Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Friday, March 03, 2006
Remembering Now: The Story
The last deal which made his mind writhed in silent agony over how to make the best of three number pairs had had an overwhelming unbearable weight on his shoulders – considering his bet was what remained of his hundred pesos – that when he got home and upon entering the front door the first urge for him to do was slump on the sofa. Laying his body on it, his back felt strained and fatigued, and wearily stared his eyes at the ceiling.
He had lost before. More in fact. More than a hundred pesos. Though surprisingly, this time had a similar bitter pang of losing several thousands. Or, perhaps, even more.
“There’s still a next time,” he tried to console himself.
He felt the stereo’s remote dig behind his ribs. He groped for it and turned the stereo. All the time exhaling with bass moan, unloading the pressure within him and trying to slow down the adrenalin left in his veins.
“Turn the sounds low, Ignacio,” a female voice commanded from inside a room and added, “You took so long. Just put the milk on the table.”
He turned the volume low. Just enough for the music from the radio station wafted smoothly through the air.
A love song seeped through the speakers. The song made popular years ago by a female artist whom Ignacio could not recall the name. He could not also recall whether he was in his puberty or late in his teens when the song first hit the airwaves. The song was a sad one, but he was clueless why it was so since he was not particular on listening to the lyrics. He just knew the song was a sad one based on the melody.
The volume and the song fit perfectly well. There lingered a grace of ethereal fluid of nostalgia in the air. The soft wisp of cool, music-laden air brought tingling in his skin. He began the pressure within him disappeared. His limbs relaxed. As if he was hypnotized. Though, there stayed deep weariness in him. His eyes squinted sleepily.
He looked at his arm, hand, then the fingers. He softly scanned his prostrate body on the sofa, down further at the couch next to it. Then he moved his eyes toward the barren crass white-painted wall of the house.
He felt an odd nostalgia. It was as if he had been here, in this position, in this same time and place feeling the same experience. It was as if he had already gone to an unspecific time in the future where he was at peace. He was there now as he was now here, on this sofa he was laying on. He was looking back enigmatically at this present time. Like thrown back through time, he was experiencing and feeling a past, a memory: the mood, the atmosphere, the soft touch of air. His present experience seen not from the state of Now but of the future.
Then the feeling snapped like a cut rope. It was gone.
The music stopped.
“Where is the milk?” asked the woman clutching a baby.
“Uh?”
“Where’s the damned milk?”
“Oh, I forgot. I’ll go buy it now, hon,” he said.
Ignacio pulled himself up, dazed, and strode for the door. Once outside, he brushed his hair using his hand, wondering what it was he had remembered a while ago.
He had lost before. More in fact. More than a hundred pesos. Though surprisingly, this time had a similar bitter pang of losing several thousands. Or, perhaps, even more.
“There’s still a next time,” he tried to console himself.
He felt the stereo’s remote dig behind his ribs. He groped for it and turned the stereo. All the time exhaling with bass moan, unloading the pressure within him and trying to slow down the adrenalin left in his veins.
“Turn the sounds low, Ignacio,” a female voice commanded from inside a room and added, “You took so long. Just put the milk on the table.”
He turned the volume low. Just enough for the music from the radio station wafted smoothly through the air.
A love song seeped through the speakers. The song made popular years ago by a female artist whom Ignacio could not recall the name. He could not also recall whether he was in his puberty or late in his teens when the song first hit the airwaves. The song was a sad one, but he was clueless why it was so since he was not particular on listening to the lyrics. He just knew the song was a sad one based on the melody.
The volume and the song fit perfectly well. There lingered a grace of ethereal fluid of nostalgia in the air. The soft wisp of cool, music-laden air brought tingling in his skin. He began the pressure within him disappeared. His limbs relaxed. As if he was hypnotized. Though, there stayed deep weariness in him. His eyes squinted sleepily.
He looked at his arm, hand, then the fingers. He softly scanned his prostrate body on the sofa, down further at the couch next to it. Then he moved his eyes toward the barren crass white-painted wall of the house.
He felt an odd nostalgia. It was as if he had been here, in this position, in this same time and place feeling the same experience. It was as if he had already gone to an unspecific time in the future where he was at peace. He was there now as he was now here, on this sofa he was laying on. He was looking back enigmatically at this present time. Like thrown back through time, he was experiencing and feeling a past, a memory: the mood, the atmosphere, the soft touch of air. His present experience seen not from the state of Now but of the future.
Then the feeling snapped like a cut rope. It was gone.
The music stopped.
“Where is the milk?” asked the woman clutching a baby.
“Uh?”
“Where’s the damned milk?”
“Oh, I forgot. I’ll go buy it now, hon,” he said.
Ignacio pulled himself up, dazed, and strode for the door. Once outside, he brushed his hair using his hand, wondering what it was he had remembered a while ago.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Drat! I've Just Been Published by Read Magazine
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Some Fine Lessons
Lesson No. 1 -- A college degree, even if he/she earned a masteral, does not equate a person into an educated one. Formal education only teaches a specific field, nothing more. And sometimes, one's understanding of the world that can be compared with the wisdom of a mystic/sage, to this person is almost nil.
Lesson No. 2 -- Being put in the position of a leader does not guarantee a leadership quality whose main goal is to understand and bring out the best in every member of his group. A shallow understanding of leadership is forming a clique in the group (when this is the goal of the leader he/she obviously is afraid to stand alone on the top, fearful of relative height, of being misunderstood. The tool he/she uses to get the job or the goal right is through PR and camaraderie, which unfortunately has the downside of hesitating to get his/her members hurt or bruised. But, unknown to him/her, the function of letting the members of the group get bruised and beaten, is making them tough in pursuit of excellence.
Lesson No. 3 -- People always treat everything personally. And when you treat everything personally, you learn to hold grudge, blur the capacity for objective judgment.
Lesson No. 4 -- Those who avoid threshing out misunderstanding through talks, open communication are usually those who are afraid to expand their understanding.
Lesson No. 2 -- Being put in the position of a leader does not guarantee a leadership quality whose main goal is to understand and bring out the best in every member of his group. A shallow understanding of leadership is forming a clique in the group (when this is the goal of the leader he/she obviously is afraid to stand alone on the top, fearful of relative height, of being misunderstood. The tool he/she uses to get the job or the goal right is through PR and camaraderie, which unfortunately has the downside of hesitating to get his/her members hurt or bruised. But, unknown to him/her, the function of letting the members of the group get bruised and beaten, is making them tough in pursuit of excellence.
Lesson No. 3 -- People always treat everything personally. And when you treat everything personally, you learn to hold grudge, blur the capacity for objective judgment.
Lesson No. 4 -- Those who avoid threshing out misunderstanding through talks, open communication are usually those who are afraid to expand their understanding.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Vignettes
What else could we do then? Laugh our stupid laugh at our own stupidity. Mike had you by playing with your paranoia. “There’s cops outside!” Lights and the tube quickly turned off to shut down the universe. You felt for the cold floor, scrawling like a marine, ordering panickly Mike to do the same who then at that time was grinning, trying not to squiek a guffaw as you peer endlessly and moved furtively in the dark, through the stairs onto the second landing. The rest of the group had a good laugh when we heard the story, story that we really didn’t understand then. We didn’t know better. We were playing with your battered soul.
*
We had just inhaled the rolling white universe, when you stood up, firm or was there that perennial smirk in your lips. Trouble, we knew. Let it go. “Just let it pass,” Eric tried to calm you down. But, as I said, you were firm. You walked out of the gate into the darkness. Eric, Mike and I stared at each other. You madman. Mad that you probably would have wanted to die. “Stop him!” someone from us yelled. What did you do then? As you approached the dark small wooden bridge into the squatter area, seeing Balbon, you tapped him from behind. The moment he turned his face, your fist greeted him. He staggered for balance, as you, smirking that madman smirk, turned around for the kick, your foot landed on his guts. He thrown against the empty water containers in the corner, and the women started yelling, calling the tanods. There is no such thing as the wrath of man with talisman running in his blood, you thought. But you failed to think that Balbon had an evil twin, lurking in the darkness, and quickly the shadow bearhugged you. Drat! You could not move, as Balbon gained his footing, and shadow dancing in the dark, aiming for straights and hooks and uppercuts. Trying to parry and wiggle yourself free, the three of you had the curacha dance. Swirling, gravity pulled the shadow and you on the ground, and you saw (yes, you said you smirk this time) the creek a foot from you and you planned to maneuvered by a quick veer to the right, when Kapowwww!!! A kick broke your ribs and sending you, rolling in a quick plummet down the mud of the creek. Caked by shit and putrid soil, you saw above, a toilet bowl hanging in the air against the sky, then a woman’s voice crying loud: Wag! Maawa kayo! The pang of Death suddenly opened its maw on you and you said you knew that you would not die, that the bowl would not be thrown at you, or if ever, what was your arm doing, solid, firm and hard as a steel you bragged, drat! that smirk again.
*
We had just inhaled the rolling white universe, when you stood up, firm or was there that perennial smirk in your lips. Trouble, we knew. Let it go. “Just let it pass,” Eric tried to calm you down. But, as I said, you were firm. You walked out of the gate into the darkness. Eric, Mike and I stared at each other. You madman. Mad that you probably would have wanted to die. “Stop him!” someone from us yelled. What did you do then? As you approached the dark small wooden bridge into the squatter area, seeing Balbon, you tapped him from behind. The moment he turned his face, your fist greeted him. He staggered for balance, as you, smirking that madman smirk, turned around for the kick, your foot landed on his guts. He thrown against the empty water containers in the corner, and the women started yelling, calling the tanods. There is no such thing as the wrath of man with talisman running in his blood, you thought. But you failed to think that Balbon had an evil twin, lurking in the darkness, and quickly the shadow bearhugged you. Drat! You could not move, as Balbon gained his footing, and shadow dancing in the dark, aiming for straights and hooks and uppercuts. Trying to parry and wiggle yourself free, the three of you had the curacha dance. Swirling, gravity pulled the shadow and you on the ground, and you saw (yes, you said you smirk this time) the creek a foot from you and you planned to maneuvered by a quick veer to the right, when Kapowwww!!! A kick broke your ribs and sending you, rolling in a quick plummet down the mud of the creek. Caked by shit and putrid soil, you saw above, a toilet bowl hanging in the air against the sky, then a woman’s voice crying loud: Wag! Maawa kayo! The pang of Death suddenly opened its maw on you and you said you knew that you would not die, that the bowl would not be thrown at you, or if ever, what was your arm doing, solid, firm and hard as a steel you bragged, drat! that smirk again.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Intro: I Wish You were Here, You Crazy Diamond
It was more than a decade ago, penniless and tipsy under the shadow of a close store, facing the barrenness of the grassy field under the starlit sky, when you said that you can smell mysticism blowing in the winds, that good God! you can smell its rose-smell tingling the spine on your back; us, not knowing if you’re up again in your smart-ass intelligent talk, or probably the bottles of Red Horse, splayed on the gutter and on the street, had too much an effect on you that you’re imagination and the poet in you was talking, trying to create and impress ripples in our inebriated minds. You said, like a hint of what your soul would then take on as its journey, that you can tell heaven and hell. “You’re just drunk,” Mike said. But, you didn’t take it seriously. “We’re going to be a great band,” you prophesied, “we’re going to conquer the world; Pinoy-style music from the pits of my soul.” So, we let you go on with your dribble-talk, not taking any fancy thoughts about it since we knew anyway that you knew what you are yakking about, the leader of our band, our composer of metaphysical songs, our sleek lead guitarist, the older among us, the one who had read more books than us.
We stood nearer to the sun, its obliterating electric sunshine melting our faces. “Tingnan mo kung okay yung tunog,” you asked Eric. “Okay, okay.” Stoned and calm as a deep ocean wave, we faced the maw of hell as it broke loose and pushed on the surface the carcass of junkies megadeath. There was no blacker or as black as that that stood in front of us. Then, you said you saw white gold started flying in the air, its velocity and altitude the perfect parabola of what you had been imagining and seeing in your dreams, the perfect rainbow color, for they all landed on the stage soundless as they hit the wooden floor, violet-hue flowers. “Putang-ina nyo!” You turned around and walked away cool and grinning, still strumming your Fender.
“Pa-byahe ka pa,” you ordered, “katorse na lang.” You were an insatiable beast. “Tang-ina, pahinga naman tayo,” Mike would say. Days were turning more and more into gray color. Drat! I could not even see the blue beyond the clouds, or really couldn’t I since we were probably holed for days in your house, eating nothing, playing our new songs, your new songs, your new eulogies to the universe as you put them. Ivy wanted to go home already. But you did not want her to.
We stood nearer to the sun, its obliterating electric sunshine melting our faces. “Tingnan mo kung okay yung tunog,” you asked Eric. “Okay, okay.” Stoned and calm as a deep ocean wave, we faced the maw of hell as it broke loose and pushed on the surface the carcass of junkies megadeath. There was no blacker or as black as that that stood in front of us. Then, you said you saw white gold started flying in the air, its velocity and altitude the perfect parabola of what you had been imagining and seeing in your dreams, the perfect rainbow color, for they all landed on the stage soundless as they hit the wooden floor, violet-hue flowers. “Putang-ina nyo!” You turned around and walked away cool and grinning, still strumming your Fender.
“Pa-byahe ka pa,” you ordered, “katorse na lang.” You were an insatiable beast. “Tang-ina, pahinga naman tayo,” Mike would say. Days were turning more and more into gray color. Drat! I could not even see the blue beyond the clouds, or really couldn’t I since we were probably holed for days in your house, eating nothing, playing our new songs, your new songs, your new eulogies to the universe as you put them. Ivy wanted to go home already. But you did not want her to.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Time for Real Writing
As another issue of The Edge magazine is in the works now -- the job becoming more and more easier as we get accustomed to deadlines and preparations for the line-up of articles -- I cannot help but feel relieved. As those who have followed the struggle we had to hurdle when coming up with the premiere issue, this time it is almost like a walk in the breeze (though there are still one article, the main cover story, that I still have to cover much less make a final appointment as politicians and their press people are prone to be treated as if you cannot catch them to talk to them, always delaying their approval for the coverage.)
Though, there is a relative success in my professional work as writer slash editor slash art director, I'm being bugged by my inability to write short stories or any story for that matter that can metamorphosized later on into a book form or the like, like being included in an anthology.
Bereft of time to think, to look at the sky, or even at the ceiling, and even to read fiction books to recall the cadence and form of how to write fiction, my artistic juice would not flow like it used to. Just a simple gibberish sound in my head is totally absent.
Yet, probably, sometimes, somehow, I will find time to write something. Or rewrite, wall-to-wall, old stories I wrote a long time ago. It is just time. It is just time that I need. Probably silence to hear again the pulse and flow of my artistic juice.
Drat! There will be time for this artistic goal I'm sure. I just have to be patience in waiting for it. And once I find it, I will grab it by the horn and shit do everything I can do in that limited time.
Though, there is a relative success in my professional work as writer slash editor slash art director, I'm being bugged by my inability to write short stories or any story for that matter that can metamorphosized later on into a book form or the like, like being included in an anthology.
Bereft of time to think, to look at the sky, or even at the ceiling, and even to read fiction books to recall the cadence and form of how to write fiction, my artistic juice would not flow like it used to. Just a simple gibberish sound in my head is totally absent.
Yet, probably, sometimes, somehow, I will find time to write something. Or rewrite, wall-to-wall, old stories I wrote a long time ago. It is just time. It is just time that I need. Probably silence to hear again the pulse and flow of my artistic juice.
Drat! There will be time for this artistic goal I'm sure. I just have to be patience in waiting for it. And once I find it, I will grab it by the horn and shit do everything I can do in that limited time.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Shine On You Crazy Diamond
Remember when you were young,
You shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes,
Like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire
Of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!
You reached for the secret too soon,
You cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night,
And exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well you wore out your welcome
With random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!
Like your buddies/friends who have seen you shine you crazy diamond, my admiration and somehow close affiliation with you in the mystical blowing of fate; as Jim Morrisson classic song Break on to the Otherside you have successful done it. Hey you, Syd! Enjoy, suffer, fear and learn from it. May your soul learn the psychedelic reality.
You shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes,
Like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire
Of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!
You reached for the secret too soon,
You cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night,
And exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well you wore out your welcome
With random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!
Like your buddies/friends who have seen you shine you crazy diamond, my admiration and somehow close affiliation with you in the mystical blowing of fate; as Jim Morrisson classic song Break on to the Otherside you have successful done it. Hey you, Syd! Enjoy, suffer, fear and learn from it. May your soul learn the psychedelic reality.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Happy Holidays!
It's the middle of the Yuletide week, Christmas has come and passed already and New Year is just several days away. These holidays, being free from my work, has given me free time (though with less money since my last pay for this year had been delayed until the 2nd of the coming year) which means a lot of time to do whatever I want to do -- but again, reading On the Road by Jack Kerouac and History and Culture by the late St. Nick is something I have to exert an effort to do so (like literally tying myself to the post of the house so I can stay inside and just sit and read those two books).
Literally, it has been a fast-paced holiday slash vacation for me. I barely could hold of the events and happenings unfolding as each day passes by. Yes, a lot of boozing. It was only on the eve of Christmas that I can recall that I really had a rest -- I slept early that night only to wake up the following day, Christmas, with coffee and cigarette morning ritual that lasted until I had my second stick before a neighbor set up a beach umbrella and several chairs in front of his store and, grinning, challenged me already for a morning Christmas boozing.
The 26th was the birthday of my father, and, as expected, another bout with boozing.
Yet, it is already the 27th and the exhilarating atmosphere of Christmas still lingers in the air much stronger.
Happy Holidays to all! Hehe
Literally, it has been a fast-paced holiday slash vacation for me. I barely could hold of the events and happenings unfolding as each day passes by. Yes, a lot of boozing. It was only on the eve of Christmas that I can recall that I really had a rest -- I slept early that night only to wake up the following day, Christmas, with coffee and cigarette morning ritual that lasted until I had my second stick before a neighbor set up a beach umbrella and several chairs in front of his store and, grinning, challenged me already for a morning Christmas boozing.
The 26th was the birthday of my father, and, as expected, another bout with boozing.
Yet, it is already the 27th and the exhilarating atmosphere of Christmas still lingers in the air much stronger.
Happy Holidays to all! Hehe
Friday, December 23, 2005
Possibility of Being Published
Several days ago I received an email from the editor of the Read magazine. The editor was requesting if I could provide them a two to three-sentence write-up about myself. She said there is a possibility that my piece (Sentimental Yakking, a post on this blog which I polished and submitted to them a month ago) could be used by Read magazine for its Reader's Write section. I could not hide my glee and premature celebration that they, most likely, will published my essay/personal-emotional-outpouring. I even asked the favor if they could, if ever they used my piece, compensate me by giving me Ignacio Padilla's Shadow Without a Name or Italo Calvino's Difficult Loves. Though a second email was sent to me to inform me that the book that will be given to me, in case they use my piece, depends on the promised book prize mentioned in the previous issue of the Read magazine. Nevertheless, that is a non-issue. Being published by them, for that alone, is enough compensation that they could give me. Wow! I said to myself. The magazine of my favorite bookstore, Powerbooks, where I have done a lot of free reading, got a work of mine and implied their interest on publishing it. Now, that is a good news, no doubt about it.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Assumption
When I was a kid, I had an idea that when a person advances in age so is his acquisition of wisdom that by the time that he reaches, say, 40’s or 50’s above, his view about the world and everything in it could be at par with the eyes of a mystic or a sage.
This process of journey to mysticism can start when he is in his twenties, and by the time that he gets to be thirty, everything about this world – and the marvelous worlds within it – has already beginning to take shape in his mind.
This is the reason why, for some reasons, I treat everybody around me with mutual trust that they are moving towards this end. And, frustratingly, all I come across are people who got stuck somewhere along the way.
What I mean is it is like listening to music. Most generations usually are tied down to the music of their hey-days. They no longer continue their then juvenile adventurousness towards discovering new sounds, new music. And by the time when their children grow up and have their own ‘generational’ music, the ‘stuck’ old man could only grumpily berate the youngs as people with no real appreciation for music. So the gap and misunderstanding. If only the old man continued his growth in music, then this gap is bridged.
People only mature in terms of age. Not in terms of wisdom.
Usually, I can spot people who have stopped growing. These people usually are those people who have already built a fortified assumption of the world; they don’t and would not care to listen to new ideas. When you say something new or beyond their understanding, they grimace to rebut you that what you have just said is stupid.
Their map of reality works for them, and they no longer care to revise it. They stick to what they already know, or appear to know. The only danger these people pose is when they are in power – and usually those in power or those enjoying a relative success are the ones who exhibit this kind of trait.
Probably, one short-cut for acquiring wisdom, far beyond what a doctorate in humanities can give, is deprivation, distress, depression and the likes. There is nothing that can give the soul or the spirit a test to bring forth a better perception of the world than these havocs thrown on him.
Yet, sometimes, especially when these tests are still being endured, the person under duress cannot dispense the wisdom that is already growing within him.
Being for a while in this world, I only have met a number of people who are conscious of the growing up that they continually have to undergo to be a better person – yes, until they inhale their last breath.
Pertaining on my assumption that old age equates on the acquisition of mystical wisdom, there is nobody so far whom I have met who fulfills this assumption. Though, there are some people whom I read on books.
But crossing path with them in flesh and blood? None.
This process of journey to mysticism can start when he is in his twenties, and by the time that he gets to be thirty, everything about this world – and the marvelous worlds within it – has already beginning to take shape in his mind.
This is the reason why, for some reasons, I treat everybody around me with mutual trust that they are moving towards this end. And, frustratingly, all I come across are people who got stuck somewhere along the way.
What I mean is it is like listening to music. Most generations usually are tied down to the music of their hey-days. They no longer continue their then juvenile adventurousness towards discovering new sounds, new music. And by the time when their children grow up and have their own ‘generational’ music, the ‘stuck’ old man could only grumpily berate the youngs as people with no real appreciation for music. So the gap and misunderstanding. If only the old man continued his growth in music, then this gap is bridged.
People only mature in terms of age. Not in terms of wisdom.
Usually, I can spot people who have stopped growing. These people usually are those people who have already built a fortified assumption of the world; they don’t and would not care to listen to new ideas. When you say something new or beyond their understanding, they grimace to rebut you that what you have just said is stupid.
Their map of reality works for them, and they no longer care to revise it. They stick to what they already know, or appear to know. The only danger these people pose is when they are in power – and usually those in power or those enjoying a relative success are the ones who exhibit this kind of trait.
Probably, one short-cut for acquiring wisdom, far beyond what a doctorate in humanities can give, is deprivation, distress, depression and the likes. There is nothing that can give the soul or the spirit a test to bring forth a better perception of the world than these havocs thrown on him.
Yet, sometimes, especially when these tests are still being endured, the person under duress cannot dispense the wisdom that is already growing within him.
Being for a while in this world, I only have met a number of people who are conscious of the growing up that they continually have to undergo to be a better person – yes, until they inhale their last breath.
Pertaining on my assumption that old age equates on the acquisition of mystical wisdom, there is nobody so far whom I have met who fulfills this assumption. Though, there are some people whom I read on books.
But crossing path with them in flesh and blood? None.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Not My Magazine
When the responsibility of handling The Edge (then still named Success Today) was thrown at me, I considered the task as a personal mission to create and conceptualize my kind of vision of what should be a magazine, themed politically, looks like.
I must admit that I created a lot of enmity in the hearts of my peers as I stubbornly ventured to accomplish this personal mission. Not once did I make 'enemies' among them -- though this enmity as my superiors would soon say to me was a product of a misunderstood man like me.
I heard this several times: "Ern, the magazine is not yours."
It meant I should not slave myself or fight everybody and go against them hard just to create a 'visionary magazine' that I thought of.
Now, after several months of working on it, I learned to let go and get some people have a say on how the magazine would look like. It even came to a point when I no longer care. I just let them do the job on the magazine, totally distancing myself or if possible severing my relationship with the magazine.
I don't know whether my interest has already waned, or I just got tired of my don Quixote's mission to produce a magazine according to my vision.
Anyway, I'm just a green horned 'editor.' There are still a lot of things that I have to learn in producing a good magazine.
Now, I barely hear anybody calling the magazine as mine. Which is something good. All I have to do now is focus on my articles and write-ups, and not getting my job complicated with post-production and everything else when in the first place I don't know anything about. I stepped back a little and let myself learn from the people around me. I'm not a god in the first place to know everything.
Tomorrow, the fresh hot copies of The Edge will be out. And usually, my boss give the credit to the editor if the final product of the magazine is very good.
Will I take the credit for it?
I doubt it. It is appropriate to pass the credit to those people who really worked on the post-production of the magazine. And, certainly, my participation in that aspect is at the minimum.
If there is something that I would be happy or proud about the magazine is the write-ups that I did for it, the good damage controlled that I applied so the magazine would look and exude as a political magazine, plus the line-up of articles that I conceptualized for it. The looks, the design, the details beyond the text of the articles are for my peers to take credit for.
Ah, it has been a long road on The Edge's production. And, I hope, all the mistakes and lessons to be learned has been noted and hopefully will not be repeated in the succeeding issues.
Romantizing about my own magazine, at last, is finally over. The Edge is simply not my magazine. I am only working for the magazine.
I must admit that I created a lot of enmity in the hearts of my peers as I stubbornly ventured to accomplish this personal mission. Not once did I make 'enemies' among them -- though this enmity as my superiors would soon say to me was a product of a misunderstood man like me.
I heard this several times: "Ern, the magazine is not yours."
It meant I should not slave myself or fight everybody and go against them hard just to create a 'visionary magazine' that I thought of.
Now, after several months of working on it, I learned to let go and get some people have a say on how the magazine would look like. It even came to a point when I no longer care. I just let them do the job on the magazine, totally distancing myself or if possible severing my relationship with the magazine.
I don't know whether my interest has already waned, or I just got tired of my don Quixote's mission to produce a magazine according to my vision.
Anyway, I'm just a green horned 'editor.' There are still a lot of things that I have to learn in producing a good magazine.
Now, I barely hear anybody calling the magazine as mine. Which is something good. All I have to do now is focus on my articles and write-ups, and not getting my job complicated with post-production and everything else when in the first place I don't know anything about. I stepped back a little and let myself learn from the people around me. I'm not a god in the first place to know everything.
Tomorrow, the fresh hot copies of The Edge will be out. And usually, my boss give the credit to the editor if the final product of the magazine is very good.
Will I take the credit for it?
I doubt it. It is appropriate to pass the credit to those people who really worked on the post-production of the magazine. And, certainly, my participation in that aspect is at the minimum.
If there is something that I would be happy or proud about the magazine is the write-ups that I did for it, the good damage controlled that I applied so the magazine would look and exude as a political magazine, plus the line-up of articles that I conceptualized for it. The looks, the design, the details beyond the text of the articles are for my peers to take credit for.
Ah, it has been a long road on The Edge's production. And, I hope, all the mistakes and lessons to be learned has been noted and hopefully will not be repeated in the succeeding issues.
Romantizing about my own magazine, at last, is finally over. The Edge is simply not my magazine. I am only working for the magazine.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Skipped Work
Skipped going to work today. Been up since five in the morning but I felt groggy and my limbs seemed to have been deprived of rest for several months that I felt so beat up and lay again on my bed to steal some time before going to work. Though, when I had been laying prostrate for sometime and getting an unexplainable need for a rest, I decided to hell with work but gonna sleep myself until noon. My sleep was only sporadically cut by the call of LilFeather and asking me why did I skip going to work.
"Tired," I mumbled on the mobile. "I need to get a rest."
So it was already past one in the afternoon when I got off the bed. Had my ritual of coffee and dose of nicotine, smoking several Winstons without letup under the tree under the heat of a noonday sun. It felt fine, felt nice not to worry anything, just letting my head clear up, though I could not help my mind stray on the pending works I had to do in the office. There were a lot of things I still I had to write, articles, essays, and my column.
But what I was really looking forward for was a time to finally take time to read On Road by Jack Kerouac which I bought a couple of months ago but work hindered me to do. Plus I also had a book by the late St. Nick History and Culture.
Now, it is already early evening and I haven't done anything.
I spent my whole waking hours, loitering and talking shit with the young people in our street. Drat! There was no good convo that went on, just talking about nothing, doing nothing.... the young people in our street just whiling time goofing around, not the kind of an intelligent goofing around, but the kind which people do when they had nothing to do or say or talk about something important. They were just plain letting the hours fly by, staring at the passersby. Good God! They even tried to drown an ant out of nothing to do.
Things just got interesting when the Deo arrived, though still talking about shit, a subject more shit but interesting though.
Together, we roamed the subdivision looking for some actions. The damned Deo wanted to do nothing but walk, and the jerk kept us both walking under the drizzle, not wanting to take a cover.
The man only left me when I went to this net cafe to check my blog and email. He could not understand anything that had to do with computers.
Drat! I still have to write at least an essay for our mags before this day is over.
"Tired," I mumbled on the mobile. "I need to get a rest."
So it was already past one in the afternoon when I got off the bed. Had my ritual of coffee and dose of nicotine, smoking several Winstons without letup under the tree under the heat of a noonday sun. It felt fine, felt nice not to worry anything, just letting my head clear up, though I could not help my mind stray on the pending works I had to do in the office. There were a lot of things I still I had to write, articles, essays, and my column.
But what I was really looking forward for was a time to finally take time to read On Road by Jack Kerouac which I bought a couple of months ago but work hindered me to do. Plus I also had a book by the late St. Nick History and Culture.
Now, it is already early evening and I haven't done anything.
I spent my whole waking hours, loitering and talking shit with the young people in our street. Drat! There was no good convo that went on, just talking about nothing, doing nothing.... the young people in our street just whiling time goofing around, not the kind of an intelligent goofing around, but the kind which people do when they had nothing to do or say or talk about something important. They were just plain letting the hours fly by, staring at the passersby. Good God! They even tried to drown an ant out of nothing to do.
Things just got interesting when the Deo arrived, though still talking about shit, a subject more shit but interesting though.
Together, we roamed the subdivision looking for some actions. The damned Deo wanted to do nothing but walk, and the jerk kept us both walking under the drizzle, not wanting to take a cover.
The man only left me when I went to this net cafe to check my blog and email. He could not understand anything that had to do with computers.
Drat! I still have to write at least an essay for our mags before this day is over.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
The Edge on the Printers Already
Finally, The Edge is already on the printers. And the long wait to get a fresh copy of almost a couple of months of work is already killing me. By the week's end, we'll have the copies here na. though dont get the idea that the magazine is already got rid of errors and typos. there are still. and worse, we discovered them just when there was already a blue-print. hinabol na lang ung mahahabol. So for those who may soon get a hand of a copy of the mag, spot the typo, (hint: a big one - literally).
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Midnoon Journal
I haven’t tried this for a long time but I’m gonna do it now just for the sake of yakking. I have half an hour to do this before my time expires renting this pc in a net café near us. Begin. Before going here, I had a terrible urge to read, to write, to pick a pen and start writing, or probably go to my sister’s house to use her PC and pound on the keyboards, just plain gonna yak something, something that would come to my mind, a kind of release for my urges. I want to fly, soar; there’s tension in my limbs, eagerness to do something. Yes, probably just something. So I went to here to write (that was my first goal) but checking my mails and visiting my blogsite and checking the traffic plus the uncontrolled straying on other blogs among my links ate my time. I was thinking of starting over, or rather, continuing to write that planned short fiction for Vin Simbulan’s planned Dragon Anthology, but I don’t know where I had put the draft of the story that I wrote. Probably, got thrown away with all the garbage of papers that for months had been cluttering my room. Maybe after I’m through with renting this PC, if I have nothing better to write, journal or a new fiction, I’m gonna make myself like a madman rummaging in the piles of papers in my room to look for that unfinished draft of a story. Anyway, got real thing going on with my job (though the fucking magazine still could not hit the printers because of the whims and fickle mindedness of our boss who kept on changing things about the magazine.) Drat! Really want to pound on the keyboard and say something special, hoping that as I go along there would be some enlightenment, a good phrase, a good piece of wisdom hitting my head and be put on the virtual paper. Just wanna yak. Oh, before I forget, reading Jack Kerouac I stumbled on something special. Here it is: No courting talk – (just) straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious. Damn! Good piece of mystic wisdom... TIME REMAINING: 8 minutes (though before I start the first sentence when I wrote BEGIN I first roamed the downloaded MP3s in this PC to get the right sound, a fast one, loud, that would stir my soul real hard to write and just yak.. Anyway, back about work. Pretty appeased when my managing editor gave in to my request to replace the content of my column for the magazine. The previous subject and content-wise is really a piece of shit. God! I was planning then before the magazine to hit the magazine racks in National Bookstores to apologize for the senseless, pretentious, green-horned bull that I was for writing such a political reading of the country. For weeks prior to the change, I had been writhing in disgust about my column, and damned trying to hold myself from talking hard on my managing editor (who had been working real hard about all the magazines under her) to give in to my request. Though much that I avoided having a hard talk about her to change the content, the frustration about the magazine and how things had been happening on the process of improving it hit me real hard that I flared up. Drat! I went out of the office and along the corridor, with all my might, all my frustrations, all my souls, all anger, threw the dummy of the magazine on the carpeted floor. Damned! It was a good release. Really good. Then after that a terrible, angry yakking inside the office. Though in the end, I got what I wanted. Finish.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
A Couple
I was on my way home from work. As the escalator inside the MRT station brought me down on the waiting platform, I spotted, among the jaded corporate peons eager to get a ride and escape the heat that was so pervasive in the air, a young couple embracing each other. The young couple was oblivious to the people around them.
The young lady, in spectacles, looked classy in her black tee and pants, and you don’t have to stare too long at her to notice that she was pretty. The young man on the other hand had his long hair tied.
I could have forgotten about them after the train arrived and I waded through the throng of passengers to get a seat. But they happened, by chance, to stray on their way before me. The couple stood before me who by then had a seat already. They continued displaying their sweet embracing. They were in love.
I could not help took furtive glances at the young lady. She was pretty indeed; but not that kind of prettiness that you get tired of staring at after sometime.
I heard her soft voice, and I knew then that this lady belonged to those who can do her shopping anytime in Hong Kong or Singapore or even New York. And throughout the duration that they stood before they alighted at Ayala Station, I knew then that I saw and experienced magic.
Their movements had magic. Everything they did was magic. Not because they were in love. There was just magic in all their moves. It’s like the way when you see a famous genius or an artist. Every move has magic in it; beauty. This couple by their very person alone exudes beauty. They were young, confident, and simple but astonishingly stand taller than the rest.
The young lady, in spectacles, looked classy in her black tee and pants, and you don’t have to stare too long at her to notice that she was pretty. The young man on the other hand had his long hair tied.
I could have forgotten about them after the train arrived and I waded through the throng of passengers to get a seat. But they happened, by chance, to stray on their way before me. The couple stood before me who by then had a seat already. They continued displaying their sweet embracing. They were in love.
I could not help took furtive glances at the young lady. She was pretty indeed; but not that kind of prettiness that you get tired of staring at after sometime.
I heard her soft voice, and I knew then that this lady belonged to those who can do her shopping anytime in Hong Kong or Singapore or even New York. And throughout the duration that they stood before they alighted at Ayala Station, I knew then that I saw and experienced magic.
Their movements had magic. Everything they did was magic. Not because they were in love. There was just magic in all their moves. It’s like the way when you see a famous genius or an artist. Every move has magic in it; beauty. This couple by their very person alone exudes beauty. They were young, confident, and simple but astonishingly stand taller than the rest.
Friday, December 02, 2005
For those who visit this blog from time to time, you probably already noticed the long silence between each postings. I don’t know whether I can attribute this to laziness, or to the fact that I make a living writing.
I don’t know. I just cannot find time now to pause doing my job, settle before the computer and write something to post on this blog.
Umm… just cannot feel the juice pumping in my head.
I don’t know. I just cannot find time now to pause doing my job, settle before the computer and write something to post on this blog.
Umm… just cannot feel the juice pumping in my head.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Gonna go to Mexico
gonna go to Mexico to kill ignacio padilla... (or is he in Spain right now?) he's the man
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