on my comment box the other day about a member of my family (as usual! Mahal na mahal kami ng mga malisyosong tao). Out of all malicious comments I've gotten, this one was the biggest bomb. It wasn't the sort of thing you could shrug off as the other nasty comments have been. Those were things we all just laughed about over dinner.
This one, however, was was low, hurtful, potentially damaging to those involved, and completely below the belt; malicious in the truest sense of the word. Also, it was a total lie, but people who might've read it on my comment box didn't know that, did they? People who love this member of my family whose reputation was being tarnished could have gotten extremely upset had they read it.
I deleted it. I don't care what people say among themselves, they can talk all the sh*t they want. But to post it on the internet where they know everyone can read it is another thing.
I am pretty good at keeping my cool. It takes alot for me to get angry. One of my bestfriends once said that I'm one of the most peace-loving people she knows.
But, surprise, surprise, I do get angry. Anry is not even the right word- more like enraged. I truly believe I am capable of mortally wounding another person out of passion, given the right circumstances, and the right a**hole to piss me off. I have been angry enough in the past to wish death upon another person, and that is what I wished upon this latest commenter when I was seething with rage last Wednesday. I don't want him to die anymore. But I still want to break his nose, (or at the very least humiliate him).
You see, I have an evil side, too, just like everyone else, but I'm transparent about it. I don't hide in a little rat-hole like this jerk I speak of. If someone comes along and breaks this guy's nose, you'll know it was me, and I won't hide it. If he had a blog, I would write him a hate message, leave my name, my URL, and a nice, big picture of myself next to it.
My big question to him (and to others who have gone before him) is WHY? Why do people do this? What do they have against me or my loved ones that they would deliberately be so cruel? What do they get out of it? The satisfaction that they have hurt and angered another? (In that case, then this person has succeeded). Are mean people just bored? Have they no sense of responsibility for their own actions? Don't give me the whole "insecure-lang-sila" argument. I don't think malicious people are insecure. I think they're just cruel and rotten, period.
Internet bullying is the lowest of the low, in the same way nuclear warfare is dishonorable. Back before bombs were invented, at least people would fight man-to-man. Warriors had a sense of honor about what they did. Nowadays you can kill a bunch of helpless people with the push of a button. You won't ever have to look into their eyes. You won't ever have to see the blood, or hear the screaming because you're too far away.
It's the same with these nasty, anonymous commenters. They're afraid of real confrontation which is why they don't want to take responsibility for anything they say. They feel brave, and witty, and puffed up only because they're safe in their little rat-holes. But don't ever ask them to stand up for what they say, when they have to look into your eyes.
I disabled anonymous commenting on my blog, because my family is important to me, and I will do what I can to protect them from hateful people.
I've always been aware of the existence of evil and spiteful people on this earth; but for some reason, there's been a higher concentration of them in my life since I've moved here. They're breeding like bacteria!
*** If you're reading this, the day that somebody does to you what you did to me, you will remember me. I hope you feel really, really rotten; and if you don't, I hope you eventually piss off someone who is bigger and stronger than me, and who is capable of breaking much more than your nose. Meanwhile, It would be smart to make sure I never find out who you are.
I'll be sending negative vibes your way everytime I think of you, which I hope causes a mild heart attack, or at least a bad stomach.
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at 2:21 PM 23 Comments!
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
You.
Ikaw. Kaibigan ni Gchuy, na ayaw mag-iwan ng pangalan. You know who you are.
Putang ina mo. Hindi ako nagmumura ng tao pero putang ina mo.
Did you think that what you just wrote on my comment box was fair or beneficial to anyone involved, to me, or my family, to you? Why'd you write that, huh? Did it make you feel real good? Are you proud of yourself? Did you HAVE to write that, right there where you knew everyone could see it? What was the point, huh? What were you trying to do?
Or di mo lang ba talaga pinag-isipan ng mabuti bago mo sinulat? Trip lang ba iyon? O tanga at antipatiko ka lang ba talaga?
I've taken more insults and shit against my family than most people get in a lifetime, but you have gone too far. And you are the reason why I'm disabling anonymous commenting from my blog again (ooh, I'll bet you're flattered huh?), and I deleted your comment.
You will get what's coming to you, I promise you that. And you deserve every bit of it. May someone do to your loved ones the same thing that you have done to mine, just so you know how it feels. You don't deserve any of the good things in your life.
And you, the friend, I don't know what the deal is with you, but why the heck would you say something like that? What in hell did you just write me and who the hell are you??? Stop mouthing off about capoeira to cover up for it all, you bastard, you sound like an idiot.
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Tuesday, November 21, 2006
because i'm a fan
I am a Panky Trinidad fan. I've been so since the moment I I first saw her step out onstage during the very first episode of Pinoy Dream Academy, the eliminations night. She caught my eye even before she opened her mouth to sing. How can you not notice her? Unlike the other female contestants who were all skinny, dressed in trendy clothes, had cookie-cutter haircuts, and who fit the female norm for what is 'pleasing' and 'acceptable', Panky was androgynous, larger than life, and sported a mullet. I remember asking my brother (who was watching beside me), "Babae ba iyan or lalaki (Is that a man or a woman)?"
In the beginning, I was skeptical of the entire show. I'm not a fan of reality TV. I don't enjoy watching these 'real life' dramas that all seem suspiciously simulated. Plus, showbiz is known to employ the good-looking over the talented. Would these "scholars" be just another bunch of young, showbiz hopefuls with only looks and publicity (good and bad) going for them?
Then Panky Trinidad began to sing. Oh my God, I thought, if this girl doesn't get in the Academy, then that's it- the show will lose all credibility for me. Thankfully, she did, along with the rest of the scholars who all turned out to be genuinely and amazingly talented themselves.
Panky probably gets the most bad rap amongst the scholars. She can be brooding, insensitive, and has a persistent attitude problem. All of this, combined with her unconventional looks, often earns her scathing criticism from viewers ranging from the ('feeling') morally righteous to the downright mean.
But I like her, not because she offends other people, but because she doesn't try to be a role model. She's human, and I like that. In fact, she strikes me as an extremely uncomfortable and guarded person, someone who never quite learned to fit in, and relate to others. Maybe her take-me-for-what-I-am exterior is her way of overcompensating for this inadequacy, but I don't want to psychoanalyze her, I just want to hear her sing.
My point is, it doesn't matter to me how she is in real life as long as she delivers on stage, which she always does. She will never be dressed in the latest fashion like the teen idols on MTV, she will never endorse Jollibee like Sara Geronimo, will never be one of those ballad-singing 'birit queens' that Pinoys are so obsessed with, and will never be "crush ng bayan" the way Michelle, or Irish are. But she's an artist, a true original, and a total performer; and a refreshing change from all the 'pa-tweetums' women that TV likes to bombard us with.
They say that performers perform either to hide or reveal who they really are. One thing I like about Panky Trinidad is no matter how defensive, awkward, and difficult she may be in day-to-day life, on stage she transforms into someone who is comfortable, free, and completely unguarded. She's got soul, she's got the blues, she's got balls and attitude, and as proven by her latest performance ("Santa Claus Is Coming to Town"), she can skat, too! Let's see Regine do that! I don't which one of her performances blew me away the most: "Proud Mary", "Point of No Return", "Hard To Handle", or her latest (watch it, it's great!).
Panky gets alot of bad rap, but name one extremely great artist or vocalist in history who didn't have an attitude problem (or drug problem, or mental problem, or any sort of problem for that matter), and I will take back everything I just said.
I'm so excited to see her grow as an artist! Bongga ka, 'day! Keep walking the edge!Photo by the Headmaster:-D
The doc says my rib's not broken, yay! :-D (Refer to earlier posts regarding capoeira accident.)
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Friday, November 17, 2006
living on
Shortly after my lolo was diagnosed with advanced stages of cancer, he decided to die. There was no changing his mind. He had lived a full life, he said, and had built a substantial legacy. With his wife having died of cancer herself a few years before, his ten children all grown up and married, and his law firm (RMBSA) of XX years having blossomed into the most prestigious law firm in the country, what more could he ask more? Furthermore, he was at a ripe old age of 80, and had no intention of living his last few years weakened by chemotherapy and being prodded and x-rayed by doctors.
Being the lawyer that he was, he did not walk into death unprepared. He was as methodical in his death as he was in his life. Having already anticipated his death, he wrote everything down on paper: should his heart stop, he was not to be revived. Should he fall into a coma, his I.V., as well as all sources of nutrition, were to be removed. There would be no respirator, no strange machines hooked up to him. He didn't want to prolong his life anymore than he had to.
And so, it was with a final flourish of his pen that Atty. Roman Mabanta -a graduate of Harvard Law, founder and co-owner of RMBSA, law professor at the University of Santo Tomas, staunch follower of the Opus Dei, father of ten, grandfather of 20- began to die.
All of us, his siblings, children, and grandchildren, were to bear witness to this slow and painful decline. We couldn't understand why this man, still with alot of life left in him, could decide to give up the ghost. Weren't we always taught that we should fight to live, that we should choose life over death? Furthermore, being so fervently religious, didn't he think it went against the teachings of his Lord to cut his own life short?
Not that he did anything even remotely suicidal. He simply ceased all desire to live; and no matter how hard his body tried to live, it couldn't win against a spirit that wanted nothing more than to be free of it. What else could we do but respect his decision?
I, especially, didn't feel like I had a say on the matter. He firmly believed that his mission on earth had been fullfilled, and that he had nothing more to live for. What advice could I possibly give to my grandfather, he who had a lifetime of experience and wisdom? This is why I never dared own up, not even to myself, that I objected to this decision. As I watched him die throughout the following months, my heart was protesting in anger and betrayal, saying, "Lolo, don't you want to live for me? Aren't I worth living for?"
I didn't get to know my lolo until after my lola died, though I saw him every Sunday for 22 years. He always sat at the head of the table during our family Sunday lunches. While my lola made herself very present in our lives, my lolo was always a silent but authoritative figure who was very serious and conservative. My relationship with him was based on familial and elderly respect, nothing more.
I don't think he had much to say about me, either. We had never had a conversation. He didn't care to know about my affairs. I almost believe he saw me as nothing more than a scatterbrained teenager with no religion.
With the void that my lola left behind after she passed away, he turned to his children and grandchildren to help fill it. He awakened to us. Suddenly, I had a grandfather.
I didn't know what to make of him at first. I wasn't used to having my grandfather care about me, much less ask me how I was doing. But in the years that followed, I grew to genuinely love this old man. I found that he was warm, and caring, and wise, and funny, and intelligent; he was one of the most intelligent people I have ever known. I discovered my grandfather.
He would talk to me about books. He would talk to me about how he fell in love with my grandmother, and the cases he had won in court.
Once, he sat me down and taught me about integrity. He began with the etymology of the word, 'integrity' coming from the word 'integer', which meant 'an entity that was whole or complete'. He went on to explain that when a person is said to have integrity, it means that all parts of him- his mind, his soul, his principles, and beliefs- are in harmony with each other and therefore form a whole. A person with integrity is not fragmented, he is grounded because he is whole.
When he sat me down like that, I never felt like I was being lectured, even though technically, I was (he was a lawyer and a law professor after all). I hung on to his every word.
I saw Africa with my lolo. I really got to know him on that trip, and by the time we came back, I would have done anything for him. "Why, oh, why", I asked myself, "didn't I ever start talking to my grandfather when I was younger?"
This was why I felt betrayed when he decided to die. We had only just begun. Didn't he want to stay and let me be his granddaughter just a little bit longer? Didn't he think that was worth living a little bit longer for?
I felt this way as the cancer slowly invaded his body, but I didn't know it. There were too many other emotions zipping around inside me. Besides, this was about his death, and not my life; him, and not me. If I objected to his death, my objection was overruled.
He died more than a year ago, and our long-delayed plans of moving to Australia finally pushed through (his illness was one reason why we had delayed another year and half). I spent my first few months in a daze, not knowing where I was, or where I was going, and dealing with the slow, painful death of my old self.
In this period of confusion, I got a job. I was willing to take any job. I hated it. It involved filing, and typing, and numbers, and Microsoft Excel. I went home in misery and with a headache after every working day. I couldn't make sense of my being there, working there. I wanted to never come back after the first two weeks.
But one thing I liked about the job was that I was co-workers with my lolo's old secretary from his law firm. It was pure and complete coincidence. She had worked for him for a good twenty years, before moving to Australia which she has now called home for seven years.
She knew my lolo more than I ever did. I think she looks forward to seeing me just so she has someone to talk about with him. She can't talk about my grandfather without lapsing into a sentimental, dream-like state, as she recounts what seems to be the golden years of her life.
"He was my boss, but I also considered him my father. Twenty years- I worked for him for twenty years. I still have dreams of being back in that office", she says, glowing with pride.
The other day, I had a surprise for her- a copy of RMBSA's tribute to my grandfather, a collection of essays, anecdotes, and photographs about him, lovingly written by relatives, friends, and co-workers; profesionally bound and printed on full-color, glossy paper. She snatched it from me as soon as she saw it and hungrily began to leaf through it. As she read it, she lapsed into another one of her trips down memory lane.
"Your lolo depended on me for so many things", she said proudly, "his lunch, his medical records, even his bank accounts. I still memorize his weekly schedule. He would go to mass at this time everyday, and on Thursdays, he had Rotary, and on Mondays..."
"It's too bad you weren't able to write something about him. We would have included it in the tribute", I interrupt.
"It's in my heart, even though it's not printed on paper", she answered almost fiercely, trying to contain her emotions.
My eyes were wet, but she could not see it. She was too busy reading, lovingly turning each page, and I pretended to be absorbed in my Excel spreadsheet. I let her go on talking, mostly because I was too choked to reply. As she shared a side of my grandfather that I never knew, in my mind, I could see my memories of him grow more intense; from a faint, faded outline, to a crisp, living, 3-dimensional picture, smoldering with color and joy.
"Mahal na mahal ko ang lolo mo (I loved your grandfather very much)", she said. As I wiped the tears off my keyboard with my fingertips, I began to understand why fate led me to this job.
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Sunday, November 12, 2006
diyosa
Yesterday, my friend Nic and I spent the afternoon at the NSW Art Gallery to see their Goddess: Divine Energy exhibition. I have had a fascination with Hinduism for the longest time, most especially with their veneration of the feminine. Maybe it's because I grew up with a religion that is, to put it bluntly, male-dominated. I was raised by my society and my Catholic school teachers think of God as a man, a thought pattern I have tried very hard to break. I feel it is very biased.
I didn't consciously feel this lack of a female until I spent an afternoon googling the Hindu god, Shiva, because I had seen statues of him in his iconic Cosmic Dance, and I wanted to know what it meant. I remember reading that Shiva is considered the god of all gods, and that all other Hindu gods are lesser than him. What fascinated me was I read about his wife/consort, Parvati or Shakti.
Shiva is not only impotent without his goddess, "like a sun without heat", but he cannot exist without her. They are even said to be one and the same. Parvati is the entire energy of the universe, and the two united represent the highest and most absolute state of being. (Note: I am in no way an expert on this. I just read books.)'Devi is the Divine Mother, the goddess of strength, who has an equal role with the male aspect of divinity. She is energy or Shakti, without which the male aspect, which represents consciousness, is powerless. It is said that "Shiva is shava (a corpse) without Shakti."' -from nathorder.orgAt yesterday's art exhibit, I gazed in wonder at the many depictions of Devi in Hindu and Buddhist art. I saw goddesses in all forms: beautiful and fearsome, wondrous and terrible, mothers and warriors, maidens and crones, sexual and ascetic. I saw them bestow wisdom, and slaying powerful demons (of chaos, ignorance, and negativity), giving life, and dealing death. There were also beautiful paintings and statues of goddesses in the act of copulation with their male half, symbolizing divine union (sex in Hindu and Buddhist art is also said to symbolize our own human yearning for unity with the divine). I felt elevated, and I feel I have a newfound understanding of being a woman.
There was one particular depicition of Devi that struck me.Chinnamasta"In Hinduism, Chinnamasta (also called Chinnamastaka, is one of the mahavidyas, and an aspect of Devi. The literal meaning of the word Chinnamasta is one with a severed head."- WikipediaIn the museum display, it was explained that her self-decapitation is supposed to symbolize the "futility of egoistic thought", and that destruction is necessary for regeneration. According to a certain David Kinsley, her self-decapitation is an " … act of annihilation of one's ego in the quest for self knowledge. In the process of discovering or uncovering the atama, one destroys, denies or otherwise subverts egocentricity. The cutting of the head symbolizes getting rid of false notions of one's identity."
It touched me very deeply because I feel I am a Chinnamasta of sorts at this time in my life. I feel very strongly that the only way I have progressed in this new phase of my life is when I let my old identity die completely, and shed my ego. I've had to destroy the identity I created and clung on to stubbornly. How many times have I written, both in my blog and in my own private journals, that I feel I have ceased to know who I am, and have instead simply started being who I am, whoever that is. I don't think about who I am, I just am. I've been walking around without a head.
A few months ago when I felt alone and invisible, I remember painting a portrait of myself, and then, as a final touch, smudged out my own face, making myself unrecognizable. I did it bitterly, though, and not with the same acceptance and peace of mind I have now. But looking back, maybe that was my inner Chinnamasta.Balitang Australia
I am very excited to be a Sydney correspondent for the recently launched Balitang Australia. It's been in the works for about three months now, but didn't get excited about it until it premiered on TFC (The Filipino Channel) here in Sydney yesterday.
I've been coming out on TV for almost 5 years, but I never had to worry about content or camera-work. I was just a talent. But now I'm shooting and writing my own news and feature stories along with other correspondents from Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane.
Last night, they aired the story I wrote and shot (with the help of my production assistant, Nicole Alarcon) on tributes to Philippine national hero, Jose Rizal, found around Sydney. The episode has also been aired in Manila, Hong Kong, Singapore, Japan, Saudi Arabia, the US, and Milan, wherever there is a strong Filipino community, and wherever there is ANC.
Here is the airing sched given to us by Gigi Grande:Starting November 11
7pm US (Pacific Time)
Starting November 12
11am Philippines
6am Saudi Arabia
4am Milan
2pm Sydney (replay)
I'll post an update when I'm more sure of the schedule. I am very, very happy to be part of this project, and I am very, very proud of my Rizal story (I had to drive to Campbell town for it!) even though it is just my first effort. And I'm excited to take on this new challenge in my media career.
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Thursday, November 09, 2006
this day merits its own entry
Why is it that everytime I proclaim to the world how happy/ satisfied I am, something bad happens to blast me out of my comfort zone, and forces me to learn hard things.
Today I had capoeira, and I had to learn some very important things. Such as:
Lesson number 1: How to get to class (very important).
I usually ride with my classmate Rohan to our Parramatta class, a thirty minute drive away. Rohan couldn't make it so I had to ride with my other classmate, Phil. Meeting place was his house, which I originally thought was fifteen minutes away from mine, but turned out to be thirty minutes away in an area I had never been to. To tell it short, I missed his house and found myself on a strange highway with arrow signs that said "Parramatta".
The worst part was that I didn't have any credit, so I couldn't even call to tell him to I wouldn't be riding with him anymore, to apologize for making him wait, and for making him 45 minutes late! I was seriously diyahe. And while I was going around in circles, almost an hour late for class, I uttered many beautiful, four-letter words (in two different languages, too). Boy, I can really cuss alot. More than the average. I have to stop. It's not a good habit.
My total road time was an hour and half- that includes trying to find Phil's place, driving past it, finding myself on some highway I've never been on before, getting lost around Parramatta, then finding parking. And that is the extra, extra long way to Parramatta. (Why does this story sound familiar? It's kind of like the time my friend Trina and I took an hour and 45 minutes to get from Timog to Katipunan- what should be a twenty minute drive).
And now we come to the absolute worst part: when I had finally found parking, I realized, with horror, that I had been driving around in the dark with no headlights. I swear, I have never felt like such a stupid-girl-driver. I love to brag that since I learned to drive in Manila, I can drive like a man, and take on any Aussie driver. But today, I felt like a stupid-girl-driver. Go ahead, mock me. I deserve it.
The good thing is, I told myself a couple days ago that I would make it my goal to learn to drive to Parramatta before the year ends; and well, there we go.
Lesson number 2: What it feels like to get hit... REALLY hard.
Okay, so I've been having this romance with capoeira. I think I'm in love with it. And when you're in love, you're always bound to get hurt. Really. Bad.
Okay, I'm being a tad dramatic (aren't I always?). What really happened was, I got clobbered. It was an innocent mistake. I was walking around after class in a daze (as I often am), and my classmate just happened to be practicing some move that involved a backflip, and he didn't know I was behind him and, well...
I've seen alot of action movies where the hero gets punched in the stomach/ribs/solar plexus, and collapses like a house of cards and crumples up on the ground, clutching his stomach, in the fetal position. Well, that's the position I was in when I looked up and saw that the whole class had formed a circle around me, with everyone chorusing, "Are you okay?" Now, I'm used to being the center of attention... but not for being in pain. Phil ran to go get me some ice.
I REFUSED to cry, even though I have never gotten hit that hard in my entire life. But thankfully I was okay, and I got up as soon as I was sure my ribs weren't broken. Now I'm just bruised, and bending over and sneezing hurts. And my chest is bruised, too. Ouch. Girls, you know how it feels to be punched in the boob. Guys, I don't know what it feels like to be kicked in the nuts, but as a woman, I can tell you that being hit in the chest hurts pretty bad, too.
And that's how skinny, frail, little me got clobbered by Alex. The good thing was that it forced everyone to stay a little longer after class and socialize. Good on me, because I'm really shy. I know, I know, it's so not me to be shy, but in Australia I am, for some reason. Also, the bruise on my ribs/chest matches my blue finger, which I bruised yesterday from playing frisbee. Cool!
Lesson number 3: How to get back home from Parramatta.
Basically, I missed my turn and had to "chuck a U-ey" (translation: "Make a U-turn". "U-ey" is a cutesy short-cut for the word U-turn. Aussies love speaking in cutesy shortcuts.) It took me awhile to figure out what the heck a u-ey was. Maaaaan.)
Still slowly, slowly getting used to the Aussie use (or some would say misuse hahaha) of language. Slowly getting there.
Speaking of which...I have a weird accent
It's not a Manila accent, and it's not an Australian accent. I sound weird when I talk here, but I know I don't talk the exact same way I used to in Manila (and I know my Manila friends would make fun of me for the rest of my life if they heard me talk the way I do here). I have a weird, hybrid Manila-American accent with lazy Rs, with a slight hint of that sing-songy intonation that Australians have.
I never thought I'd the Aussie accent would catch on. The other week, I pronounced the letter "Z" the Australian way in a conversation for the first time. (Here they pronounce "Z" as "zed", and not "zee" the way we pronounce it in Manila). I felt like I had lost my Aussie-speak virginity somehow.
But I'll know that the transformation is complete when I start using the phrase "I reckon". Nobody says "I reckon" in the Philippines! Once I start using that, I'll know that I've really lost my Aussie-speak virginity. :-p
My Aussie friend Rohan asked me the other week, "Do Australians really have such a distinct accent?"
The answer is a gigantic YES, Rohan, YESSSSSSS!!!play!
The other day, my friends Mel and Carl came over, and we all went to the park down the street from my house, and played in the playground. Played, as in climbed the jungle gym, went on the swings, and went on the this thing:
We were acting like overgrown 6 year olds. We probably had more fun on that playground than 6 year olds do. It's a good thing the equipment didn't break.
I'm such a kid, really. An adult kid. Or a kiddy adult. Whatever :-pi love capoeira
... even though I know I will probably get beaten this bad a dozen more times before I start being a good capoeirista.
Ok, goodnight.
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Saturday, November 04, 2006
what i did before lunch today
Cold, wind, and rain didn't stop the Walk Against Warming from happening in Sydney today, in accordance with the International Day of Action on Climate Change. 50,000 people came to participate: students, parents, children, senior citizens; there was even a birthday celebrant who decided to make the walk her birthday party, and invited all her guests to come.
I woke up at 8am, caught the train to Martin Place to help push this bed all the way to the Botanical Garden.
Australia is the biggest exporter of coal in the world.I have a sore back! Next year I'll be smart and volunteer to be one of the people on the bed. :-p
In between pushing the bed, I fancied myself a photojournalist and took shots with the DSLR. I cannot stress the power of having a nice camera around your neck. It's been proven time and again. I don't mean a point-and-shoot. We're talking big, with a detachable lense, and with lots of knobs and buttons. People are nicer to you when you have a big camera, and they get out of your way even if you don't ask them to. Plus, men use it as a reason to talk to you. ;-)
Also, people will do ANYTHING for a big camera. The bigger the camera, the easier it is to get people to do what you want. I haven't the heart to tell them that I'm neither professional, or a member of the media; just a kid with a big camera (that isn't even really mine).You can view all the pictures I took here.
And here's something you might all want to check out. I'll be writing here from time-to-time. Coolmyplanet.blogspot.com.just me
I love walking around in complete anonymity.
I love being able to do things like join protest walks as a total commoner, without anyone making a big deal out of it.
I love having nothing and nobody to live up to, being given the freedom to explore my own shadow side, and to get to know that part of myself I wasn't allowed to get to know before.
I love how I have surprised myself almost everyday by discovering how strong, brave, resourceful, and intuitive I can be.
I love being reborn as just me.
I am what I am, and I know what I know, and I love the person I am with all my shortcomings and inadequacies.
I love my own beautiful humanity.
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