The Godfather

#83: Parting Episode

It's that sick feeling at the pit of your stomach. You can't pinpoint the source. Your mind can't reconcile it with anything that it can easily grasp.

It was that feeling I had inside as I was editing the video we were going to present to The Godfather during the send-off party... as I was compiling the photos... as I was discussing details with the committee... as I was hearing the words drop like shattered glass on the table when he announced he was resigning.

5 measly months are not enough. To a degree, I feel cheated out of getting to know this great man more. A few "Thank You" emails and a couple of public praises for efforts are all I have to show - all I have to add to the treasure of having had my invitation for him to speak to our class almost 10 years ago graciously accepted. And those who stole that opportunity from me sit stoic one moment, pretentious the next as their cold blood traced the green of their veins.

How dare they bring a good man down? How dare their inflated egos and assumed omniscience rob those who still have hearts to embrace his humble ways?

They will always have their pearls from insights he generously shared. I will only have beads of sweat to show for the gift not one of them cared enough to create. They will always have clear memories of his shining moments, all while their blood-stained hands continue to clutch the glistening knives they drove deep in his back. I will only have mere shadows of his greatness...and an aching desire to put balm on the wounds inflicted by their hands.

There are many things I don't care about. But him, I care about more than he nor I would probably understand. Tears for him that couldn't flow freely as I sat before they who knew him long enough to betray him, now gush forth with the sting and pain that I couldn't paint... It's that sick feeling at the bottom of my heart far beyond my mind's grasp.

Free Prize Inside!

#82: Uhm, Not Really


 

Last Friday, upon arriving home from dinner with friends at Ziggurat (Indian-Pakistani-Arabian-Turkish-African cuisine), I wrote a very lengthy account of what a day is like for Gucci Stardust. It took me an hour at least to be so detailed. You see, I've been getting some comments from people that it's not so easy to understand me... or that they're no longer sure if I'm still writing fiction or if something's already bothering (or smothering?) me in real life. To erase the ambiguity (I am, after all, a fan of clarity), I decided to make myself as crystal clear as possible. Mad typing, a couple of retouches and I was ready to publish a narrative which will give full insight into what usually goes on in my head as I go through my day.

PUBLISH POST. A command which prompted Blogger to eat it all up and burp it into thin air.

I wanted to scream like a banshee! But since it was already 2 a.m., that would have been obscene. I might as well just ask my neighbors to burn our house down. Thing is, there is no Autorecovery in Blogger. The little link at the upper lefthand side which says, "Recover Post" is a joke. A bad joke which could start the whole world crying, believe me. A couple of deep breaths and I was ready for my next step. Given that I was ready to write all those things about myself, I might as well go on with it and write everything again.

It was a little past 3 a.m. when I finished. Yes, it was that long. With pictures too! (Take note that I had to wake up that day at 4 a.m. to prepare for our Church Outing because the bus would leave at 6 a.m. without the sleepyheads.) But I told myself, "Forget sleep. There's no turning back now."

PUBLISH POST. AAAACCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!! Evil Blogger ate it again!!!! The cruel error message flashed once more and mocked me for being so stupid as to trade my much-needed rest for a tell-all no one really asked for.

All that it published was the picture of my bracelet. That is that and that is all. And now you'll never know the context in which I decided to paste that.

The post apparently wasn't meant to be. I guess what that means is that knowing me should never be easy. And the price of unlocking certain aspects of my personality, never free.

Take heart though. We all have 525,600 minutes a year in currency. That's definitely worth more than a thousand words and actually more than enough to get good leads to the Gucci mystery.

Happy Birthday Blog!

#81: 1 Year, 80 posts and Still Going

Happy Birthday Blog!

Those of you who've known me for 5 years or more know that I'm horrible with birthdays. Terrible. I forget birthdays and on the miraculous instances that I do remember them, it's usually a day, a week or a month too late. (In 1993, I even forgot my dad's birthday. He was walking right in front of us the whole morning and when the time came for him to fly to Chicago that afternoon, that's when it all hit us that it was his birthday. No wonder there was a bit of drama going on there.) Anyway, I sometimes try to make up for it in terms of the quality of the gifts I give. But sometimes, even that, I forget.

So I need constant reminders. If your birthday is coming up, please throw a party and invite me. Err. What I meant was, if your birthday is coming up, please make life easy for everyone by dropping idiot-proof hints on what you want to receive. I may not be able to give them to you but at least the detail of your birthday is somewhere in my consciousness floating... And you can always have a blast watching me go through the guilt-trip of still forgetting.

It's then a wonder that I'm remembering my blog's birthday now. I didn't mean to, really. I just felt that something was vaguely familiar with May 26 and I decided to check the date of my first entry. Ah yes. Happy Birthday, blog. Now I'm feeling very smug about outdoing myself this time.

Un-rain

#80: The Sun is Actually Out... Today

Enough of the gloom.
The Lord immediately gave me something to "un-rain in my un-parade" the day after I wrote the last entry. So forget about Annie's song, "Tomorrow." Here's something from Charles Swindoll's "Wisdom for the Way"

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CELEBRATE LIFE!

Psalm 90:12 "Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom."

The Hebrew text suggests that we correctly "account" for our days. I find it interesting that we are to view life by the days, not the years. We are to live those days in such a way that when they draw to a close, we have gained "a heart of wisdom." With the Lord occupying first place in our lives we accept and live each day enthusiastically for Him. The result will be that "heart of wisdom" the psalmist mentions.

Because we cannot alter the inevitable, we adjust to it. And we do that not a year at a time, but a day at a time. Instead of eating our heart out because a few more aches and pains have attached themselves to our bodies, we determine to celebrate life rather than endure it. Aging isn't a choice. But our response to it is. In so many ways we ourselves determine how we shall grow old.

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So when some long-lost friend asks me, "So, how are you dear stranger," I will, from now on, squeeze every ounce of brain juice I can to answer anything other than, "Oh well, growing old." When I get asked, "So what's going on in your life," I will find a better answer other than, "Well, nothing but work here on my end."

Life is after all more than work; and a sigh doesn't do justice to the mercies that the Lord makes new for me every morning. For one who has beheld the joy of His salvation, there will always be reason to celebrate. Life. Everyday.

Rice

#79: At the End of the Day

And when you chew your rice at the end of the day,
you will know whether or not
the last 12 hours were spent in vain.

You can decide whether to spend a few more
for work that can wait, or to save some
for the life that has been rendered empty by labor.

You can stare into the space
unoccupied by your sleeping family
or by the family of your own that thus far has not materialized.

Alternate spoonfuls of soup with news you do not care about.
Then think about how life has shrunk
so that nothing much could merit your care anymore.

And when you've swallowed it all, drink a cold glass of water.
You will need it to extinguish the gnawing of the knowing
that you have brought yourself there.

Choosing the Dark Side

#78: I Choose Anakin


The Chosen One 

It was a toss-up between heading home and watching Seth Cohen (Adam Brody's character in The OC) sing "California" off-key, AND driving myself to the movie theater after a tiring day to watch Anakin jump over to the dark side. Hmmm.

Thing is, there will always be replays or DVDs of The OC. But you only get one chance to officially be one of the first in the Philippines to watch Star Wars Episode 3. (And yes, watch it with the Ayala family too - owners of everything you see in Makati plus prime patches of land in other places in the Philippines. And oh yeah, the cellphone service provider of almost everyone in the cinema.)

And so I chose the dark side.
(Err, the dark moviehouse over the fluorescent-lit TV room at home.)

It was a premiere sponsored by GenText and having good friends in my previous company ensures that I'm still "one of them" (eyes flashing with blue lightning) or that I, at least, will have a free pass to one of the coolest movies of 2005.

Speaking of eyes, I hated it when Anakin's turned greenish-yellow. So that's what Siths do when they seethe with something seethe-worthy (or Sith-worthy? You choose.) Come on. Why do that to Anakin? This is one good-looking guy we're talking about. (Okay, I hated his hair in the movie. They were not only curly, they were clumpy and stiff. I wanted to give him Cream Silk's Leave-on conditioner but then I'm not sure if that product is still available in the market or if it has suffered the fate of 80% of new products launched - passing over to the dark side of stock returns, write-offs and eventual death.)

Now we jump to the topic of fate. So was it really Anakin's fate to be a Sith? Or to be the uber-Jedi who balances forces? Since he ended up being a Sith, that apparently was his fate, right? But what of the prophecy that he was the one? I was half-expecting Neo to come barging with armalites and what-not because he's the real "Chosen One." (Plus, he had been wearing leather trench coats long before Anakin knew how to buckle his own belt. Now he's doing the all-black leather get-up on top of stealing Neo's title?) What's with that?

And what of the bald black guy? Do all chosen ones have to report to bald black guys? I was bracing myself to walk out should Samuel L. Jackson take out a blue pill and a red pill and start asking Anakin if he was ready to handle the truth.

Apparently, Anakin was ready for it. The Jedi Council was not. With their supposed inclination towards being all-knowing, it makes me wonder why none of them ever encountered any of the old Betamax copies of Episodes 4,5 and 6. I mean, that would've tipped them off big time that their little Anakin from Episode 1 would grow up to be a monster.

Padme was not so glamorous in this Episode either. It seems like getting pregnant has caused her to lose all taste for clothes with color and style. My question is, why couldn't she have discarded her penchant for tights and running instead?

But while the movie raised many silly (but valid) questions in my head, it at least made clear why Jedis (or is Jedi already plural?) can't fall in love (as per Episode 1 and 2). Here's the long and short of it: they're lousy at it. (First they turn evil. Then they turn green. Which girl can take that?) I know I can't. (But then I'm not your regular girl.)

But hey, don't get me wrong. I'll take Hayden Christensen any day.
(Well, maybe not on his bad hair day.)

End Credits

#77: Ending of a Bleh Week

Squid Ink Paella. Whitebait in lemon & parsley sauce. White Toblerone Cheesecake. Green Tea. Postcard of Stonehenge. Stamp from Bavaria. News from New York. Greetings from Texas. Prayers from Sydney.

And that's how you rescue a bad week.

Hit Me Baby

#76: One More Time

9:40pm. The day should not have been this long. I dropped off my officemate at her house and drove off with thoughts of warm soup. 5 meters away from her house and less than 500 meters from mine, this water delivery truck stopped at the corner to let another vehicle pass. And his idea of doing this involved backing up.
Despite my wild honking.
Really loud and wild heart-attack honking.
Which the water delivery truck driver continued to ignore as he continued to back up.
Unto the car I was driving.
Which was not the old Accord.
But the BMW.

YYAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

He then turns the corner with a seeming attempt to drive off.
"Stop your truck, get down and talk to me!!!"
He slows down. Stops. Then checks if I'll get back in my car again so he can drive off.
"Stop it and get down now!!!"
The VW Beetle behind me honks angrily to tell me to get my car moving.
"You wait!!!"
I stepped on the gas, cut the truck and parked the car in front of it.
The driver still refused to get down.
"Didn't you hear me honking like crazy??? Why did you continue to back up???"
He points to the guy in the Beetle. He's the truck owner.

All the stress, weariness, tension and hunger imploded within.
And dissolved the rest of this story's details.

All that's left are the ff:

1.) The business owner is a midget. I was mad but I felt sorry for him when he stepped out and I saw that he was only around 4 ft.

2.) The truck driver only had a student's permit. No license. I wanted to strangle him but felt sorry for him seeing that he was too frightened to speak.

3.) First person I called was Daddy. I felt sorry for him because he had to come to the rescue again. My rescue? Or the car's? I'm not sure.

4.) My dad and brother arrived and took over. I felt sorry for the midget because my brother could eat him.

5.) All this happened while it was raining. I was soaked. So were my black felt driving tsinelas and my soft calf leather bag. I felt sorry for them.

Why oh why did this day have to be so long?

Pants Off

#75: Worthy to Wear Pants

"Hi, I'm Debbie, 45. I'm used to wearing pants in the relationship but if I can find someone who's intelligent and trustworthy, I'll be willing to turn my pants in."

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This girl right out of a reality TV show is ammonia-blonde with a Dolly Partonesque aura. Heavy eye make-up. Overbrushed hair. Hardly the type of person you'd think of giving the reins of a relationship to. It'd be more plausible to give her a cowboy hat, a guitar and a duet partner named Kenny Rogers. But that's beside the point.

This is one woman who is proud to say that she wears the pants in a relationship. Hmm. My mom, the other day, said something about how my personality probably scares men away. Maybe I'm too strong. Maybe I'm too tough. Maybe she's right. I don't know. But that doesn't mean that I do not believe that the woman should be submitted to the man in a relationship. If the woman is wearing the "pants," then that means the man had, at some point, abdicated his role to lead because of weakness or laziness. A lack of understanding of the crucial difference in the roles men and women play in a relationship has caused a lot of chaos and unnecessary hurt as women grow more and more accustomed to undermining the leadership of men, stepping all over men's egos; while men become more and more of invertebrates, lacking the capability to care for women and carry the relationship.

For me, the implication is, not that I would have to shave off the strength of my convictions in order to be less "scary," but that the guy for me has to have a far more solid and secure base. I cannot turn over the reins to one who is weak, lazy or lost. I cannot crouch unnaturally so that I can technically 'look up' to a guy in feigned admiration and forced submission to his leadership. He just has to be taller in character and worthy of this strong woman's deference. And such height cannot be reached by one who does not have depth in his faith in God.

Too strong a statement? Too tough a standard? Not when you know that the Designer and Architect of all has taken everything into consideration, knows you inside and out, and is preparing for you His best. Why settle for less than "he who is worthy to wear the pants?"

Borrowed Tomorrow

#74: My Gattaca

From what depths do you draw out the courage to face the crash of the waves to swim to the other shore?

When the horizon folds unto the slope of the round earth, do you say that is the end?

When the sand opens its mouth to embrace your feet, do you take that as a sentence to remain?

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Vincent Freeman, the main character in Gattaca, defied his limitations to achieve what no Invalid or Degenerate can. He turned his back on his past and fought each day against the cards he was dealt to follow his dream of being a space navigator. A borrowed face. A borrowed name. But the heart that craved it was his alone. In the end, he went beyond what was possible because he refused to accept the definition of impossible that was imposed upon him. That was his design. And that spelled his destiny.

It is no accident that I was able to catch Gattaca at HBO again today. This is my 3rd or 4th time. And every time, the movie just becomes more profound. More relevant. More mine.

Today is May 8, 2005 and today I borrow courage from Vincent.

Confessions of a Camera Junkie

#73: Counting Cams


Newest Baby 

Shoot me. I am guilty. I bought another camera two weeks ago and I don’t know whether to be happy or to get my head checked. Or kicked.

You see, our trip to Sydney highlighted the reality that one, it’s very hard to get normal people to understand the complex workings of an SLR camera (i.e., hard to get a decent picture of yourself because your companions will not have the aptitude nor the patience to figure out how the thing works); and two, it’s extremely difficult for me to entrust my Rebel to strangers for group pics (unless I get only amputees or senior citizens who can’t run fast to do that for us… in which case, we go back to my point # 1.)

It was a need. Really.

How else could I make my camera fit in those tiny chi-chi purses you're required to use during weddings? How else can I make picture-taking idiot-proof?

Of course, a close friend would hear none of this. It’s all crap to her. For her, the bottomline is that I’m a camera junkie in denial. Four cameras over five years. I can’t even let go of my two other film SLRs, one of which I haven’t used since my trip to Malaysia last year; and the other, I haven't touched since my trip to New York in 2002. Well, that was until I was overcome with guilt over camera gluttony when I purchased the last one that I decided to sell the two so I could still pass myself off as a sane person.

The other night, while packing for my North Luzon visit, I stumbled across 3 of my favorite pics from my 2002 trip. One was a picture of my cousin pouting at me. The other one was a picture of the railing of a bridge in Central Park. The last one was a pair of basketball shoes beside found words scribbled in chalk on one of New York’s sidewalks, “Become Your Dream.” Their quality amazed me. The subjects were so real. It was like I was discovering the beauty of film-based photos for the first time. I hate to admit it since I’ve supposedly thrown away my pseudo-film purist facade to convert to digital (see post #15), but film will always have an advantage over digital. I can’t put my finger on the exact thing but film photos seem to have more solidity and durability to them that digital prints can’t match. Well, at least not yet.

Now I’m torn between being practical and being a nut. Come on. It’s hard to let go of your first Pentax. Or your second one.

Seems like the nut prevails. For now.

Scenes from North Luzon

Vain Moth 

Ifugao Anito 

Banaue Anthem 

Our President Walking on the "Pilapil" 

Banaue Walking Sticks 

Banaue Rice Terraces 

Tens of Thousands of Bats from Callao Caves 

Callao Caves 

Riverboat Boy 

River Boats by Callao Caves 

River Boats 2 

The Price

#72: Of Shards, Of Silence, Of Dreams

That was the sound of his heart breaking. The silence - his silence tore her up inside even more. She had everything in her hands yet she could do nothing. Say nothing. Offer nothing.

He was left with nothing save for the sky that the ceiling concealed. He wished it concealed even more... like the stars that she was after now. Or the stars that glistened at the corners of his eyes as he told himself not to cry.