Because, I am.

Tatay, when i told you i'm out to ruin your world, why dintcha believe me?

----

Keith fixed the fridge's freezer door, 3 candles by his side.
The kid was on shadow play again. he's got our phone's flashlight hovering all over his set of mini heavy equipment.

On our wall, the back hoe looks like a war tank.

I was just 2 minutes into my mission in Starcarft II when the power went out. Now, I'm left to nothing and i do not want to help Keith with the fridge, not in this situation.

"Let us shoot the stars," I tell the kid. He likes stargazing. On clear nights at my parent's place, he would go out and make us name the stars, then bombard us with whatever comes to his mind. We would tell him to count the stars, just so he'd stop asking 10 million questions about everything. About life. Where was he when he was not yet here. When will I die.

I invited the kid join me so he would stay away from his father's fridge mission. So that it would not look like  I do not really care what he's trying to do with the fridge, because if it wasn't for me, he wouldn't have to be doing this, after all.

4 or 5 months before...

That little small button on the thermostat is something. The manual said it's a defroster but nobody in the house never really got to using it. And it is probably the best time to push it.

So push i did. 12 hours after we were 1,800 pesos poorer, with a fridge on it's way to white goods cemetery.

Somehow, after i pushed that little defroster the melted water ended up flooding our kitchen floor. When Keith cleaned it, like secrets that were not meant to be uncovered, he came face to face with places that badly need cleaning. Like the back of the fridge, and so he cleaned it, too. Too much that he tore a hole at the copper tubing of the compressor. To make matters worse, days earlier, my mother stuffed our freezer with 10,000 kilos of fish.

We definitely shouldn't have a night without a running fridge or else.

or else what.

But after that the fridge was never the same again. It never iced the way it did before the repair and the freon refill. No matter how often i clean it the ice keeps on forming like it's trying to re-create the shrinking arctic circle in my freezer. I know what you are trying to do refurbished fridge, you're trying to have all the melted polar ice caps resettled in my freezer. that's not good, not good at all because i never granted you locational clearance and i never will!

what comes next is the unstoppable deterioration.

somehow the melted water took a new route and never drained in the plastic catchment that was meant to catch exactly that--melted water. It's unstoppable; it just wants to flood everything in its way.



The week before the great Frank flood of Iloilo City in 2008, I was looking forward to spending a peaceful  weekend with my then 17 month-old son. But then Keith left his 1,000 dollars worth stainless steel-encased phone (a gift from his mother) on the bamboo living set while he went upstairs to get something. Our son was  still in his exploration stage, testing the projectile abilities of anything he'd get his hands on. Somehow i overlooked the image of a phone-on-the-chair, and absentmindedly put my coffee somewhere near it. Apparently, it is a disaster waiting to happen. My son got his hand on his father's very expensive phone, and my tasty cup of steaming coffee with cream. And then Frank happened. And then we went broke. And then the phone was declared irreparable because the rust has managed to get into the motherboard. And it was my fault.

("And then what happened? Life. Life happened." --> shouldn't that be "shit?") 



In July of 2011, using what i thought was the key, i somehow managed to lock myself in the office. Though i knew it was the least i should do, i was left without a choice: I called Keith. I called him and told him i need him to bring my key to me. It would have been okay if he was in the house, but he wasn't (he was out on a meeting) and it would have been okay if i knew where i last left it (I swore it was in the shelf but the maid couldn't locate it). and so he said,

"How could you have locked yourself in with A key?"
"But is it possible?" because i do not really know. I am not a locksmith.
"No, it is not."
"But i did. Surprise!"
"Why did you have to forget your key? We're almost ready for bed." We--our kid and him.

He was right, it was late and I really am just careless about the things i do; the things that i need to do.



Like the 3 days before Christmas of 2011 when I dropped my camera and it took me 3 seconds late to realize i dropped it. If it wasn't for the synchronized gasps of at least 15 onlookers and my colleague's horrified look, i wouldn't have known.

"How bad is it? Is it still working? What happened?" she exclaimed, frantic.
"Somehow, the bag's handle missed my shoulder," was my sorry replied. I was surprised i still managed to speak after i saw the terrible dent on the rim of the lens. It felt like horrible face slap. It was my only camera and i somehow managed to destroy it, barely a year in my possession. I could never find any replacement for this, in a better condition, for this half-a-century old camera.

I wanted to bawl. right there, in front of so many attendees of the local government office Christmas party.

I never found the guts to tell it to Keith. He only found out about it through facebook. Checking on it, one night, he said,

"Did you know this is one very hard steel, the lens case? How did you manage to dent it?"
"Well, you know me."

Yes, you know me.

I am THE walking disaster.

The thing is.

"Nobody gets it right the first time."

Well, that is comforting. Enough to soothe my sore palms and busted self-worth.

I've recently embarked on yet again another round of non-income generating vocation. There's a slim chance of me turning back.

ArTeacher, same age us I am, keeps a reassuring grin on his face. every time he starts on his instructions for me to draw, i squirm. Then i'll start on few scrawls on the horrifying wide white space of my sketchbook, procrastinate (drink water, open a packet of cookies, go to the toilet), and steal a glance at Keith's notebook.

I will expectedly become more horrified because there will be so many things going on Keith's wide white space while i'm left to few scrawls that i'd try to cover up by shading.

Only to be told that shading is the last thing i should be doing.

"Give me a silhouette before you do anything else. At least give me an outline."

Which is of course very logical. Even in writing it applies--one needs an outline before one could stick conversational lines between those stories. even more so in project management. One has to set the boundaries of the project site before introducing any intervention, otherwise the project ends up with mish mash of half-finished deliverables.

But honestly, at this point in time, i find it easier to hide my mediocrity in shades of black ink (we are not allowed, to use pencils--well, Keith is, but not me). My outlines look no different from the outline of a truck that my 4 year-old has been sketching on the walls of our house.

Which leads me to anther analogy--the modern architecture. The stuffs people call cube houses, which many think are very easy to construct because, y'know, it is just a cube. But the beauty of modern buildings lie in the skills of the builders that make them. Because for one, it is very difficult to hide the lack of mastery of the builders if there are no ornate columns, or beautifully carved baseboards to cover up the skewed lines where the wall and the floor/ceiling meet.

I grab a glass of water, sigh, and pick up my pen. If i make few scrawls my teacher will think i am actually doing something but--

"So let us see what you got there."

BAM.

"Hmm."

Nice thing. This Hmmm. It's so vague it makes me more nervous.

I remember the 20 years of conversation: 
"Daddy, look I made a portrait!"
"Hmmm."
"Daddy, i ran 7 kilometers in 38 minutes. Half of it is uphill."
"Hmmm."
"Daddy, I'm the team captain of the volleyball team."
"Hmmm."
"Daddy, I'm admitted to UP High School."
"Hmmm."
"Daddy, I think I'm failing Math 17 again."
"It's because you do not have an analytical mind."


I'm not really sure where this hmmm is taking me.

And i'm certainly not getting it right the first time. This artS thing. I wanted to learn how to make miniatures. Small replica of my cities. ArTeacher says that, the good thing about sculpture is you do not stop at drawing, or painting. You have to learn to draw, draw well, and then imagine how they would be in 3D. It is not enough that i am good at copying stuffs because i have copied many stuffs. That is how i taught myself to draw. But that is not enough. I have to draw in proportion, in beautiful actions with strong silhouettes, in concepts so persuasive my figures look as if they could jump out of the page of my sketchbook's wide white space and, i don't know, dance in front of me? There are so many things that i still have to learn.

Hmmm.

"What made you so good at wire bending?" Amazed at how easily ArTeacher makes clean curves with the size 16 wire.

"I've been bending wires since 1997, see?"

And he hands me the my awful looking 3D banga wire frame. I yanked the wires that earlier were misbehaving and refused to cooperate with me. 14 years it took him to tame them. 

Yes, I see. I'm finally seeing it.

download brigade

I found this site through my friend Lillian.

I hate the 90's blog also uses mediafire for most of her/his file sharing s/he also has great repertoire of the songs the 90's kid would look for.

here's the links of the ones i downloaded so far:

1. dambuilder's encendeador: in rar
2. dambuilder's ruby red: in rar
3. dambuilder's against the star: in rar
4. school of fish's human cannonball: in rar (josh claytonfelt died in the early 2000 of testicular cancer)
5. school of fish's self-titled album: in rar

that's it!

I'm going back to work, the one that actually pays. hakhak.

my art life is currently at its lowest moment in history. i haven't written anything in months. i haven't done photo projects in weeks. there are 4 rolls of films that need processing, add the one in my camera right now, that makes it five. there are 5 more rolls of negatives that need scanning.
my centenarian grandmother died.
it's almost alfredogs' first anniversary.
this saturday will be my first day in weekend art class.
i hope that will help revive everything.
it's really difficult to be so under-art. it's a lot worse than being undersexxed. 

i am sick. i have been out of our house for 6 days and have been eating hotel food for that same length of time. 

i am at the airport waiting for my flight in 6 hours. 

I thought i would manage since Iloilo is also polluted but it turned out Manila is way way polluted. Worse, my 5-star hotel accommodation is located in the 5-stars of the polluted districts in Manila. They also have 5-star wi-fi provision--it's at P300 for 1 hour worth of wi-fi use. 

and so I succumbed to a bad case of allergy on the 4th day. 

i can't imagine how anybody manages to "live" in this city. it's just the really dirty, polluted, unwalkable, unfriendly to public transport users; just very unlivable. 

good thing the Green Urbanism conference was a success, otherwise i would be hating this city for the rest of my life. 

Lola, thank you for inspiring me to become a storyteller.
I hope i can become the same to my son, as you have been to me.

though shall not steal thy friend's bonsai.

yeah.

i stayed for weekend at my parents' house to find out that one of my ficus bonsais is missing. And the culprit? some LGU employee who came over and brought MY Bonsai home with her.

MY bonsai. jesus christ. can you imagine somebody actually stealing her colleague's daughter bonsai?

really??

because i can't. what person in his/her right mind would do that? it was just an ordinary ficus but it as one of the three different species of ficus bonsais i have in my parents' garden. and the culprit, guess where she's from? she came from the uplands. yes, in the cool rolling hills land where there are probably more of that ficus species than in my parent's area. what a loser.

it's the same thing with people begging--sometimes i think to the point of coercing--their travelling colleagues for souvenirs. Imagine having to waste at least a day of your vacation shopping for souvenirs because "everyone in the office said you should bring some." it's the stupidest thing ever. and i never ever let myself be talked into that shit. i think the only person i personally and willingly bought souvenirs for was my grandmother. i got her a scarf in cebu when we were there for a stopover on our trip to mindanao.

i mean, really? she stole my bonsai? or if she didn't, i bet my ass she "coerced" my mother into giving her that bonsai because my mother would never ever give my stuff away except at gunpoint. i know my mother.

unbelievable. just unbelievable.

come one, why would you steal a bonsai?

desktop, literally.

Desktops are an interesting bunch. I've seen a handful of blogs and forums posting pictures of member's desks and i'd say that --wow---desktops are a totally different world. Like they have a psychology of their own different from the owner.

We have only a couple of desks at home. One is a drafting table converted into regular desk to hold a mishmash of things. It was my husband's drafting table from architecture school, a very heavy table made from scrap coconut lumber. Sometimes my 4 year-old use it as an inclined plane to jump start his toy cars and send them flying across our bedroom. And i am always guilty to use it as a place to put my hair clips and my end-of-the-day trash that i take out from my pockets. It drives my husband crazy. He said that THE desk is not supposed to hold hairclips, especially when they easily tear HIS onion skin-like tracing papers.  And also because it has too many things on it already--his aging computer, his film camera, his junk art fixed lamp, his T-square (complete with the strings that help it slide back and forth smoothly), 3 of his countless sketch pads, numerous ball pens ON the table placed in a way that they do not ROLLLLLLL (because it's inclined and it can't hold a pen stand unless it's a fixed, screwed pen stand)--yes, some are felt tip (or at least the calligraphy pen is).

The other desk is like a public desk. It houses the desktop computer that is free for everyone to use but only after my husband has given his permission. Sometimes, my siblings' (yes, my siblings live with us) stuffs would find their way on this desk. They would often end up in trash bins--the real trash bins. You see, even the use of this public desk is highly political. The desktop computer on this desk contains the CAD and sketchup files--yes, they are the ones that pay and see to it that there is food in the fridge and that both my husband and I are able to drink beer at the beer places at least once a month.  With the basics of survival secured, i could easily feed by addiction to cheap white wine using my own money sans the guilt.

And have i mentioned I do not have a desk at home?

but here is a picture of my desk at work:

yyeah, and at work all i do is surf the net and read online forums. there's practically nothing in my organizer as my calendars are blank. but there's a libeskind book there (that is the property of my husband--i dunno how it found its way to my office desk) and some list on post-its, none i've done yet--NOT!!!

As you can see, it's relatively clean and free of piles of paperwork. I made sure to include only the side of my desk where it is still--YES!--clean. If i tilt my camera a little to the left you'll get the picture of HELL. In there, there's at least 10 watershed reports that have been trying to get my attention for the last few weeks. I tried so hard to give them some but it doesn't help. They do not decrease in number. In fact, the last time i checked they were about 5 and now they're 10. I should really get the stuffs on my desk to practice some family planning--or a population control method that actually works.

But no matter, i love this desk.

In fact, in my last four years of significant development work, this is the only "true" desk i ever had. In my previous project i had to content myself with heavy, weather-worn, wooden desk. It was about the same age as my grandmother and I think it really wanted to retire. I felt sorry for the desk. The desks in my other short shots i never really considered MY desk, as most of my engagements were short-lived. So short i didn't get a chance to put ugly valentine's day stuffed toys and pollen-exploding flowers on them.

And i think that any respectable, rational, clear-thinking, intelligent person should never stuff her office desk with ugly stuffed toys and pollen exploding flowers from boyfriends. Reports that give you visions of hell, maybe, because that's what the office desks are for. And i because, man, your boyfriends deserve some privacy, too. (Yes, desks are ours to use and use freely to express our individuality, and the expression of individuality are sometimes overdone that the lines between what's private and public are blurred. think: facebook.)

Well, unless you live to work--which, is a completely different matter--then you should have a fridge and a pull-out bed installed in your desk, and if space would allow, a dresser, and ironing board and a closet. and something to hold the washing machine, too.

eh.

and i present: the desk at home. 

The Year that Was.

It's the second time i traveled with PF by plane. The first time was in 2007, when we went to Davao on a study tour for our graduate diploma in urban planning. We did flew back home together from Manila in January of 2009 after our son's uretroplasty, but that's just one way so it does not officially constitute travelling together--half-travelling, maybe, yes.

The flight to Cebu was early, 6:15 in the morning but the airport is just about 30mins from our apartment. A group of friends who left Iloilo City 3 days earlier were to meet us at the place of accommodation. ABD, CBD, and JV, formerly ABD's bff but now already CBD's.

"Very nice, cozy place. almost looking like a pub," ABD's text read.

Ooohh. Anything that has slight resemblance to beers or to places with beers is always good.

So at 4:30 am we left our wailing son with my father. Imagine: toothless 3 year old face soaked in tears wailing don't go don't go in hiligaynon; in his right hand a miniature Optimus Prime big truck, in his left hand a miniature Chevy Camaro that is Bumble Bee. The repeated storytelling cum reminder the night before about the trip that his parents is supposed to take the next day did not, errrr, work and the whole apartment unit was left to endure the wails of a 3 year old.

It broke PF's heart.

But we had to hurry up. it might be difficult to get a taxi and our airline is 99% unreliable to sticking to the flight schedule. I crossed my fingers that there will be no flight changes today so we can have a good day.

It turned out the airport officially opens at 5 am and we had to line up for 10 minutes with the rest of the punctual travellers at the airport lobby. It took the check in counter another 10 more minutes to prepare themselves for the passengers so basically we were able to get the boarding passes just 20 minutes prior to boarding time. On a grumpy day, i would probably hit the roof but i have been looking forward to and was excited for this trip so much that I amazingly remained in high spirits. Just the thought of the pub-looking hotel is enough.  

Not half hour after we've checked in the weirdly accented PA announcer informed that our flight is ready for boarding.

At least the plane was on time.

By 7:30 am we were sat at the porch of Florentina Pensionne, waiting for our room to be prepared. A sleepy ABD met us as we have our 1st instant coffee of the day. The street of the pension house was a quaint, quiet, homey street. reminds you of suburbs. And we are just across a bungalow that has been converted to a recording studio and some rtw workshop, which, sans the signs would look just like, well, any 80s bungalow. It was so quiet you wouldn't know there was a recording studio. It is very possible that the one-hit-wonder odong band recorded their, what else? The only hit and wonder single they had. 

We had our first picture taken while we waited for the coffee, courtesy of the very sleepy ABD. JV and CBD hung out in the porch with us. They ate their breakfast while a took my first picture of the day. CBD's and JV's picture with their breakfast things.

About 9:00 am we went up to our room, admiring the rustic feel of the house. Okay, it was fake rustic but it wasn't super fake rustic to turn me off. It was definitely backpacking type, but that's what i also prefer. We were on the 3^rd floor. CBD welcomed us with envy thinking our room had a veranda. But it was a fake veranda. I ended up sleeping the whole morning off while PF worked. And a quick lunch at Neo Neo. We tried looking for some local carinderia ala iloilo’s first kitchen but it was too hot at 1:30 pm and we were already hungry. So Neo Neo it is.

ABD came up and checked our room just before the sexy things could happen. Very nice, he said because we could see a lot more from where we were. He said our day will officially begin when we meet later at 6pm for an orange party. “Call time 3:30 pm,” he informed us through text. It was very unusual for me, more so for PF, to abide by “little” ka-ekratan rules. PF does not easily give into these inconvenience unless it cost him his pinky finger. Amazingly, he consented on the orange day and wore the orange shirt that he'd had on since we left Iloilo. He consented even if it made him so conspicuously a member of these Orange club. He's always had the repugnance towards things that are kulang sa pansin. A flock of orange-wearing-adults is not far from being KSP; you could say that.


We were at the porch at exactly 3:30pm, Philippine Standard Time. 

Maritess was in yellow. I hated the fact that she broke the rule. Not only did she break the rule but she was wearing my favorite channel’s shirt in the wrong color of the day. And she dyed her hair red. Short. The kind that hugs the scalp; the kind of hair that is so not like mine.

HMFFH. Whatevvvv. Yellow is not orange.

She took a drag of her cigarette looking our way, discreetly. She didn’t know I knew. She was looking our way. She was doing things so self-consciously. And the very self-conscious her blew the smoke away from us. We were waiting for ABD in the little porch. We didn’t know she was, and it is most probable she didn’t know we were. She took a drag of her cigarette again. I think she smoked menthol.

I liked her charcoal black fedora hat.

Still, yellow is not orange. It doesn't matter if I liked her hat.

Or what do i know? Maybe she is color blind?

Oh, Maritess, Maritess. Maritess is one character I didn’t know would somehow change my life forever. And she is not colorblind.

And ABD arrives. Grand entrance. In perfect orange. 

....to be continued.... (well, isn't it obvious?)

three conversations.

(and a lot of ramblings.)



"I'm five," Marian announces. She runs to the mattress on the floor and starts jumping like she would on a trampoline. "I'm five that's why i know more!"

Marian turned 5 last September 8.

"I'm four!" Gogol, for his part of attention-grabbing antics, screams.

"You're JUST four," Marian corrects him.

Marian shares the same birthday with everyone's mother. Funny, last September 8, everyone said it was their mother's birthday. What's even funnier is, all of their mothers are named Mary. Maybe Marian is like the little girl version of Mary, that's why Marian is Marian. Maybe she'll change her name to Mary when she gets older. Like adult older. My mom's birthday is on the 30th of November. She shares her birthdate with Andres Bonifacio, MY national hero. She was almost named Andrea but her father chose to name her after the 1956 Ms. Universe Winner Armi-something. Then changed it again to her present name. The national statistics office does not have her name on their record. she technically is still Armi-girl. Cool, she's like she's almost non-existent. cool.

"It's Mary, like Jesus-Joseph-and-Mary," Keith tells me, pulling a chair to his part of the dining table. "Why do we only have decaf here--"
"You mean Mary Mary? Christmas Mary?"
"Who else would i mean by jesus mary? Didn't the people on facebook tell you that?--remind me to get a non-decaf coffee later."
"I thought hers was December 8? 'Cause December 8 is Oton fiesta and they say it's 'cause it's a Mary day or something."
"December 8 is Immaculate Concepcion day. It's not her birthday. I thought you went to a catholic grade school?"
"You mean she conceived Jesus in December 8 and he instantly became a full term baby in less than 20 days?!"
"Now that you've said it--"
"I know why."
"This decaf is terrible."

"GIVE ME BACK MY PENCIL!!!!!!!" gogol screams at marian.

"I just have this great idea. Mary has actually been pregnant for months already and she just made announcement in December, 8th, to be specific, when her belly was too big to hide. You see this in jesus movies, they wear this one-piece dress that hides all the curves and bumps and all so a growing belly is easy to hide."
"And then?--CAREFUL WITH THE PENCIL!"
"And then she gave birth the 25th of December. Maybe Joseph was really the father. I don't know."
"Or maybe it was premature."
"It can't be premature or else jesus h. christ won't live to adulthood."
"I've never really thought of that. well..."
"Well, trust me. You've never been pregnant."



---------------------



I can't exactly remember who asked what or what was asked first but it was a little past 6 in the morning and we just got back from the island watchtower to photograph a sunrise that decided not to appear today. 10 meters from where we were seated, the blue-green water glistened. the tide was at the lowest of the low. i don't think we will have good time swimming today.


island survivor 1: do you put in coffee first before hot water or is it the other way around?

island survivor 2: first choice?

me: ideally, i think, it should be coffee first then hot water.

IS1: i have clumps of coffee at the bottom of my glass.

**peers at the coffee in her glass**
**swirls coffee**

me: oh, the water wasn't hot enough. maybe you should just keep on stirring it till the granules dissolve.

IS1: i like to drink my coffee cold, actually. i mean, i prepare it hot and wait for it to get cold before i drink it. like right now, i don't really mind if it's prepared lukewarm long as there are no clumps.

Keith: i like mine really hot. like boiling hot. then i take rapid sips.

IS2: i like mine prepared with really hot boiling water. they taste better, even when i take them cold. but they have to be prepared with fresh boiling water. that way they taste better.

IS1: i heard people say that. but is there really a difference?

IS2: yeah. yeah, i think so.

me: i can't tell. well, i always want mine prepared with freshly boiled water. if i see clumps i don't drink it.

Keith: i think the hot water somehow "cooks" the coffee.

IS1: good point. maybe that's what makes the difference--the coffee getting "cooked."

IS2: or maybe it's all in my mind.

me: maybe it's just in your mind.

IS2: you think so.

me: well, we can always assume that. i mean, how do you really know, right? you wouldn't. and because i can't really taste the difference. well, the clumps make the difference but i don't think that is taste-related.

IS2: yeah.

*****silence****

***somebody sips cold coffee****

me: let's go swimming.

IS2: great idea.



---------------


Me to Keith: "I'm going to cancel my meeting today."

then i go to the toilet.

Gogol, screaming: "YOU CAN'T HAVE CANCER! NANAY, WHY DO YOU HAVE CANCER?!"

next scene:

***speechless parents***

then.

keith: "it's CANCEL. 'EL' not 'ARR'.

Gogol: "but she went to the toilet!"

the explanation is, last night we watched an Innaritu film, BIUTIFUL. right when Javier Bardem's character was taking a piss (scene: bardem's back was at the camera but it was obvious that he was inside the toilet and that he was urinating), i muttered:

me: "he has cancer?"
keith: "oh shit."

next shot was of the toilet bowl, all red. bloody red. bardem's character was pissing blood.

me: "he really has cancer."

bardem's character groans. flushes the red piss (gurgling sound of flushing plays as he opens the door).

keith: "kidney?"
me: "maybe prostate or something. oh god. this is just sad. he's gonna die."

gogol, half awake: "who has cancer?"

keith: "go back to sleep."



-------------







postscript.


and empty conversations we need sometimes. and sometimes we also need to stop talking about ourselves. like in taking pictures, there really isn't a need to explain what we took. there really isn't a need to explain how much of a good picture-taker you are, especially if nobody asks for the explanation. i learned that silence is more powerful. alfredo always tells me: show not tell. because that way, you respect your audience's intellect. i am also still learning how to do it. show not tell.

sigwa the movie is terrible. show not tell. i know what happened. i read it in papers. my father also tells me the reality behind the real real of that decade. of that year. show not tell.




--------------

photo credits: Miriam Yu and Jomarie Macairan. 

screaming sun.

i have nothing to post today. i have like 3 drafts saved here though. i have nothing to post today.
so i am posting this.

it endlessly features the cover of Teenage Fanclub's Grand Prix album. the only teenage fanclub album i ever had. on cassette tape. It's a acoustic radio session of the song "Don't look back." "I'd steal a car to drive you home," a line said. It's pretty romantic if it's said to you and you're still in high school. It's tedious and a tad loser when said now, like the me now, 30 something me now. but i love this song and i can;t really help my fondness for this geeky scots. like keith said, their songs sound wonderfully wet, like a stereotyped scottish landscape, even if they're played on really hot summer days.


and there's this screaming sun outside my window.

in 30 seconds, it''s gone.

like this.

it screamed like that. and left. hurriedly.

suns sure are jokers.

ehe.

It's been two weeks since i was without a kid. It was good to have the bed to myself without little fists and little legs kicking my boobs and my hard-rock abs in the middle night.

and tomorrow my friends and i will go to taklong island. it's been 8 or so years since i last went there. actually, it must have been a decade since i went to anything that's not "manicured" and i think i've forgotten how to camp. i've forgotten camp and packing rules. Since i had the baby i learned to overpack and i get crazy when i go to places with my kid and not have extra towel extra shirt, extra briefs extra pants for him.

i finally fixed my weekday schedule and have found devotion for yoga on wednesday afternoons. I'm almost okay with my balance doing tree pose. hopefully i will be more graceful and more fluid in time. My hard rock abs are kinda sore but nor hurting sore, more like happy hurting sore. i like it. actually, i like it more than i liked running. i woke up today and did some breathing (which i now learn to do properly) and 2 repetitions of tree pose, just to check how i'm doing with my balance. i'm getting there.

bye.

i'm going for coffee with a couple of boy friends. and go to art cum coffee shop cafe later with alfie.

i'll write about my weekend at the hot spring once i get the digital pictures in.

why we do what we do.

I notice, it's almost become a pattern. Whenever we send the kid to my parent's, Keith and I would nurse our misery with books. Last night was no difference. Manila has again asked our nanny to come to her arms. For the nth time, my love-hate relationship with Manila was reborn. I hate you, Manila.

Rooftops.
(Kodak ProImage 100 and Minolta srt-101, 58mm)

We don't know anything better than to nurse our heartbreaks and the missed feelings with trips to bookstores. I remember leaving a then 33-month old kid to Keith for a conference in a lonely, sugarcane-farming, laid-back, rustic city. I ended up hoarding the architecture books in the only mall (and amazingly with a bookstore) of that place. It didn't surprise me when he asked to come by bookstore while i was preparing to leave the office just as the dusk settled. He wanted to see if the book Transparent Plastics was still available. He was set on buying it, expensive as it is (to our second-hand book standard). As the locks latched, he wondered aloud if the kid and his grandparents have reached home.

we bought the book.

and had dinner at a local pizza shop.

since we were in no hurry to go home, "We should take a few shots of General Luna at night," Keith suggested, excited. Exciting.

empty skywalk.
(Kodak ProImage 100 and Minolta srt-101, 58mm)

and so, the General Luna walkathon stretched to Forbes Bridge. Forbes Bridge stretched to Luna St., near the St. Clement's church because Keith wanted to shoot an architect's house. Then St. Clement's stretched all the way to West Visayas State University, and i so badly wanted to pee, so we decided to drop by McDonald's so I could use the toilet and because i am a good girl, I bought drinks in exchange for toilet use. Slurping the coke float, we agreed towalk the rest of the way home since we are already in Jaro (as McDonald's lies near the district boundary of Lapaz and Jaro).

"In our usual pace, I'm estimating about 30 minutes walk," Keith said. And slurped the rest of the choco sundae and vanilla ice cream floating in P20.00 worth of ice and watery coke.

And he was almost right. in more or less 30 minutes, minus the pauses to take pictures, we reached our house. He finished his roll of 36 frames in less than 24 hours. we made plans to have them processed the next day, but where to? We agreed on the friendly service of Charms (along Iznart Street), and the 36 shots Kodak ProImage 100 free films.

"But we will have everything printed."
"Everything, including underexposed ones?" I asked.
"Including underexposed ones."
"Even if they're all black?"
"Even if they're all black," he nodded.

Skywalk near DOT, Iloilo City
(Kodak ProImage, minolt srt-101, 58mm)

The walk was energizing.


------

My father shakes his head and laughs at us. The way he shook his head and mocked me when I told him i wanted a degree in Arts. Film is a waste of money, and you will never get rich that way. All photographers now have converted to digital, and then wedding photography. that's the way to do it, he says.

I will never do wedding photography because weddings are against my religion.

Cinema Exmundo.
(Kodak ProImage 100, minolta srt 101, 58mm)

------

"She drifts from one job to another. That's what she always does," an overheard description of me. But I am a Sagittarius and you're a bored coward. Big difference.

Lozano Hall, University of the Philippines Visayas
(Kodak ProImage 100, minolta srt-101, 58mm)

------

MY armpits sweat inside the humid air of Charms. The developing lady told me i will get 1 free roll of Kodak ProImage for every roll of film i send for processing. Kodak ProImage has been phased out. The free rolls they are giving me will expire in 2012. 2013 will be the year to shoot expired films, then.

Demolition near Jaro Plaza
(Kodak ProImage 100 and Minolta srt-101, 58mm)

We're thinking of building a dark room when we get a permanent place.

It's gonna be good. It will make us feel better. We're going to have a good time.

and then.

and then?

and then, that's it. You don't have to explain good time.






Fin.

me and my ninjas.

Apparently, this blog has turned into an update-on-me blog as i have lost my creative juices, and that really good film scanner remains to be inaccessible--meaning, just to darn expensive and unavailable in my part of the world.

what i am doing as of now is eating peanut butter on a soda cracker for dinner, with three architects inside a room on a climax of a bombastic renovation. these three architects are friends. they have not yet reached the bankability of starchitects, and i doubt they will ever do. one of them has a hole in his pants right where the edge of his front pocket ends and we told him it looks like his balls are dangling out, especially with the a mobile phone in it. One them is my husband who has rhinitis and can't stay too long inside a dusty construction site. he doesn't want to be a starchitect. although i think he dreams of getting a pritzker. he's hanging around because i asked him to and because the architect i contracted for this renovation is his friend.

(do not ask me why i didn't ask him to do it. i'm very particular about "ethics".)

there's a beautiful early night city scene outside and it's just too bad i didn't bring my camera today. in fact, none of us brought a camera today. and i am supposed to love picture-taking at night.

the room is gonna smell of turpentine, or paint thinner, or something really awfully synthetically chemical. tomorrow. so i won't be coming here tomorrow. and torn-pants-dangling-stuff architect said there's gonna be a lot of dust everywhere. tomorrow. "So it's better if you don't come here."

we just had beer with somebody i mistook for a butch that my husband said was actually male who dresses like a butch. "Is he married?" I asked. "No," husband replied. "He must be really gay," I said again. And husband laughed. I can be that accurate in describing scenes.

...

have to pack up. we're going home.

yawning ninja.

Architecture and Buwan ng Wika...and whatnots.

John Lautner, i know. Keith has mentioned his name before but Enric Miralles, no. Enric Miralles is supposed to be a spanish architect who's said to have designed one of the superb-looking cemeteries ever, and since this i DIDN'T know (him or any of his works), Keith was compelled to give me a 10-minute lecture the Igualada Cemetery (where he was also buried after he died of brain cancer at age 45) as example.


Lautner and Miralles came about because of this ilonggo house, which Keith said appears to have Lautner and Miralles elements on it, not to mention Le Corbusier's. (The house is really amazing, i hope you are able to access the link.)

Incidentally the mini-lecture led us to this picture of the Igualada cemetery detail. I hope you view the bigger version of the picture so you will get what i mean.

view it bigger here.

"Sobrang ganda! idol! 2004."

Had he wrote it in english, we wouldn't have known that a filipino has seen and has been to -- and actually loves -- this amazing architecture. and august happens to be Buwan ng Wika. So, happy buwan ng wika to all Filipinos out there!

-------

keith proceeded to tell me about gabion walls (can be seen in Igualada cemetery), which prompted us to discuss our concept for my granmother's tomb. he finally got what i mean when i said that i want grandma's tomb to look like it's encased/enveloped in stars at night. or like it's radiating light or floating among the stars.
something like that.

i wish i knew how to draft. or sketch things.


-------

My kid is almost 5 and he refuses to write his name still, more-so go to a "real" school. he's been enrolled to a play school for the last 3 years. I recently bought him a Grade 1 (for 1st grade) pad paper hoping to inspire him to put aside his dream of becoming a fine arts student majoring in Trucks and Heavy Equipment sketching, and start writing alphabets. It didn't go as well but so far, he has shown interest in writing the first letter of his name. 

Tonight, in the middle of Keith's mini-lecture, he prodded us to help him draw a MIXER (yes, the heavy truck, heavy equipment massive concrete mixer truck) until it was too much to handle. Keith convinces him to believe that anything he draws, no matter how they remotely resemble what he [the kid] has in mind, is ART and ART is always beautiful, even when ugly. Our household's definition of art is not based on Imelda Marcos' definition, anyway. For a while he believed us and worked on his own. And since we said that anything he CREATES  is art, he asked if he could borrow his tatay's dry seal. permission was granted. then he asked if it's art if he dry sealed his pad. permission was granted and we convinced him it is art. and he believed us. (and maybe smiled sheepily while dry sealing.)

"Nanay, is it art if i drew on our floor?"

To which his Tatay replied, "Of course it is art! but we will have trouble cleaning that." and hence, no permission was granted. 

kids. Really.

-----

List of films that i've tried so far:

1. ykl fujicolor 100 -- cheapest so far
2. kodak gold 100 (colored)
3. kodak colorplus 200 (colored) -- will see what difference it has with 100.
4. kodak cn400 (black and white) -- didn't get to see the results since the processing said all the frames were "EXPOSED". one of these days i will post a picture of the actual almost unprocessed-looking film roll that they returned to me.

2 of my films rolls came back with most of the first half of the roll underexposed. i'm still trying to see if it's a camera problem, a film or a technique problem. And also because, processing people and printing centers ALWAYS assume that an underexposed frame = bad photograph. one processing center decided to throw the negatives of the underexposed frames to the can. luckily i was able to ask them in time for the developing lady to retrieve them before they got covered in more trash. Again, i amazed the developing lady by my interest in things that are not valuable and she gave me a fresh roll of kodak pro image 100 film. it's now in my fridge along with the 3 other kodak gold 100s that i keep as reserve. i am gradually adding to my number of film stocks because Keith has recently acquired his own film camera in the object of minolta x700.

i'm almost done with the kodak colorplus 200 roll. will post pictures soon.



---


end.

and again.

Yeah.

as you all know i've left the island. i'm all done with the rasta life and had gone back to being an urbanite.

i'm also now engage in a different project, which i apparently enjoy notice my lack of posts lately), though i  kinda miss the action that i get in things transport planning.

this week keith and i will start on our yoga sessions. i've decided to quit TRYING to return to running and do something else. i've had the 8 years to enjoy running, anyway and it is probably time to venture into something new, something that my body and my age would easily relate to. yeah, like yoga.

No, actually, i would love to return to running but i've been having health issues that i'm not sure would really agree with the demands of running. for one, i've had fainting spells after my "recent" runs (2 runs--months ago-- to be exact). the latest of the 2 was a lot worse than the first and i knew it was time to listen to what my body has been trying to tell me. getting a running partner is one option but the "runners" at home have different work schedule, and keith, who was once my running partner (yeah, like 6 years ago), cannot run anymore. he has a leg condition, a broken-and-re-attached-by-a-rod femur condition (if you care), that prohibits him from doing strenuous exercises like running. actually, it's not an issue of a broken bone but after coming out from that accident, his left leg became about half inch shorter than the right. you can just imagine what running would do to the joints of his uneven legs when he gets older.

so yoga, it is.

again, on sunday, keith and i will start our yoga session in the house cum office of this vegetarian organization that is located almost 2 blocks from our place. keith personally asked for this yoga session; i didn't talk him into it. and i am glad he "volunteered" to do it this time.

and the developing shop TOTALLY destroyed my 1 roll of 36 frames exposed black and white film (kodak bw cn400). one of these days i am going to make a list of all legit film developing shops in the city and rank them from best to worst. the worst so far is the KODAK SHOP right in the corner of iznart-yulo street. film processing takes more or less 8 hours and yeah, they totally destroyed my kodak black and white film. said it was EXPOSED. of course it was exposed! that's how you take pictures--you get your film exposed. when i asked why the film was returned WITHOUT the frame numbers the developer guy said: "it was our first time to develop a black and white film."

Dang.

and you HAVE to work in a film developing shop.

(that answers the lack of photo posts lately--if ever you wondered.)

Mother Studies (# 0.1): Freedom

and what it truly means.

I contemplated on not going to college because I wanted to be free. At 16, I wanted to get a job so I can leave the house and live away from the noise, the rules, the endless criticisms and guilt of being a dependent in my parent’s household. My teenage confusion and my parents’ conventional, small town ideas did not really mix well.

But I didn’t and had thoughts of suicide. For peace of mind.

Then I had a kid and got married, got myself a job that pays the rent and I started, though gradually, embracing the thought of actually leading my own life. I’ve always thought that money—a stable flow of money—is all that it takes to get a life.

I’ve got a place that I do not have the right to anything. I cannot even decide who should live in it. Or what my mother should or should not put in it. my mother turns it into a warehouse and I am not supposed to complain about how her garbage takes up so much living space and how it encourages the rats and cockroach to breed twice as much as they ordinarily would, because that would make me a very difficult, unsupportive daughter. And having to live with my mother’s garbage is not even enough to repay all the money she spent on me. In a Filipino family, only a daughter’s life can pay for all the hardships her parents went through raising her. I never knew how true it was until this time. There are days when I feel it’s too late. I’m done. I’ll forever be my mother’s slave.

Buying a house of my own is one possible option I was given, but it came with a condition that the house must be big enough to accommodate my mother, my father, my unmarried siblings and my mother’s garbage. And my own family. Or I can just tell my kid and my husband to get a tent and camp at the garage. It would be a decade more before I could afford something spacious enough to fit all those. Because if I get anything less I become an ungrateful daughter who prefer to abandon her parents and siblings in need. Honestly, a nagging, screaming mother is the last thing anybody in the world wants.

And because as family, my mother said, we have to stick together until death.

What if my husband’s parents demand the same? What do i do? Cut myself in half? Lengthwise or transverse-wise? I wonder.

I’ve got a son I can’t even help plan a future on. HELP PLAN, take note, NOT DECIDE. I think it is the saddest and most tragic thing an old parent could do to a daughter with a family of her own—decide on his/her grandkid’s future on his/her own. Or concluding on her/his own that she/he has a better way of raising her/his grandkid. It is even more tragic if the grandparent was treated the same way by her/his own mother or in-laws years before.

I guess history really does love to repeat itself. It’s like it has a default factory defect. Whatever factory produces this history repeater should start closing down, otherwise it will just repeat one mistake after another. Imagine having a history gattling gun. Could you?

I planned on ending this family tradition in my time and give my kid the freedom that he deserves because I DO NOT OWN HIM. and so should ALL parents to their kid.

But how could I give? I do not even have it.

while you were out...

i left the island and went partying in the city.

yeah. island life is exciting but it tends to get monotonous and bland after a while. 

and i've used up my stay. 

on my 7th day in my new work and new office, the sun was amazing. i thought i finally found a good scene to get a picture of. and i was without a camera. so i brought it the next day. and the next and the next, but all that the sky gave me was a muted sun. 

bleh.

Our Tuesday Night Music Club.

Last night was Alfredogs night, to 4 of us, at least, because the other two travel-happy ones are again out on the road (rather on a plane) to HongKong.

ABD brought along a handful of high school kids and for a while i was happy to see myself in them from 15 years ago. When Keith arrived, i kidded them kids that they'll look exactly like Keith does 15 years from now. I am not sure if the thought horrified them considering that Keith had longish hair and clearly didn't look like anybody doing serious office work. Meanwhile, i looked like a lady pastor, in my skirt and flats, lacking only one heavyweight bible to complete the whole Lady Pastor fashion. Maritess (PSD) was in suspenders and her bangs unevenly cut.

I'm taking back what i said earlier. I'm now sure the kids were horrified. When they get home, each one of them would be swearing he doesn't want to see himself degrade into something like "us" come 15 years.

But ABD kept them happy in mocha and strawberry shakes, and sizzling spicy sausage and mushrooms. (what the hell was i saying here!?) And sent them home about 30 minutes past the agreed send off time. What can we do? The kids were enjoying the reggae band.

I told them to leave early so we can start talking dirty, adult things. And flashed a smile.

Some frustrated Crazy for You singer (may i correct myself: sessionist. Yap, she was JUST a sessionist) thought she was great on stage but the "I see you in the smoking air" did not work. Apparently. We gave half smiles. Frustrated Lady Sessionist (FLS) started calling out for song requests and when no one asked, she chatted with the guitarist as if they were good friends who just bumped into each other on the side and decided to have a small chat. Then when that didn't work, too, because the singer/guitarist didn't want to have small talk on stage, FLS started answering text messages on stage.

Singers who can't tell that something is very very wrong with "I see you in the smoking air" should be put to jail.

And it was a reggae band, for chrissakes. Grow some brain.

Meanwhile, in the next 3 hours i would be continuously blinded by camera flashes from the group of students who thought last night was the best night to take night out photos for facebook. Beeeh. But you could say i was just jealous because my elvis presley camera did not come with a free blinding flash. Whatever. Keith took his camera out and started taking pictures of the candle on our table. Slightly annoyed, i nagged him about wasting precious frames. But my voice was obviously overpowered by the crowd’s and the band’s, and because our Tuesday Night Music Club venue has terrible acoustics.

Then I requested for Santeria because I can’t remember “What I Got’s” title. Today I searched the internet and found “What I Got” in youtube in less than 5 seconds.

“Very violent song,” Keith told me.

“Tell me that again,” I said. Santeria is really a murderer’s song neatly package in beach-y beats.

We clapped. The band sang some Tropical Depression’s, a Yano song (the singer pronounced Ya-no ‘Yuh nuh’; I heard it “anna”) and some Jason Mraz that the audience—excluding us—requested. They played covers really well. The other guitarist (Keith said is the son of the local luthier) is even better and plays a 7-stringed guitar. They all look like they do not have day jobs but seemed happy.

It’s a good thing.

I took a picture of them, on a 50-second exposure. I hope it turns out well.

Keith took a picture of ABD. His camera, manufactured in Bagets era, is a girl version of my Elvis Presley. I also took a picture of ABD and PSD from the opposite side of the table. I also hope it turns out well.

"'It has been taken CARE of', is the correct form," ABD lectured. Yes, we have random grammar lectures every now and then. It just pops unexpectedly in the conversation but nobody in the group is a self-proclaimed grammarian. It's just the way things go. With us.

Grammar happens.

Keith and I found ourselves playing charade in the middle of a noisy bar.

“I enjoy both of you. You easily amuse each other,” ABD said just as I guessed the word “eagle”.

Keith, by the way, is the terrible-st charade player ever. I don't want him to be my charade partner again.

At half past midnight, we went home intoxicated from/with/in (???) laughter.

Photo post: Morning Shots

Here's the recent addition to the photo post list.

Most of the photos here were taken in Iloilo City, except for a handful that i took in other places.

I'm using a normal lens (58 mm) and ISO 100 colored films. No flash.  I still hope to be able to use a black and white film someday but as of the moment, i do not have access to a b &w film that can be processed using the c41. there is someplace i can get a b & w (fuji neopan) but it's processed using the d76. As far as i know, c41 is the only way most developing centers here process films.

but i am not complaining. just looking forward to the day i'd finally shoot in black and white.

Yulo Street, Iloilo City in the morning.

Quirino Bridge, Iloilo City.
This bridge leads to Lapuz and Barrio Obrero, Lapaz.
The shadow belongs to my friend who took morning shots with me.

Arroyo Street, Iloilo City.

View of the grain silos from Muelle Loney Street, Iloilo City.

Forbes Bridge, Iloilo City
(It connects the "island" city to the main Panay Island.)

a modern building at Bonifacio Drive, Iloilo City.
(One of the buildings in the City that i like.)

Another view.

Former Iloilo Rehabilitation Center (IRC). 

Guimaras Museum.

Masonry of the crumbling old Spanish building that once housed the United Distillers.

Window space, abandoned architecture.

  

Gaisano City, Iloilo City.

Abandoned architecture.

Abandoned but drawn on architecture.

Wall. Abandoned architecture.

Boyz in the hood.

  

Husband and wife.

man portrait.

Man portrait.

Teen portrait.

 They were hungry. They looked very hungry. It was not good for us to come there and took their pictures but they wanted us to photograph them, and i still feel guilty for having somehow exploited their poverty for a "good photograph". 

We thanked them, gave some small change for coffee and left hurriedly.

Telloy.
He cuts my father in-law's hair, my husband's and now, my  son's.
Then one day, at work, my female boss told me she'd be out early for a haircut.
"Who does your hair?" I curiously asked her.
"Oh, the neighborhood hair-cutter Telloy. It's where the old (not to mean age-related) Ilonggos have their hair cut."

Waway.
He drives a sikad (pedicab).

Chris.

The three stooges.

Boat men.
They willingly let me into their parked boat so i could take a picture of the water taxis.
I am still not comfortable taking pictures of strangers but they requested that i take their picture.
I think they expected to view the shot after but i told them i'm on film. 

Telloy in his shop.

Water taxis.

VIrginia Bridge, Guimbal.

I dedicated some 20 slides for that morning's picture-taking. On my way home, i again took the very back seat in the van expecting to get a better picture of the Virginia Bridge. 

And i did. 

FIN.