Park view

Girl, Quezon City Circle

Bastusan na

Ana is joining us for dinner, so I was told, belatedly. Had I known earlier, I would have said I had a previous engagement which I'd then immediately proceed to make.

Ana has this voice that's grating to the ears and whatever's between them. It's like fingernails scratching a blackboard, painful enough to make your dead ancestors leave their grave and complain.

Her logic, if she can ever be accused of having the ability to form a sound one, is often twisted.

"Be nice to her this time, okay? J?" a friend said.
"Fine," I said. My pout was growing longer than a swordfish's by the minute.

The last time Ana joined us for dinner, I was leaving for the US for a short (and free) course. Someone had this ridiculous idea that we'd have a farewell dinner, like I wouldn't be back in two months. Someone had the more ridiculous idea to include Ana in the guest list.

Everyone remembers that dinner for the mean lines I threw at her. Long story. Let' just say I have this aversion to people who want to project a social status that's higher than yours, even to people like me who don't give a hoot about socials and status. You know the type.

"Heeeeeey! Howdy!" I heard her say as she approached our table.
"Here we go," I muttered under my breath. Under the table, a friend kicked my foot. Howdy? Who the heck this part of the planet uses that word?

The dinner conversation centered on summer, and vacation destinations.

"You, J, where will you go?" she asked.
"Somewhere south. I read about this nice island in Quezon and I want to see it this year," I said.
"Really? How far from Manila?" she asked.
"About five hours," I said.
"Cheap, as usual, I suppose?" she said.
Strike one, I thought. Breathe, J, let it pass.
"I guess so. P700 per day including meals with two snacks," I said.
"Great! What kind of food do they serve?"
"The usual, local products," I said.
"Ewww. I can't eat that type of food. Anything fancy?" she said.
"At P700? It's better than okay," I said.
"White sand?"
"I think so. The pictures showed white sand," I said.
"As nice and as fine as Boracay's?" she asked.
"I don't think so."
"Then it's not as pretty," she said.

I was beginning to feel hot blood pulsing through my veins, to my face. Hot.

"Do they have wi-fi there?" she asked.
I glanced at the person sitting beside me so Ana won't see the rage that was beginning to take over me.
"No wi-fi. There's no electricity there," I said.
"Ha? There's no aircon, then? Pobre naman doon!" she said.

"When do you plan to go to the island?" I turned to face her, my voice cold and calm, a sign known to my close friends that anger has won.

"I'm not sure yet. Why?"
"So I can find ways not to be there on those days, for the sake of the very few who believe you should still be walking the earth, breathing," I said.

All at once, several voices took over, all wanting to change the subject. But from that time on, whenever she said something, I responded with biting sarcasm, which is why my white sneakers are muddy now: A lot of foot kicked me beneath the table. But I was so damn oblivious to them and relished every evil line I dished out.

Don't get me started. Bastusan na. Wala akong pasensiya sa mga pasosyal.

I should be in class today

I wanted to enroll in this photography class, which would set me back P2,500 and make me wake up early for three Saturdays. I thought it wasn't bad, considering it's in Quezon City. I looked at the topics, and was disappointed the teacher just set a couple of hours for the technical stuff.

I found his website and grew more disillusioned. His pictures are okay, in the technical sense. But some were "photoshopped" to the hilt to look nice. The pictures had no....passion. There was too little art in his shots.

I don't know how to explain it. I just know when a photographer loves what he/she is doing. There's passion or playfulness in the product. There's joy. It's hard to explain, but you just know it. The pictures inspire you, give you a sense of awe.

So instead of sleeping early to wake up early for the class I'm supposed to take, I just twiddled my thumb, watched a pirated DVD and played with my camera.



Don't ask me how I did this. I don't remember. And I don't know what to call those icons. As you know by now, I'm the only surviving dodo.

Oh well. I'm sure there are other classes in the future.

Light as a frame

I liked how the huge clay pot behind her framed this little girl's face.




This kid is five. She lives in the park with her mom. They play hide and seek with the park's guards. Her dad is in jail.

Happy

After that emotional outburst, let's change the tenor of this blog a bit. My early morning Sunday date (No, he's not Chinese) had to be scrapped because of a paper that had to be written.

So I decided to call Direk May so I can have free photography lessons and a shoot in the afternoon. It turns out she had a spiels shoot. She asked me to join them instead.


"Uy, babalik ka na sa GMA 7?" Romi asked when he saw me.
"Oo, baka nami-miss mo na ako masyado," I said.
"Uy, alin sa mga kalukadidang mo ang napili mo?" I asked.
Ever the gentleman, he just made fun of my "kalukadidang" word.


I understand why you like this guy, Angel. But I'm so sorry. Close kami noong Linggo. Harharhar! We even had dinner pa. Poor you.


Sabit-sabit sila sa spiels. Haha!


Direk May and her men.


Sabit na naman.


"Nabubulol ako, palitan natin."

What was it?

I was busy getting lost on my way to Sulu hotel this morning. Blame it on road repairs, which entailed a lot of detours.

I saw him, in the middle of the road, holding three black garbage bags, his elbows bent behind his back, his whole body straining against the weight. He walked like he wanted to pee. Small, fast-paced steps which told me his load was heavy.

His hair needed a barber he can't afford. His shirt and shorts are grimy, darkened by the length of time he'd been wearing them. His skin was greasy, screaming for a bath.

He didn't hear my car approaching so I slowed down going past him. I caught a glimpse of him again via the side view mirror.

Ten meters on, my smile was gone. An inverted smiley took its place.
Another ten meters, my eyes welled up with tears.
Another ten meters, I broke down.
It hurts to write this down, but this blog is a collection of my days' events.

Naawa ako. Sobrang awa. Sobrang habag. Ang daming mahirap sa atin. Ang daming naghihirap. Ang daming nahihirapan mairaos lang ang isang araw. At sa mahal na presyo ng pagkain ngayon, lalo nang marami ang mahihirapan.

I think I need a shrink. I can't break down like that.
And I'm sure the psychiatrist will come up with something that has many letters, hard to spell and harder to pronounce.

Stolen shots

One Friday night, Sneakers and I went out for a drink. Make that late Friday night, because we met up at 11 PM.

It's atavistic. Ten years ago a night out with my closest friends started at 11 PM and ended at 6 AM. We'll have greasy eggs and coffee for breakfast and talk some more and before we know it, it's 9 AM.


Sneakers took this shot, saying, nay, fuming: "No more I don't want my picture taken!" I decided this was a nice compromise. Sneakers gets a picture. I get to hide. Then I stole it from Sneaker's page. Hehehe!

The thing with this picture is that my watch is on my left wrist. I don't wear my watch that way. I enlarged this photo to a gazillion degree, sharpened it, and saw that the Marlboro pack's prints are not backwards. Same with the P50 on the table. So why the heck was my watch on my left wrist? There are two bottle caps on the table, which means I'm far from being smashed.


I took this one while I was being pierced to death by a speaker armed with numbers, the stats type. "If x is a constant based on 1990 figures, and x was 85.4, then we can say that the depreciation rate is 1.5 percent computed on a per year basis. We need an upward trend of .04 a year for 15 years to meet the target....yada-yada-yada"

A camera is is like a boyfriend. You don't trust other people with it. Take them grubby hands off my boyfriend! Ergo, you end up with a million pictures, but none of them has you in it.

But these will do. Thanks, Sneakers!

By the way, on my way home, I was listening to one of my happy songs. For a change, it rang true: it was 3AM!

And no, I wasn't lonely!

Wedding pretty

This is my first wedding. Technically, not really. There was one wedding where I was the only one who caught the fleeting wedding kiss with an instamatic camera. The bride was furious with the photographer she hired. But then again, she should have let that kiss linger a bit longer. She was too shy to be kissed in public.

I like weddings because everyone's wedding pretty and smiling and hopeful. I just hate dressing up for it.

But this time, I volunteered to shoot so I won't have to dress up.


Her name is Monday. She'll probably name her kids Tuesday and Wednesday. If the skin's too dark, I'll bet she'll name a kid Black Saturday. Or something. I know someone who didn't have the benefit of a book of baby names and named his kids January, February, March, April. Don't ask me if it went up to December. I think he did, which is why we have a rice crisis. Dang.



I like the images, too. So somber and hopeful and symbolic of everything nice and calm and full of promise. I'll get married once they remove "until death do us part" and replace it with "until further notice."


Emotional moment. I wonder why there are so many tears shed during weddings. Is it because of the pots and pans a daughter will have to wash and a son will have to dodge?



The latest issue of i-mag photography which I bought, err, which Angel bought for me, says Edwin Tuyay has shifted to wedding and corporate photography after decades of photojournalism. It has an old picture of Edwin in action (sporting an afro! gasp!) during a pass-in-review. It has Fidel Ramos in uniform. Dang. Is he that old? I met Edwin during my days as a beat reporter. Nice guy. Some guys look better when they're older. Edwin is one of them.

Anyway, I'll probably invite myself to more weddings in the future, to practice on the unsuspecting bride and groom and guests.

If you see me being hauled off to jail for doing so, be nice. Follow the sound of the yada-yada, bring coffee and cigarets, and post bail. I'll be eternally grateful.

I'll shoot you, too. Promise.

Unrequited

This song was written in 1991. It's a difficult song. Bonnie Raitt was the original singer. It's number 8 on the Mojo list of top 100 greatest songs of all time.

I love this song because when it was written by Mike Reid and Allen Shamblin, they were inspired by just one quote from a guy who was on trial for shooting at his girlfriend's car.

"I learned, Your Honor, that you can't make a woman love you if she don't."

Here's to people who struggle to be loved by people who just don't see how special they are.

As one nymphet said: "IT'S THEIR LOST, NOT MY." Classic!

Halfway mark

Finally. Done with half. That was the more difficult half, really. But the more deadly part's coming up next. Of course, that's a riddle.

Madel texted to ask if there's a man in my life. ("May lalaki ka ba?"). Funny how many theories have been generated by the crazy posts I've been uploading lately.

I usually behave like this when I'm writing something that requires focus. Sort of letting off steam when one's angry. You should see me while I write. Nope, you shouldn't.

I want adobo. Really greasy adobo. Really nice adobo. I'm not a meat-eater but I feel like rewarding myself tonight.

By the way, I'm a good photographer. I know nothing about the technical stuff. I don't read manuals. I hate them, in fact. Why do they write it like they don't want to be understood?

I like the mistakes I make. My mistakes are so original. Like getting lost all the time. Did I tell you air freshener spray and underarm spray should be kept in separate parts of the house? Same rule for body lotion and body scrub.

I'm sure you won't want to live with me.

The thing is, I shoot with my heart. With so much passion. With conviction. I see images in my head. I don't like edited pictures. Or using filters. Editing is almost like cheating. You edit texts. Reality, you revere. If you didn't get it right, you try again. Of course, it's just me. Did I say you should share my view? But then again, you are all entitled to my opinion.

I can't cook adobo. In fact, everything I cook is barely edible. Even stray cats and dogs run at the sight (or smell) of my cooking. So should you.

No, Madel. There's no man in my life. No, Angel, I am not seeing anyone. You'd read about it in the papers under the heading "Metro Crime." Or something. Maybe obit. And oh, have you checked lately? I'm not in the dead people's section yet.

I'm in the middle of writing something. Some artists are moody when they paint. I think they make it a point to be moody so they can paint. Or they paint so they can be moody. Me, I write crazy when taking a break from writing what I should be writing.

Time to go out for dinner. I want adobo. Pork adobo. Really greasy adobo.

Astronaut

"A" wants to talk jologs over lunch, for a change. Forget the poverty level in Maguindanao and the ever-contracting spending on education since 2001.

So we decided to have a pathetic version of "Chika Minutes." Turns out we're not so "updated." I had to invent facts.

"So, so and so are separated now. Why?" he asks.
"The lady wants to be an astronaut," I said.
"You mean she joined NASA?," he asks.
"Technically, yes. She said she needs space," I said.
He laughed out loud and punched my arm.

Goodbye, Chika Minutes. No more. Hu kers if we don't know? Hu kers about the lives of people who earn their living by charming the very poor to pay for an hour inside a dark cave, only to be given a dose of bad singing, lousy acting and even lousier scripts?

If I hear "close lang kami" mouthed by another nymphet whose makeup is heavier than her brain, I swear I'm gonna scream.

There are days I wanna be an astronaut, too. Give me space.

Of course I'm not making sense. This entry is not supposed to. I'm just taking a break from lines that say things like "real per capita national expenditures in education in 1985 prices, in pesos."

If someone says "close lang kami" right now, I'd be sent to the slammer for slapping someone silly. Damn. Is it alliteration day?

Back to work with those stats, you dodo. You can't escape it.

The Pushkin problem

Some years ago, I was awakened early one morning by a phone call from a friend. She had just broken up with a boyfriend she still loved and was desperate to justify her decision. “Can you believe it!” she shouted into the phone. “He hadn’t even heard of Pushkin!”

(Read the rest here.)

I don't care what one reads, as long as one does.

I draw the line at music. Oh please, nothing mushy or the rice crisis will seem so trivial.

More on that next time. Meantime, I gotta earn a living.

Hug the ones you're with, people. Make them smile!

The Dodo Travels

There are many ways to get to Quiapo. Ask Ricky Lee. And I say there are several ways to get to Tagaytay.

Asows! I won't lie to you. I got lost. By now you know I've elevated getting lost into an art form. But instead of kicking myself (how does one do that, really?), I decided to enjoy the ride. And so I subjected Jiminy da Cricket to four hours of painful singing. My singing.

It started with my missing the Sta. Rita (or is it Sta. Rosa?) exit. I blame it on the SLEX construction that's been taking too long to finish. (By the way, I got it right this time. I took the right lane that led me to Alabang. I didn't end up in Pasay, which has happened half the time.)

So I thought I should try the next exit. It says nothing about Tagaytay. The next one, none either. Until I reached Calamba. I didn't know I've reached the end of the line.

The toll lady told me I'd have to turn around. But I saw a sign that said "Tagaytay Highlands" or something. So I thought if a subdivision claims to have a view of Tagaytay, it must be near Tagaytay, ergo, there's a way to the city.

I was alone. No cars in front of me, none behind me. The road was narrow. I was scared a bit. I saw a sign that said Laguna. Man, am I traveling deep into an area that's Laguna, not Cavite? How the heck do I get to Batangas? Solution? I dug into my CDs and loaded up on my usual happy songs.

Then I saw a sign that said Tanauan City. I got more confused. I reached for more CDs of my happy songs.

Then I saw this view.


I let out a whoop. This IS Taal Lake. I'm not far from Tagaytay. Then Calatagan is somewhere near that. Then Lian.



I got lost getting here. But I loved the road trip. I spent six hours staring at the small colorful fishes that hovered near the raft where I was reading. Then I had dinner by the shore and stared up the stars for four hours. It was a clear sky.

Then I went fishing for five hours the following day.



I felt good after my overnight stay.

A reporter-friend who re-introduced me to fishing ten years ago texted to say he was off the coast of Lubang island, fishing with a couple of friends aboard a huge fishing boat. Lubang Island I was told, is the island behind this fisherman.

We're setting up another fishing trip. I'll be with them "barakos."

Of ghosts and turds

I was working late in the office. My phone vibrates.
Text: Gabi na, office ka pa? Di ba may multo sa office niyo?
Me: Dati meron.
Text: Ano'ng nangyari?
Me: Sinampal ko. Lumayas. Lumipat diyan sa tabi mo.

Last night at 1 AM, I was about to sleep when da bes frend texted me.

Bunny: Bro, are you still up? I can't breathe.
Me: Then take your face off from between those huge breasts, you idiot. Those aren't your girlfriend's!
Bunny: Haha! Salamat sumagot ka na sa text ko.

I cleaned my bathroom today. The toilet bowl is agleam. Cathartic. Like removing from my life all the traces of shit I've been dealt with lately.

I encountered a turd. 'Nuf said.

PS: He was still breathing when I left.