An excerpt

And it’s not like I enjoy any of this. I don’t want my stomach in knots whenever I check my mail or open facebook. I’d rather not notice your name in movie credits, articles, ads, products or lists. I’d rather not think of you, rather not remember you or any of the silly stuff we did. I’d rather not fall to pieces when I feel you have moved on – but I do.
I didn’t choose for you to leave an indelible print in my mental landscape.
I don’t want to think that I may not have even registered in yours.

But according to societal norms, I cannot show that I’m still hung up on you. I have to look like you were nothing but a brief blimp on my radar and that I have moved on.
So I will learn to quietly deal. I will remember the good times without marring them with exaggerations of the bad in my need to quickly forget you.
I will go back to living my life, waking each morning to check off tasks from a list of meaningless errands. Meetings, meals and socializing will fill my days and I will settle back into a routine without you. I will frequent places with loud music and noise that will drown out any thoughts of you. I will drown myself in work, and occasionally, in vodka.
My friends will be pleasantly surprised at how fast I bounced back from the chapter that was you. They will schedule dinners and catch-up dates, we will discuss me, we will discuss them. We will avoid talking about you. They will ask if I am okay, I will answer yes and then at the end of the evening as I walk home, I will suddenly remember something we did together and my eyes will well up with tears for no reason whatsoever.
But, because I am a strong independent woman, because I’m expected to be hardcore, because a man I hardly know should not turn me into a blubbering seventeen year old, I will push back the tears, force a smile, and keep walking. I will pretend everything is fine and make myself believe that we never were. Because this is what an "intelligent" woman would do. Because this is the sensible option. Because this is what moving on is all about.

The world apparently ends tomorrow

One more day of screening for the sound engineer position.
Being this busy again makes everything that came before it seem like a dream. I'm back in the real world of deadlines, speed, efficiency and ulcers.
I stepped back into the working world with a plan. No more days spent dicking around on facebook, feigning productivity by editing pet projects once a week. The plan was to get productive, learn a skill and get financially independent again.

not all plans work out the way you want.

Stuff it with meaning

Two weeks.
Maybe that's all we get, two weeks.
Two weeks of sun, sand, sea and sky.
A mojito here, a puka beach sunset there, and it is over.
But who am I to complain, two weeks is more than what some people ever get.
In as much as I'd like to go into the literal sense of it all, I'm thinking boring you with the specifics at this ungodly hour would do neither of us any good.
So I'm going back to bed now.
I'll get back to you when I've figured out all the characters in my head.
Chances are I won't.
Two weeks isn't much time to get to know why people do what they do. Then again, two weeks should be more than enough.

Oh Jaeger...

Never have Jaegermeister shots the evening before an early skimboarding class.
'Nuff said.

A death in the family

My dog HiGuy died today. And guess what, I cried more for him than I did for my Aunt Mary. Have I just reached a new low? Or am I just emotionally constipated???

the merry month of May...

The merry month of May indeed.
My thoughts have been dark and nihilistic lately. Which is ironic, since I really don't have that much to complain about. I could complain about not having a steady gig or a decent paycheck, but that's really a bit of my fault.
I blamed the dark thoughts on PMS - but then that should've been over a week ago.

It seems like everybody around me is a disappointment lately. Maybe I'm the disappointment.
I'm a little confused right now. Must be the darkness again.

Goodbye February

I think I've found the upside to my current gig.
more on this later.

February is over...that was fast.

when a rat denies it is back in the race...

Riding the MRT depresses me. Walking through Cubao is close to my definition of hell.

I get on the MRT and I try not to look at the women around me. They all look sad. Like if I asked them, they might tell me about how there was only one thing in their life that made them happy. Okay, I know what you're thinking - that one thing is better than nothing. Still, all those sad looking people...it is disconcerting. Maybe because I'm in the carriage with them.
They also look tired. I don't blame them. I look tired. Commuting in Manila has that effect on you.
I'm hungry. My last meal was something depressing from 7-11. Yes, I know, that's more that what other people have. Just let me get this distaste for commuting again out of my system.
I'm tired, hungry, and thinking about depressed looking women on the MRT. And am staying home on a Friday night, dammit.
I need to find an up-side to this filmmaking gig.

I miss my car.

Back at Guijo...

There are moments of musical magic I often get lost in, the latest of which was experienced at Saguijo.
Although I used to live right next door to the place, I was never really able to take advantage of the geographical proximity. Back then, I was on the late shift and by the time I got home from work, the place was usually closed.
Last week, a good friend visited Manila and after a movie and dinner, we found our way to the house turned indie bar on Guijo street. As always, the place was packed - the usual mix of musician, artist and yuppie.
Our other friend had picked this place tonight as he told us the bands playing would be amazing. We weren't disappointed. We took our place by the bar and before we knew it we had lost ourselves to the music of Waya, the Techy Romantics and a really talented beat box intermission guy called Bitoy.
The good crowd, great bands and my cold beer reminded me of when everyone used to have time to go out, chill, and just listen to some music.
Nobody really does that anymore.
Now it is mostly worries over jobs, finances, weddings, kids, etc.
Things change.

My friend has flown back to Boracay and I find myself wondering who to drag back to Saguijo.

Volunteers? Anyone?

never fails...

I can't help it, good films make me smile.

Good shots. acting. sets. location. music.
smile. smile. smile. smile. smile.

=)

Sunday service

I was made to go to church with the family today.
It had been a while since my last full mass. Organized religion hadn't changed much.
We had arrived late so were sentenced to standing outside in the cold. I didn't mind.

In between my guilt over paying more attention to the toddler bouncing around in front of us and half mumbling out memorized prayers, I found myself wishing I could be as uncomplicated as the people around me.
I can't even begin to count the times that I looked around in envy, wishing I could have the same blind faith.

Please give me something to believe in.

Your name came up

I find it hard to ask help from people. I find it insanely hard to ask help from the people I love. The moment I feel that I am being an imposition, I try to make myself scarce.
If you’re reading this, know that you came to mind when the question of “Who are the people you can depend on to be there?” came up today.
When the shit hits the fan, who are the handful of people I’d call at three in the morning to get me out of a bad situation, give me a roof over my head, drive me to the hospital, or simply listen to me rant about life’s general suckiness?
The names that came to mind surprised even me.
Hell, you’re probably reading this and going “WTF?? I’ve only known her a year!” or “I haven’t seen her for like, a decade” or even “But we’ve only had about four serious conversations together, and there was drinking involved!”.
Out of the fifteen I named, only three are related to me by blood. I don’t know if that sounds sad to you. For the traditional Filipino, it probably does. Somehow though, friends seem easier to have in my life, less aggravating, lesser strings attached. But I digress.
We all have countless friends we’ve made through the years, many of whom we still adore even if we don’t see them often. Maybe their priorities changed and they moved out of your immediate circle; maybe they got married or had to walk down a different path; maybe you just grew apart because of social calendars or geography. No matter, you know that these are good folk and that you would do almost anything for them. Yet their names didn’t make your top ten. And you wonder, why is that?

Sometimes it is easier to think of someone currently on the same frequency as you. People who you know will be there when you get the courage to admit that you need help. Those intelligent and compassionate enough to give what you need at the time, whether it is a sympathetic ear or a kick in the butt to tell you to pull yourself together.
People who have no agenda but seem to like being in your life. People who ask nothing in return but the pleasure of your company.
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve seen me act like a decent human being and you’ve seen me at my worst. Or, if we’ve only just walked into each others lives, you seem to be the kind of person I’ve decided I could trust to not walk away when I’m intolerable, but stick around to make sure I make it home safe when everyone else had lost interest.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know that your name came to mind and I’m glad it did.
I want you to know that I’d show up at three in the morning with a shovel in hand if you asked me to (no, don’t call me now). I’d cry at your wedding and I’d dote on your kids. I’d dread having to live longer than you. Being the person that I am though, I’d also get my wits back right about now and deny ever having written this sentimental crap.
Cheers to the New Year.
Dec 30, 2009 2:46am

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.

Don't fear the butterflies

One of my very good amigas is in-kilig. Note that I refrained from using the L word. It's simply in-kilig. For now. And that's wonderful.
The butterflies in the stomach. The I-can't-wait-till-I-see/talk/chat-with him again feeling. The daydreaming. The conversation that leaves you smiling long after it's happened.
Up until a couple of days ago, that was me as well. Which is why I can't help but worry. Because I somehow don't want her to go through the roller-coaster that I'm currently going through.
You know how they say, what goes up must come down?
The kilig factor gets replaced by questions, and the exchange of more information, that leads to even more questions. Then follow the expectations. And then the inevitable downward spiral when either party does not meet said expectations.
But sometimes, things go well. And kilig turns into admiration. And then to love.
I somehow screw things up somewhere between the questions and expectations. (wry laughter here).
But my friend has more brain cells than me when it comes to matters of the aorta. She is the one person I know who can handle men with so much grace (even under extreme pressure) that I end up fuming on her behalf. This girl could put up a school on poise education with electives on self-esteem formation.
Suddenly, I'm not that worried anymore.