Alien Adventures

I was an illegal alien for eleven days.
Me, little miss follow-all-international-laws. I misunderstood how long my visa was valid for. It expired. Who’d have thunk.
I was told to report to the police by the immigration powers that be. Not a pleasant thing to hear when you have no clue what the laws of the land are for overstaying foreigners. After being assured by a friend that they would probably just slap me with a penalty fine, or worse case scenario, deport me, I went and trudged up to my local police precinct .
I ended up paying a fine. I then reported back to immigration for a visa I technically had no use for, as I was leaving anyway.
Trust me to get into a scrap like this.
Had the immigration dudes given me a hard time, I had planned on telling them that I had Chinese ancestry by playing up my Sino sounding middle name: Cha-lu-yan.
In the end, the officer only asked why Filipinos had such long names. The Chinese don’t have middle names. I told him our middle names were our Mother’s maiden names. I was about to tell him mine, but thought better of prolonging my stay at the Overstaying room.

All Saints Day

Breakfast in Shanghai. Post Holloween. Jobless again. But in one of the most modern and dynamic cities in Asia.
Mama is in the mountain province paying respects at the grave of my grandmother. The rest of the Philippines is busy doing the same thing. Visiting the dead.
Career paths die easily in this industry. This is crap writing. I have no idea what to do next. Beg for a position at friggin Star cinema. Sell my soul to the industry devils of mass consumerism.
Manila or Shanghai? Manila or Shanghai?
I wish I had a roadmap.

caged

This place stifles me. I feel caged, manipulated into a sense of vacation. I sleep more than I should, I indulge in rich food. I do not feel the need to physically move, which is as we know very dangerous. I’m sliding into a black hole of irritation. Everything irritates me. My father, my brother. The rude man who took the paper without asking for it.
Randomness: I gotta go to Cuba. Why Cuba? Because I’ve always been fascinated by the place. And because I once promised to go before Fidel Castro died.

The question, I think, that faces most of us is, not whether we will work, but what kind of work we are willing to do. Do we go to the studios and work like rats for canned storylines geared only towards the masses? Or do we sit at the doorstep of Indie production companies and pray that they have space for another intern?
Or do we stick to our guns and make our own features from scratch?

What is it about artists that lead them into either poverty or overnight sensations? We never seem to find a middle ground. Those who magically do are, well, never heard of. I think our capacity for success is mostly dependent upon luck – and obviously being prepared when the opportunity comes knocking.

I need to be part of the film community again. I would be lying if I said that any part would do, but right now I’m close to allowing the role of grunt/coffee girl into the job possibilities I am willing to consider just to get back.

And it is July

I know why I didn't write in May.
I have no excuse for June.
But I'm back. And I'm not wasting any more time.

It is always lonely in Baguio the first night one is back. But then the rhythm of the house slowly returns to the body and refreshes the memory. You settle back in. And then you're thankful to have returned. Even for just a few days.

Into the Dark

Don't ask. I just want to type out the song....forgive the cheese.

Into The Dark - Death Cab for Cutie

Love of mine
Someday you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark
No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of the spark

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

In catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me "Son fear is the heart of love"
So I never went back

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

You and me
Have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes
Are all worn down, the time for sleep is now
But it's nothing to cry about 'cause we'll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
And I'll follow you into the dark.

A different kind of parlor

There must be a reason I detest funeral parlors with a vengance.
I've just come back from a thirteen hour shoot at a very respectable funeraria, and besides being tired and in need of a shower, I have ghosts of past wakes floating in my head.
I'm still quite unsettled about the downstairs embalming room and coffins. I texted a friend that I thought I was the only one who got nauseated upon arrival. My mind can't forget the rows and rows of coffins sitting in the unused chapels.
Funerarias creep me out. Much more than they creep out the average person I think. I'm actually fine with attending wakes held at private homes. They seem much more personable, not so antiseptic, not so corporate. My grandmother's wake was held at our home and since her coffin was pinewood and made-to-order, she had to be laid out on a bed during the first two nights of her extended wake. And I was fine with that. It freaked out a few of my friends but, whatever.
It's different with funeral parlors...I don't know why. I just can't get used to those coffins lined up, just sitting there waiting for occupants. And the decaying flower smell brought about by the wreaths, bouquets and recycled candles...that is another reason for the psychological nausea. Somehow that smell is SO different from regular flowers that are close to wilting or have wilted. Yes, regular non-wake flowers. Yes, that makes no sense but I'm sticking to my belief that wake flowers have a different smell altogether.
As we packed up the lights and cameras, I passed by a chapel that had just been occupied only that afternoon. I tried not to look in as I passed but something made me look up. A picture of the deceased was on top of the coffin. It was of a young woman, not much older than me. I quickened my pace to the jeep. Instead of heading back up to help the crew with the remaining equipment, I stayed down at the parking lot until we were ready to leave.
I hate funerarias.

Not helping.

I don't have to explain myself to you. But the fact that I endeavor to, and that you still misunderstand me says a lot about our dysfunctional friendship. So you say I've changed since that Friday night. Okay, so maybe I have. But has it ever occured to you that I may be distanciating myself from you for a reason? Could you not perhaps stretch your imagination a bit to include the possibility that I may have found myself in a position of either the sink or swim - and that I decided to swim? Albeit, away.
I do not pretend to be the nicest of persons when cornered. But I think I deserve a little more than callousness and judgment. I was one of your best friends. You said so yourself. I only quote you. Thus as a friend, I think a little leeway should be given when things go to shit in my world. I walk away when people hurt me - deliberately or not. I sometimes come back - to people I love long term. Sometimes I don't bother. You are someone I will explain myself to. Just don't force it out of me. Just don't label me, call me names or harass the reasons out of me. Just give me time.