Delaying Gratification

They say the mark of a successful person is this thing called delayed gratification. The ability of a person to work towards a goal with perseverance and hard work, knowing he/she will get a much-deserved reward in the end.

I thought I'd been doing that. But maybe I was just deluding myself. I had been patient, but like I've said a thousand times in this blog, my patience has become thinner than air. I don't know about the perseverance and hard work part. Maybe it was the empty promises from everyone that's kept me going. Maybe that's what got me going nowhere. I really don't know.

I am trying to put the pieces back together (and you all should know how HARD that is when you've reached the lowest of lows mentally). I'm also trying to forget asking help from other people. I mean, what's the point right? People always say, "Only you can help yourself. Only God can help you."

So there...I refuse to give in to this negative sheight once more. And during my evening conversation with Chovendra (Portuguese for "rainbow"), a certain someone not reading this post, I've noticed again how the record keeps playing the same whiny tunes. I tried not to call but I couldn't find anyone else to talk to. He/she called tonight so, being the bored person that I was, I felt I had no choice but to talk about the long playing whiny tunes on the record yet again. I've realized my "friendship" with this person isn't helping me move on, and I promised myself to try to avoid further damaging my fledgling wings by diverting my attention to more important stuff (which I thought I had been doing all along). I'm trying to break up the relationship pattern I have with whiny people, people who make me feel they understand what I'm going through, who make me feel better when they tell me stories of their "good" lives, and the things I don't have right now ... who make me feel I *gasp* *cough* *pant* "belong".

SO now, who do I talk to? Where do I find these people who'll be in-charge of positive reinforcement? How long will it take to find them?


When it comes to relationships, when does delayed gratification simply become unascertainable masochism?

Yeah ... just like that

I dunno if it was the rain or the music I was listening to (or both), but sometime the other day I was forcing myself to come up with a new storyline for my shortfilm, dangerously within 4 days of the deadline for submission of requirements. Although I was already at peace with the 1st storyline, its simplicity and sensuality, I felt it was the kind of story made for feature films, not for short films. I realized this during my discussions with my good friend Mister Formiko who lent me his David Lynch vcd. The latter is a very talented avante-garde director when it comes to short films. I was able to watch Grandmother, 6 People Getting Sick 6 Times, and Alphabet, among others. Somewhat frightening considering I watched them at 2:30 in the morning while hearing the intense rain pour out in the background. I especially liked Alphabet though. Reminds me of Nightmare on Elm Street where the children were playing jump rope and singing the "1-2 tie my shoe" song. Creepy.

Anyway, I had to break a promise I made to myself earlier about the film, that I wasn't gonna end it with *bleep* because the new storyline I formulated makes the pieces fit better. You can say it's inspired by David Lynch, but not really. I walked around the sala in circles while sipping brewed coffee, like, every 5 minutes, trying to come up with a new premise to work with. In the background I kept playing Virgin Suicides OST by Air, Tango Apasionado by Astor Piazzola from the movie Happy Together by Wong Kar-Wai, Yumenji's Theme from the movie In The Mood For Love also by Wong Kar-Wai, American Beauty OST by Thomas Newman, Bjork's Selma Songs from the movie Dancer In The Dark, and in my head, I was playing the sensual violin waltz from an unknown composer for Sex and the City's season 2 episode La Doleur Exquise! (The Exquisite Pain!), the final scene where Carrie realizes her relationship with Mr. Big is over and she's peering out the window, post-coital, in sexy black satin lingerie. The violin arrangement was superb.

Then, like the opening sentence from a Tagalog poem, I started to write the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing (borrowed from Neruda's "Poetry" hehehehe) From there the new storyline practically wrote itself out from the sound of rain, the bitter cup of coffee, Air's "Dirty Trip" song, and Thomas Newman's "Angela Undress."


The story still needs reworking but I hope it'll hold up better Ü


4 days! 4 freakin days!!!

Family Sh*t Happens

A good friend of mine texted me this afternoon how family sh*t happens and how they can take care of themselves so I shouldn't worry about them. It's true. It's a natural instinct for people to want to survive whatever the conditions are. I worry though for when people lose their will to live.

Maybe I don't have that much belief in them as I don't have the same with myself. But the point is, I have realized lately the things that I can do (and have done) if I put my mind to accomplishing them and if I don't let others get in the way of my thinking. Like last night, for example. Not that I don't see how good a poet my critic is but I would rather take the opinion of a seasoned writer or academician (whom I respect) over a person who's as old as I am, who hasn't any published works, and who writes with highfalutin words to mask amateurism. Not to mention using MSWord thesaurus ...

Poetry is not about heavy words. It's the interweaving of these words that matters the most. When what you're saying just comes together and makes sense, like the formation of the cosmos from a chaotic breeding of gases. In fact, the best loved poems are usually those that are very simple and uncontrived. This is why I prefer freewriting poems and not editing them in the end, than painstakingly thinking of the next word that best fits the puzzle. It sorta destroys the freedom in your moment of inspiration.

Then again, who am I to come out like an expert on poetry when I only have 1 poem published, coincidentally the 1st prize in a school contest, and like, 200+ amateur poems kept in my tattered folder like a buried treasure chest. At worst I can be an Emily Dickinson who dies and people discover my works and say it is brilliant. Or maybe that should be "at best."

Who cares. I'm gonna be a fluke like my cousin. Family sh*t happens.

I just had to post this!

The critic was online and replied to my reply. I just had to post it here.

"item 2. i know about life having the capacity for disconnection. so don't tell me. you sound like you are talking to a child in your reply."

WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Umm... okay, you shouldn't have written those long comments in the first place. Bollocks :P

First Taste

I've spent most of the night reading thru the things posted in the yahoogroup. I was checking out on what other quasi-poets like me thought about my daughter Melinda. Mostly good reviews. There was one though who commented on how there were no clear connections between the stanzas. Like how the father's hand wasn't connected to eating tuyo or that Melinda took her clothes off and got wet under the rain. I just replied saying how in life things aren't always connected yet we are forced to deal with these things. When we make choices, it's either we swallow or spit. There was another comment on how the word tinik sounded "collegiala," and how ampalaya was bitter gourd. I replied and said how when Filipinos go to the market, we don't ask manang, "Pabili po ng bitter gourd" or "Meron ba kayong crown daisy?" We simply say, "Amplaya magkano?"

Tinik may sound collegiala-ish, but using "fish bones" makes it too elitist, methinks. And the goal of the poem is to evoke the plight of the Filipino people in general, not just your everyday bout with child molestation, but with the Philippines' struggle with stronger countries. We experience the same amount of exploitation.

So there ... I got my first taste of poetic deconstruction outside the realm of friends. How do I find it?


I find that it ruins the whole essence of poetry when you scrutinize something so much. Was it that I disliked the critique and entered into a defensive mode? Or am I merely hard on myself?

Whatever. I'll continue posting. One member wanted mo to comment on other works. That'll be cool.

Melinda

I recently joined this yahoo group for *cough* *gasp* *pant* ... poets. At first I had my reservations about the kind of stuff that I thought I'd be reading (poems that rhyme amont other things), but I was completely surprised to find a good number of works openly posted (without copyright), all for the general purpose of sharing artistic work (and maybe hope to find a little bit of connection with other people).

So I decided to write one myself which is eponymous to this blog title. Nothing fancy. Here it is:


Melinda


The light of the kerosene lamp flickered
with the immense winds blowing inside the cardboard walls.
Dinner was early tonight because the typhoon
had scared away the customers at the talipapa,
her parents had to wade through groin-high flood
carefully avoiding the floating garbage and carcasses, manholes.

The fried tuyo tasted like her father's hands
having taken out the meaty portion from the mangled flesh.
Melinda and her mother had the head and the tail, some ampalaya
for which they tossed in more rice unto their empty plates,
spitting out the tinik that can't be swallowed.

Melinda took her clothes off and went outside.
Her neighbors were watching from poke holes, the fury of winds,
the drops of water washing off her scars and swollen fingers,
her wet hair partly covering what remained of her youth.

Inside the thin cardboard walls, the winds blew more immensely
and the light of the kerosene lamp flickered then blew off.
Melinda went in to relight the wick, the cold would consume them.

There she continued chewing on ampalaya
swallowing down the pain into her embittered esophagus

drying herself up with her torn daster.

Track 8 - Can't Not

It had been a typical boring day that I tried to lighten up with 80's hits like Martika's "Love Thy Will Be Done" and "Coloured Kisses" and *cough* *gasp* *pant* ... Wilson Phillips hits. LOL

I'm sorta in the 90's now with Alanis Morissette's sophomore album, Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie. I really like this set and can't figure out why people didn't respond positively to it. It has most of the angst characteristic of her 1st album. Maybe it's just because it's not Jagged Little Pill Vol. 2.

People are hard to please. Old complicated people that is ...

Dimensions

Today's a mixture of bittersweet emotions. On one hand, it was my cousin's 35th birthday and most my cousins were here. One word ... CORNUCOPIA! I had to trigger my gag reflex after 2 meals just to barf and not get fat. Tee hee

On the other, we learned, hard it was to accept, that our 97 year old grandmother's already showing signs of acute dimentia. It's not so funny as when you hear senility in jokes. When it's your loved one on the line (and how we all LOVE our grandmother!) it's a totally different story.

She hasn't been eating much and is no longer able to differentiate day from night. Her body clock's ticking at the wrong intervals and her memory's a little bit incoherent. It's an inevitable reality for the elders. My cousin says it'll get worse, she won't be able to identify each one of us as before. It's really sad and it makes you take on another view of your life and all your priorities in general. Suddenly, I'm spending more time with her than the past few days. I feel guilty somehow.

An ecstasy of fumbling ...

I'm not asleep. I can't sleep. Although a huge weight had been taken away at precisely 5:28pm, a new one had settled just now.

I have to say I was pretty happy with the way the article came out. Even if it was redundant of me to mention all the albums more than twice, I still feel that given the resources - 15 pages of internet information and the cdr of the latest eponymous album - I had written down 2,200 words (right on the dot!) in 2 days. I hope it gets published, not just for the little cash fix but for the publishing ... resume material.


Disclaimer:

You have to excuse my poor sentence structure and other unintentional grammatical blunders. After a whole day of writing extolling material, my mind's already shut off. Again, I can not sleep because I'm helping my cousin out for another deadline. While some people are probably partying right now or blowing their fcuking brains out on ecstasy or pot, or maybe sleeping tightly in their beds warmly embracing a very soft, smooth pillow covered in pure Egyptian cotton, I'm forcing myself to stay awake for charity work. Fcuk, I'm not getting paid for this ...

Carpathia ...

Is there such a thing as a clean escape? For me at least? I'm trying to find ways to rid myself of guilt, of hiding in the shadows. I may never reach Carpathia in time. FOr when the time comes I indeed get my hyped-up arguably deserved means to get where my heart told me to go, I may not want to proceed anymore. If it was meant to be mine, I feel it should've come much sooner. I understand the value of working for something to appreciate reaping the benefits, and I understand the concept of compounded interest like it was a simple and logical postulate for delayed gratification.

My patience has run thin but I discover it's ductility. It becomes pointless to separate all the strands when you're tieing up a noose for yourself.

Distress Stress

I always believed that one of the best ways to make friends is through a point of distress on either side of both parties concerned. However, before I go any further with my so-called philosophies, let me just say that the definition of "friends" is different from "acquaintances." THe latter can come sprawling on a person's Friendster list. Just by saying "hi" or "hello" and/or by exchanging names and occupations, 2 or more people can automatically become acquaintances. When I say "friend," he/she/it is essentially an entity worthy of your trust, not necessarily in reciprocating terms. He or she may be your bestfriend, your boy/girl/gay/dyke friend, your parents or relatives, your nerdy professor, your anonymous f*ckbuddies showing only pictures of their torso ... and the list goes on, ascertaining that they have a substantial degree of familiarity or intimacy with you. When I mean "it," I'm referring to objects like this blog that has become my friend or a box of Hershey's Dark chocolates or the book I'm reading or a Sex and the City episode that made me feel I can relate to certain degrees of disillusionment. It may not be intimacy, but most definitely, it points to familiarity without reciprocation. Just like sometimes, we don't need our feelings to be validated, we just need to vent out the restless emotions bothering us or twisting our insides into knots. It's a different matter when one opens up to complete strangers with ease by virtue of the absence of any expected responsibilities attached to the data one had shared. It's different because you would most probably not have given your real name, age, weight, or occupation with him or her, and even if you had given yourself away so easily, there's a false yet promising reassurance that you will never see each other again, hence voiding the concept of an acquaintance.

Back to my original statement, one of the best ways to make friends is through a point of distress ...

Like in a call center, new hires are at a level of anxiety, being beginners exposed to the stressful situation called customer service. All of them may not really be close and may know each other only by name, college, and degree, yet subjected to the same stressor, inevitably, all of them become the tortured kindred. A point of singular familiarity, instantly at some level of emotional intimacy needing trust. THe same happens for calamity victims, accident victims, Rapunzels and their blinded prince charmings, delinquent students in group study bingeing on pizza, cheaters in an exam, sinners and priests, foreigners and prostitutes, puliticos y puliticas, priests and sacritans, sisters and cloister cookie baking, the armed forces cadets ..... the beat goes on.

Of course this is all subjective and I'm merely typing away like the Marquis de Sade with a keyboard. Who cares if I'm writing this down with my own blood or with my dejecta fresca on the dungeon walls? This is the greatest sh*t that hit the fan.

Anyway, going into confirmatio (from Cicero. I'm pushing the luck on my rhetorical Ethos), when a person in distress approaches you, you have the choice to win over their trust if you choose to set aside the risk of a con. As Filipinos, we are mostly bound by a transcendental tendency towards utang na loob, a social phenomenon of entrapment. It's like a debt, the bigger the favor, the bigger the "interest" or return, which grows over time and continues as a legacy to one's children and grandchildren if one lives to see the day. It increases geometrically with one's pedigree. It's a different story though when YOU are the one in distress and asking for help. It totally sucks. Again, it's a debt, sealed with usually undisclosed verbal agreements. You may have sold your soul without you knowing it, then regret it if ever you live to see the day and feel a certain emptiness of being. It's all a matter of power really. The lessor is usually perceived as the one who keeps control, while the lessee, the one in debt. But in reality, it's all just perception. The damsel in distress can decide to let the rescuer fornicate with her as reward for her freedom. The rescuer would be at the mercy of the damsel's loins, hence a reversal of fortunes.


WHo has the power now?


There are people who dole out assistance precisely for the value of their returns and the extension of linkages that occurs with every transaction. These people form the mafia.

There are people who always ask for assistance precisely to reverse their fortunes and make others believe that they are the underdogs, then when they cease power through their new found luck, they dole out assistance quid pro quo and forget those who helped them rise to the top. They are called electoral candidates.


WHo has the power now?


Sometimes it ain't easy to pick out the b*tch in heat.

Isko Moreno

I saw him today at SM Manila. He's short and he was wearing a barong being the public servant that he's become.

Phooey.


My Mom and I were supposed to go to Greenhills today because she had to visit people for business. My uncle rode off to Bulacan this morning and brought with him the driver and one of the shop's keepers. Hence, my Mom got stuck in the office for the rest of the day.

I decided to have a breath of fresh air because I've been staring too long out my window, usually after meals when I feel 10 pounds heavier. Deciding to go to SM, I took my butts from the gutter for disposal. Then, my sales friend called to follow up on the article he had me write. I was supposed to get the stuff this morning so that I can start listening to the Liz Phair cdr he made for me and read through 15 pages of Liz Phair clippings for the article. I dunno why I didn't go. Maybe it's because I had a lot of things planned for today that going to their house was definitely out of the way.

I went to SM Manila and went directly to the grocery to buy toiletries and to their cellar where I bought a magazine that I hoped would inspire me with my story. I went walking around the shops and bought an internet card, which I'm using right now, and then proceeded to National Bookstore to buy nice resume paper, long white envelopes for my recommendation, and 10pcs of biodata forms. After National, I found some cds on sale so I bought a couple of albums, pretty satisfied with the one mixed by Dmitri from Paris, it's called After the Playboy Mansion, which is a collection of inspired beats, an homage to 70's swing a la Hugh Hefner.

My feet were dead by that time. I had to bury them after waiting for 15mins for a seat in Seattle's Best Coffee Shop. There I sat down to write other possible plots for the short. My mind was a blank. I couldn't come up with brilliant stuff. It was frustrating at first, but then I thought what I was doing was a cantakerously difficult task, exacerbated by my unceasing perfectionism. Tell you something though, it was more stressful for me to find a decent FM radio station to listen to while brainstorming, than it was thinking of a replacement plot. There's nothing good on radio I swear to god. It's a good thing I can always depend on classical music to keep me calm. They were playing Vivaldi.

Home, I got pissed because 2 friends ditched me to watch HBO. Is Sex all they can think about??

What's the point?

I so wanted to write last night but I couldn't access my blog. So now, I've typed this down on notepad and the one you're reading now is the copy&paste version of it. I just wanted to say ...

I'm going mad. Like it is beyond me to keep my sanity.

It wasn't like this when I woke up at 11 in the morning, getting all that sunshine during breakfast. I checked the net for the latest in accumulating email and whoever's on YM. I was able to chat with my shoe friend during working hours. THere was another person online, but FUCK him. I so hate him right now. If you know me personally, I rarely hate people. Even if I'm this bitter with the human race and overpopulation, I'm not one to feel remorse unless inexorably provoked. I mad at my friend right now. I really am.

Anyway, my shoe friend commented how I had been a little more "sensitive" the past few days. It's true. I have been more sensitive. It's sheighty I tell you. It makes this infinite sadness more deeply felt, more lingering for someone without skin. How many times have I imagined killing myself in many different painless ways, then somebody would just come into my room and see me the way I intended. Contrary to how I thought of suicide before, it never ran in my mind how people would react to my death or who would weep at my funeral. There was none of that. I wasn't even thinking of the afterlife or how I would stay in this world as a wandering spirit with unfinished business. It was nothing like that. It was simply just the dying part. I mean, inside I'm already dead. Something in me has to die.

WHich makes it such a tremendous task for me to find ways in which to spice up my storyline with things that are opposite of who I am right now. Infusing images of life or happiness in an artform devoid of my emotional or political expression. The tremendous task of creating a happy ending when it's not so happy for me right now.
I wish I had the confidence level my friend has in me. Even if I push through most of the time, I sorely believe this reclusive boat I'm traveling in wishes to capsize into the water when the boatman forgot to lend me his lifejacket before I embarked on my journey.

Even if I tread and stay afloat, where am I going? Clearly, it has been impressed on me that only I can save myself. Only God can save me. That I alone will get myself out of the mess I'm in.

I can only wade in water for so long. And honestly, not having a coast guard patrol to rely on, what's the point of keeping afloat or swimming without direction? What's the point of waiting for something that would never come? What's the point to going back to shore when the people who live there are useless and apathetic?

Rockewell ...

is sad.

I met up with my friend who's a film major to consult with my impending deadline. I left copies of my drafts with him and ended up talking about a lot of other stuff. My two other friends caught up with us in the conversation after buying shoes as a birthday present for one of them. We then went to Seattle's Best where there were no people.

Rockwell is sad...


By the way, I had another bad dream but I couldn't quite remember anything, just that it was a bunch of bad experiences. Who cares. I'm on an optimistic rampage.

Dreaming with the Fishes

I haven't mentioned how for the past few weeks, all my dreams consisted of fishes. There was one dream I vividly remember. I was sorta wading through a deep pond and suddenly I felt some sort of danger because it was dark and cloudy. The next thing you know, this water snake comes hurling in from one of the trees and of course, I was petrified! (Grasp your mandrake...) The next thing you know, I was on top of the pond, walking thru a thin filmy layer covering the water, sorta like animal fat on cold soup. Below me were hundreds of fish of different sizes, some dark, some silvery, some eel-like, some as huge as sharks! The weird thing about it is that right below the thin film I was walking on, there were tree branches. I was walking on the branches so that in case the film would break, I wouldn't fall off and be fish fodder.

The other day, I didn't dream about fish, but I dreamt that I was in a house in Baguio with people I'm not familiar with. From the 2nd floor, I saw this man "gearing up," loading guns with ammo getting ready for, yes, a shooting rampage. Naturally I was terrified, but instead of running outside the house, I decided to stay upstairs (while he was blasting away outside) and hide underneath the bed. There was a woman with me, she simply jumped on top of the bed. I was lying face down with my shoulders on the wooden floor. I couldn't hide under the bed because the space was too small (or I was too fat) and soon enough, the killer with guns came in. I knew he was gonna shoot me. There was no reason not to.

The weird thing was, I prayed for my life to be spared. I didn't want to die.

Then he shot me with a pistol. Twice. It hit me on my right side. It didn't hurt but I knew I was bleeding. I pretended to be dead so he won't shoot me again. He walked toward the woman on the bed. Then I woke up.

Today, I dreamt I was with people I don't know. I was in a couch, sandwiched between 2 female friends. They were talking about her new cellfone, how loaded it was with features, and how she got it at a very low price because it was buy 1 take 1 promo or something. I just nodded in agreement (the way I usually am when I have nothing significant to say). The next scene, I was with my elementary classmates and we were lining up to get water. We were given these plastic bottles (absolut) where the top parts were cut off so that you don't actually have a nozzle and it resembled a tall plastic glass than a bottle for water. The water came from a garden hose and we were filling up our glasses and drinking like we were so thirsty. I dunno why. And then each person would sit in his place in the classroom, and I guess lessons would begin. On my turn to get seated, I woke up.

Pretty senseless. Fish, water, branches, film, getting shot, twice, pretending to be dead, classmates ...


God, the fishballs must be getting to my head.

Down With the Marshes

As I was about to sleep this morning, I received a phone call from my dear friends from HumanReinforcement, my former employer. It came as a surprise and after asking me some questions, I felt they had disturbed my embittered world. In a good way. In a merry way, typical "Marshe" style. We talked on the cellfone for 10minutes and 10seconds. I checked. I got to speak to all 4 of them. They were inviting me to the eldest's birthday party at the end of the month. Surely I was gonna come, just have to finish the synopsis and MA requirements first.

I texted the "mother" of our group. I texted how I wanted to be "scolded" for having done what I've done (or haven't done) and we're supposed to meet during the weekend (call center weekend that is ... which is like, any day of the week...) Mother said it's not too late to start over, that I just have to find something that I really like doing para hindi ako mainip.

"Manong, ito pa ang piso. Mahaba-habang usapan 'to."

Out of the blue

No, this is not a Michael Learns To Rock song. (Heaven forbid)

First of all, I'd like to thank my friend Malik for spending the entire stretch of the hours of ungodliness with me in YM. Somehow, although I felt our conversation didn't necessarily end in finding solutions for my so-called problems, I believe I had set the bomb off from it's time clock. I felt so relieved, finally being able to deject some of the emotional feces from my constipated self. I let out a huge can of whoop-ass (in American slang).

I texted my friend Umberta D. (as I named her in my cellfone) a couple of strange sentences. I apologize profusely for having to disturb your morning peace. I just had to let it out.

For the depressed, reticence is never good. A depressed person should keep talking, keep writing, keep expressing. It's the only therapy that works. One should find company with talkative friends and get out of the house instead of spending the whole day hibernating from the harsh winter of existence and solitude. Everyone should be noisy, everyone should be picking on each other to reveal what's under the embittering snow.

My new favorite word .... embittered.

Needless to say, right after the chat, I found my second wind, a warm tropical one, and magically, I was able to formulate a new story. Not just that, I wrote the entire 1st draft of the master scene screenplay! It all just came out while I was eating fishballs for breakfast.

See, even junk food has its merits!

Going blind

Somewhere between the flank and folderol of my fleeting follies, I've lost a few fegrees of furfle fision in my fight eye. When I try looking at something toward my left using my right eye, I inevitably see a blurred spot. In fact I think my left eye is beginning to exhibit the same symptoms too. I must be going blind. I've had my eyes checked by my uncle but I think he prescribed an incorrect set of lenses for me because everytime I try using my metallic Reebok spectacles, I end up having a more difficult time seeing. The thing is, when I was in the clinic reading the D-E-F-P-O-T-E-C letters, they were pretty readable, not that I've memorized it or anything. Also, I'm not getting headaches or nauseated in any way, except of course when I try reading a book inside a moving vehicle, but that's a different story.

Sheesh .... talk about Dancer in the Dark ....

I've seen what I chose

And I've seen what I need

And that is enough

To want more would be greed

I've seen what I was

And I know what I'll be

I've seen it all

There is no more to see

what is there to see?

I was not

supposed to write this blog. Quite honestly I don't feel good about anything right now, but I'm pulling myself through thanks to all those bootleg cds I bought yesterday. I would've gone mad if I didn't have anything to chauffer my declining mental health with.

I'm going mad. Mad but still beautiful.

I need not discuss the merits of death because I had done that some time ago when similar ghosts had haunted my puny world the way it's doing again today. There was one time last night I just stared at my celfone and questioned why I even had one. I clearly can't call on anyone on my phonebook to console me at 3 in the morning. That is MY job. I'M the one they call in the wee hours of the day. It sucks more because my partner-in-crime against existentialism is somewhere south of civilization probably studying for her exams or something.

I'm bereft again. Bereft but still beautiful ... CRAZY beautiful.

Morning Cup

I couldn't sleep the whole night because I drank 2 cups of strong brewed coffee to keep me awake while I worked on finishing the scriptwriting book I'd been reading for the past week. I felt I had to finish it at once so I can make some notes and start writing my screenplay. I decided to join my sisters who were going to school/office at 7am. It was terrible. My sister was all panicky when the little light on her meter started to blink. We were nearly out of gas on a Monday morning. While most of Manila's probably half-asleep in their jeeps/car/FXs/trains/pedicabs/calesas, my sister was drivin' like a madwoman. She roared and she rampaged amidst traffic in her pussywagon. I kept scolding her for not knowing any better. The fact is, they went to some wagwagan place in Navotas yesterday and she didn't even bother checking her gas. And now, she and my sister were running against time with an empty fuel tank. It's like being in an action movie. Except it wasn't funny. The streets were wet with precipitation and getting into an accident on a flyover passing through Pasig river would've been the most tragic form of death aside from dying in a Siegfried and Roy magic show mishap. Okay lang sana kung beach in Boracay ang lulunuran ko.

She dropped me off at Starbucks Vito Cruz, around 7:30am where I spent the rest of the morning finishing the book amongst half-wits conversing in, like, you know, Kris Aquino accent. I couldn't stand it so I listened to classical music on the radio where they were featuring Franz Schubert on the Master's Touch 98.7. I watched people walk through the streets in the quasi-London weather. Beautiful calming music...Ü

At around 10:15am, I was done with the book, just in time to shop in one of my favorite bootleg cd places ... the University Mall! hehehe I felt I needed to hear new stuff on my old cd player. It has become increasingly difficult for me to find anything suitable in my prescriptive collection, something between acid jazz, lounge and Brazilian, to a bit of house-club rhythm. I was also hoping to find the soundtrack of Dancer In The Dark. Of course, I should've known better, nobody really listens to Bjork except maybe me and my now-employed ABS-CBN audiophile friend. Sadly, the owners of that bootleg place aren't maintaining the store like they used to. Most of the new stuff are pop and compilations of hiphop. I dislike hiphop I really do. Bling-bling! Ya feel me?!

Since I couldn't find 1 album that suited my "needs," I bought several. For that price, I could've crapped out of my low-waist hip-huggin' undy-exposed trousers and I wouldn't have cared if I had to wipe the sheight off with a glazed donut.


Here're the damages:

1. Chemical Brothers 93-03, 2CD - "Star Guitar" is just superb. What I'm looking for in a song Ü
2. Kill Bill Vol. 1 OST - "Run Fay Run" by Isaac Hayes est tres fabuleux.
3. Erykah Badu's Worlwide Underground
4. Joss Stone's The Soul Sessions - Recommended by friends. Ok naman.
5. Chillout Classical, 2CD - residue from my morning coffee trippin'
6. Chicane's Easy to Assemble - sorry substitute for Moony. Out of stock. Sheight...
7. Bar Grooves Al Fresco, 2CD - Great for Saturday party nights, or for narcoleptic Monday afternoons
8. Miguel Migs Colorful You and Nude Tempo Vol1 - Nice house music for our stagnating household
9. Viva Jazzanova - kewl latin jazz in the original Brazilian style
10. Saint German's Des Pres Cafe 4 - Fantastic lounge for coffee evenings

Now I realize how much I spent.... sheeeesh it's depressing..... I'll go listen to a cd and make myself feel better Ü


My mourning cup runneth over....

House of Weapons

Today I met up with my highschool friends in Podium. It's my good friend Risso's birthday. I call him "Risso" because he has a huge crush on model and PMAP president Rissa Samson. He treated us out to lunch in Casa Armas. It was delicious! He ordered Seafood Paella, Callos, Potato Omelet, and Garlic Chicken in Olive Oil (I think.) There were 5 of us there (the regulars) and I enjoyed great conversation aside from the hearty meal. They're one of a few people who make me choose to talk over the urge to eat. I really miss them and we swore to meet up once a month more often.

Two had to leave early because they were kinda ill and had to go to the doctor for an appointment. The remaining 3 of us went to Starbucks to pass the time. Risso had to meet this guy who wanted his shirts consigned in his store in Astoria. In the shop, we checked out the latest t-shirt designs. Pretty cool though too costly for me. Actually, everything is costly for me, even a simple jeepney ride. I gotta get me a job soon. *Sigh* After the consigner left, the 3 of us went to Shangri-La Plaza to get Risso's tailored suit from Bergamo and to have his white shirt altered at Hommes et Femmes. They were supposed to play Warcraft but it was already 6pm so we decided it was time to go home. I went back to Greenhills to meet up with my sister and her friend. We went home shortly. Dinner was served at 8pm. We had grilled squid. Yummy! I drank some instant coffee and ice cold water, went upstairs to continue reading the scriptwriting book by Ricky Lee, almost fell asleep, woke up to a knock on my door, my sister wanted to go online, we talked a bit with my Mom, they watched Dogville and didn't like it (as I expected Ü), munched on the last serving of Kirkland Signature Crunchy Snack Mix, went online m'self, read email and did other routine online stuff, and now I'm listening to Alanis' new album while typing this blog for ye all to read.

Variety of Bodies

No, I did not lose my morals over the past few days. I had not been able to access the computer lately because people had been occupying my room and I don't get my regular share of the space like on non-working holidays. A variety of bodies had been to this convention center and I was in no shape to deal with it. In the meantime, I've been pretty busy modifying my story being constantly wraught by panic for assuming the story would ramble on for more than its alloted time. You see, I'm not really aiming at winning the grand prize (though the money would be a fantastic way to regain everything I've lost to unemployment, that and some I lost to a stupid networking scam) and I'm not even aiming to producing a kick-ass film according to my own set of preposterously rigid standards. No. My first short film would have a particularly simple plot, the least amount of characters as possible, the least amount of venues needed for the shoot if possible, and everything else I can attribute to downsizing on a time of economic crisis. (Yup, I'm awfully sleepy so quit minding the useless metaphors... hehehe)

For this contest, I'm simply aiming to be recognized. If I get into the list of the chosen 10 short films, I'd be pretty content that my first work shall have been deemed "good enough" among the existing ranks of amateur indie Filipino filmmakers. However, if among the 10 films showing in February (I think), I feel that mine is the most streamlined, most understandable, most limpid work (still according to my own set of preposterously rigid standards that is), then I'd be proud of myself for not looking too amateurish or inexperienced on a first try. If I can make my work as professional as possible, maybe some bigshot producer or director or production company would want to hire me under their wing as the hottest thing since KFC Zingers TM.

Then again, I'm jumping WAY AHEAD OF MYSELF. I need sleep (and maybe I also need to stop drinking coffee more than once in a day even if it's instant) because at this moment, I have 2 zits that are almost bilaterally symmetrical, my nose bridge being the prime meridian of my face. It's like, if I can fold my face in half and open it up again to the way it was, like butterfly spots my 2 bilaterally symmetrical zits would look like something from a Rorschach smear. It's hilarious in a way, but still annoying nonetheless.

Mini-break

The storyline for the shortfilm I'm planning to produce is coming in quite well. It's not audacious or anything overtly experimental as I earlier planned, rather, something very subtle, very contained -- the world I have lived in for the past 2 years. As I mentioned earlier, I don't (in fact, never) want to be apologetic for my work in terms of independent and non-commissioned films (for commercial films however, what the heck! I'm pretty adaptable anyway). For now, there are elements in my upcoming short that may be a bit unnerving (especially to my friends! wehehehehe) and probably downright shocking (for my relatives, if ever they get to see it), but I promise to myself that the 1st time will be in good taste (though it may hurt a little) and it would be in the tradition of being a truly artistic endeavor.

This is a NO BUDGET film, which means you won't be seeing any burning cars or cool Matrix-inspired karate scenes, no surreal lighting (oh how I wish....), not even the musical scoring of my choice because I can't pay for licenses and stuff. I hope my main actors won't be charging me for their acting. I'd only be able to promise them an amount if I WIN the contest. Who knows... In the meantime, steamed okra lang kaya ko.

Anyway, I've been at the storyline picking at all the crevices and asking second opinions from my now-employed friend. I wanted the sequences to be acceptably clean-cut before I start writing the script, at least to be able to see a satisfactory overview of the events before I go work on the nitty-gritty of Taglish conversation. I'm reading Ricky Lee's TRIP TO QUIAPO scriptwriting manual while at the same time I'm thinking of the concepts and characters. So far so good! I'm right on schedule Ü

I had a panic attack though when I talked to my friend yesterday. He asked me what the MESSAGE of the film was. I was dumbfounded. My mind just stopped working. It pretended to be in deep thought via the falsely suggestive reticence on my part on the phone. My mind went blank. There WAS no message and I never really intended for it to have one.

I went to Malik's computer shop today to try to sort things out. I felt I've become overly critical of the story and wanted to cut the story short becuase I feared it would exceed 20 minutes. Go down to the quintessence of the human experience alighting my idea and focus on the dialogue between the characters instead of focusing on the scenes and exposition via imagery (which I thought I was doing too much of). I was outside the shop sitting on the front steps beside the open parking lot of the building, checking out people playing tennis and people passing by trying to get a jeepney ride for their trip to Quiapo. I discussed with Malik the ins and outs of my plot and its treatment. He said it was ok, and that some parts can be modified through dialogue. I also realized during our conversation that like a painting, a film is an artform and as such, it doesn't necessarily have to have a message all the time. Like a painting, it is a representation of life as interpreted by the artist, by the director. It is up to the audience to either appreciate or abhor, the form in which creativity wished to express a facet of the world.

With this realization, I concluded that I am ready to start embarking on a writing trip. Wherever the journey brings me, may it be the birth of my firstborn.