This news is just fresh from reading my e-mails. My "article" Sentimental Yakking has just been published by Read Magazine. As a gift, besides being featured by this magazine I admire because it is published by Powerbooks (my pseudo-private own library where I read for free countless of books, especially of Jack Kerouac and Italo Calvino), I will receive the book Front Row by Anna Wintour and a complimentary copy of the issue.
Wow!! It's just like winning an award. And that persistent urging in my head to continue writing because you have what it takes to write is never been louder than before.
Yipeeeee!!!
YuriGligoric will run immediately to the nearest Powerbook branch and gonna ogle seeing my "article" hugging a space of the Read magazine.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Eulogy for Saint Caloy
The last time I heard about the indefatigable freelance photographer Carlos Sanchez was several years ago. He was featured on prime-time news and an anchorman slash reporter held a microphone before him, getting a statement from him. Caloy sat on a hospital bed, thinner as a skeleton that he was and strands of his unkempt long hair stuck on his gaunt countenance. He spoke at the microphone in low gnarl voice, making a plea for financial help from his colleagues in the media. He was battling tuberculosis, which by then seemed at its advance stage.
But this was not the worse that Caloy had to deal with. It was being forced physically from doing what he loved best: capturing through the lens of his camera the political and crime drama unfolding everyday in the metropolis. Inspite of being confined on his hospital bed, he passionately expressed his impatience to get back to work, to bolt out, to rush to where another scoop is happening in the city, click the shutter of his reliable camera and produce, once again, the next day’s front-page photo.
That was the last time that I heard of him, until a couple of days ago when somebody informed me that he would and could never again use his camera. His camera had retired, finally. Because Caloy Sanchez had passed away already several years ago (he probably succumbed to TB).
I got a close-up look at the man when I did my practicum at WPD. Quickly, an impression formed in my young mind, something that I could not name then but only now. Though my arrogant practicum handler seemed to see differently since he would diss in passing Caloy, as if here a pesky beggar, a useless dreg in the press corps loitering in the corridors of the WPD. Well, Caloy indeed looked like a beggar with his disheveled hair, unshaved face, and with an outfit of soiled, worn-out clothes.
He would usually sit quietly on the floor, unmindful of everybody, just starring with his saintly stare at nothingness. His style of sitting showed his idiosyncrasy and rarity as a media man; he sat on the floor as if he were about to shit – this is the squat that became his trademark.
Though, whenever I would look at him, I knew that his dedication and passion toward his work, his vocation, was of a saintly embodiment of personal integrity, which I can compare and comparable with that of Haydee Yorac.
This saintly infectious persona he exuded – I spotted it right away and could not help myself grin with the view – when it would manifest on how the guys in my group would sit Caloy-style on the corridors of WPD, stare at nothingness, unmindful of those god-damned ordinary, no-good cops passing by, as if silently saying in cool, haughtiness: Damn, we’re gonna grow up like Saint Caloy.
Caloy had a collage of photos showing him, camera dangling around his neck, in black blazers, side by side with top political honchos whom he had chanced to cover and meet. These were displayed right next at the door of the office of the press corps. Caloy, like a boy who had met the big boys populating the highest strata of political stratosphere, was proud in his achievement of meeting and recording in photos the political hotshots he met.
But I think, it should be the other way around. These top politicos should be the one who should feel proud of having their photos taken and meeting the saintly hoodlum-looking Caloy.
The impression of saint Caloy which I could only name now: another damned crazy diamond who knew how to swim.
Wherever you are now, Saint Caloy, saludo ko sa yo, ‘tol! A well done job; and finally, your camera can have its much needed rest.
Rest in Peace, Saint Caloy.
But this was not the worse that Caloy had to deal with. It was being forced physically from doing what he loved best: capturing through the lens of his camera the political and crime drama unfolding everyday in the metropolis. Inspite of being confined on his hospital bed, he passionately expressed his impatience to get back to work, to bolt out, to rush to where another scoop is happening in the city, click the shutter of his reliable camera and produce, once again, the next day’s front-page photo.
That was the last time that I heard of him, until a couple of days ago when somebody informed me that he would and could never again use his camera. His camera had retired, finally. Because Caloy Sanchez had passed away already several years ago (he probably succumbed to TB).
I got a close-up look at the man when I did my practicum at WPD. Quickly, an impression formed in my young mind, something that I could not name then but only now. Though my arrogant practicum handler seemed to see differently since he would diss in passing Caloy, as if here a pesky beggar, a useless dreg in the press corps loitering in the corridors of the WPD. Well, Caloy indeed looked like a beggar with his disheveled hair, unshaved face, and with an outfit of soiled, worn-out clothes.
He would usually sit quietly on the floor, unmindful of everybody, just starring with his saintly stare at nothingness. His style of sitting showed his idiosyncrasy and rarity as a media man; he sat on the floor as if he were about to shit – this is the squat that became his trademark.
Though, whenever I would look at him, I knew that his dedication and passion toward his work, his vocation, was of a saintly embodiment of personal integrity, which I can compare and comparable with that of Haydee Yorac.
This saintly infectious persona he exuded – I spotted it right away and could not help myself grin with the view – when it would manifest on how the guys in my group would sit Caloy-style on the corridors of WPD, stare at nothingness, unmindful of those god-damned ordinary, no-good cops passing by, as if silently saying in cool, haughtiness: Damn, we’re gonna grow up like Saint Caloy.
Caloy had a collage of photos showing him, camera dangling around his neck, in black blazers, side by side with top political honchos whom he had chanced to cover and meet. These were displayed right next at the door of the office of the press corps. Caloy, like a boy who had met the big boys populating the highest strata of political stratosphere, was proud in his achievement of meeting and recording in photos the political hotshots he met.
But I think, it should be the other way around. These top politicos should be the one who should feel proud of having their photos taken and meeting the saintly hoodlum-looking Caloy.
The impression of saint Caloy which I could only name now: another damned crazy diamond who knew how to swim.
Wherever you are now, Saint Caloy, saludo ko sa yo, ‘tol! A well done job; and finally, your camera can have its much needed rest.
Rest in Peace, Saint Caloy.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Found It
After a long time of not-searching yet searching, I already found I have been preparing for since I started writing. Probably it will take me two years just to make a draft of the project. But it is already definite. It hit like a thunderbolt, and hit me really hard.
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