Fernication

I don't fully understand the obsession of people who collect Lomos -- those light, plastic toy cameras that bear exotic-sounding names -- but I can see the allure of owning one. It puts back a sense of awe and wonder into a practice that I have long treated as science, numbers, and jpegs. I can still remember when my dad handed me his SLR, a solid metal Canon AE-1 from the '70s. The shutter would close and open with a reassuring snap, and nothing was as cool as loading a roll of Tri-X or Velvia, and then winding the crank.

I really don't lament the shift to digital. If anything it's made life easier. What I do wish for are more opportunities to take pictures. Real pictures. I can only do so much food or product photography before I start dreaming of dancing bottles of lip gloss. Not that I wouldn't turn down more coverage. But there used to be a time when I thought of taking pictures more of an art rather than just another tool of the trade. Maybe that's why I envy Wawi Navarroza so much.

When it boils down to it, I want to work with people. Or parts of people. Heads, arms, eyelashes, and all the little piggies on the end of our feet. I've got some grandiose projects swimming in my head, but I just don't know how to pull them off right now. Maybe I should get more work.

In any case, if anyone out there has an idea -- something, anything out of the ordinary -- and you need someone with a camera, let me know. Let's work. Let's "collaborate". I'm bored. Restless. Horrified that whatever made the magic happen before... isn't the same as it used to be.

In an art history class back in college, a professor once told us that satisfaction was the death of desire. I hurriedly jotted it down, never really understanding its poignance until now.

One of the cheap thrills Bianca and I indulge in is making fun of the multitude of badly done billboards and road signs that dot Metro Manila. They're just fascinatingly inane and serve as perfect distractions while whittling away the time in traffic. It's like for every decent advertisement or public notice, there just seems to be half a dozen that are poorly conceived and executed in bad taste. I won't even get into detail with the Bayani Fernando/Boy Pogi tarpaulins that line EDSA, so here are some others:

1. Ghostly Appartitions
These are ads with endorsers who - through Photoshop wizardry or flash overexposure - frighten the bejeezus out of motorists with their pasty, white complexion, unearthly glow, and harsh makeup. Nominees include Gloria Romero for Ricky Reyes' "Ganda ng Lola Ko" campaign, bleached Glutathione celebrity endorsers whose only remaining features are their eyes and mouths, and of course, my personal favorite, Ellen of Ellen's Skin Care. I have nothing personal against her products, only that she could  give Jack Nicholson and Heath Ledger's Jokers a run for their money.

2. Too Much Flesh
Bianca has told me horror stories of a Bench Fever '06 billboard with brief-clad men clutching onto an enormous disco ball. No one else has confirmed this so I'm not sure if she's just out to spook me (which she does on a regular basis), but on the other hand, I don't want to go Googling for images of this either. Still, Bench has a lot to answer for especially with this past summer's menagerie of billboards featuring a larger-than-life Ding-Dong and Jake Cuenca brazenly thrusting their crotches while at some vague beach setting. Don't get me wrong; I can deal with the human physique. Hours of Figure Drawing lessons in college forced me to come to grips with old men wandering around the classroom in nothing but eyeglasses.

Let's face it. Sex sells. Whether exhibiting the male or female physique, it's  very, very effective. Come to think of it, Bench's target market may in fact be a demographic that would find bronzed adonises frolicking in the sand pleasing to the eye i.e. women and gay men. So actually, Bench is  quite clever. Sorry, Bench.

3. City Mottos, Mayors' Slogans, and All Kinds of Wishes by Councilors
I wonder if politicians really do maintain a stable of savvy PR-experts, or do they just go with the first catchphrase that they can more or less include their name ever so subtly? Mayor Recom Echiverri reminds us that Caloocan is a pleasant city to live in according to his slogan "Echeverri Nice Day!" On the other hand, Mayor Bobby Eusebio urges citizens in Pasig to work hard. His belief is encapsulated timelessly as "SIge Pasig... Sige Pa...", a motivational slogan that doesn't quite sound so innocent.

One would think that urban life in Metro Manila was harsh and gritty if it weren't for politicians who take every chance they get to send their well-wishes to people. There's "Happy Valentine's Day!" and "Happy Graduation!" followed of course by "Happy Easter!", which might as well be followed by "Happy Fiesta!", "Happy Independence Day!", "Happy Mothers's/Father's/Sister's/Brother's/Pet's Day!" all the way to Christmas and back again. And so you never forget that they always think of you, each street intersection bears witness to their thoughtfulness.

These messages are brought to us by an assortment of lovely personalities, but nobody comes as close to my heart as Councilor Bong Suntay. If you live in QC, you may know him from streamers who poses menacingly with boxing gloves on because, as we all know, he must be a "knockout" with his fans. 

I'm sure QC doesn't hold a monopoly in these things. Everyone has their own peeves: the crass ones that make you want to steer your car off the bridge, and the cheesey ones that, for all its... cheesiness...  have effective name recall. I Is it a good idea to leave ads to the professionals? Definitely. So why do Glutathione endorsers look like they've had the blood sucked out of them? For better or for worse, bad ads are all around us: on trucks, billboards, t-shirts, and on pechay-shaped pamaypay. Ironically, as much as some of these examples make my skin crawl, there's something about them that makes them, arguably, good at getting attention even if it's the wrong kind.

Hi everyone. I'm currently looking for artists (or the art-inclined) who can work during Saturdays as teaching assistants in my art workshop in QC. Currently, the courses are for Drawing and Acrylic Painting so applicants should be proficient in one or both mediums. I begun this workshop over the summer with a friend, and we've met with some success so far with 32 students, dozens of art works, a recently-completed exhibition, and some good money. And that's just for summer.

However, my co-teacher's moving abroad, and I need one or 2 people to help me manage the classes starting July 5th. Most students will be young (maybe 6-13), but I have older ones enrolled or about to enroll including college-level and working people (oldest is 50).

I'm not really looking for professionals -- sorry, but I probably can't pay for that kind of skill. Ideal people would be fine arts students, educ majors, and twenty-somethings who can delegate Saturdays for teaching art as side income. I'm still working out the details of the salary with my co-teacher, but do know that you will be paid fairly! Besides the monetary reward (let's face it, that would be enough!), there's that certain kind of joy one receives from teaching --especially when it comes to children. If you're not the type who would appreciate that, then this wouldn't be for you.

If you're interested, or know someone who may be, you can reach me at 09154009255 or 9288616, or visit the workshop's Multiply page at tintaartworkshop.multiply.com, or just click here. :-)

About the workshop
Tinta Art Workshop is an environment of learning with a main purpose of educating, tutoring, and epowering the artistic talent of the youth. The workshop holds summer and, now, school year courses which include Drawing, Painting, and Arts and Crafts. In the workshop, students learn to properly use their respective mediums to decorate, illustrate, and express their beliefs and emotions in a setting conducive to learning and fun.

High School seems so long ago that sometimes I forget I actually went to Ateneo. So it's quite strange, surprising, and delightful to find out that the Alumni Association website has chosen to feature myself and my co-teacher, Trins, with regards to our brainchild -- Tinta Art Workshop. It's nothing glamorous; just a writeup on who we are, why we started the workshop, and where it's going in terms of its future prospects. Still, if there was ever a time I needed a confidence boost, it would be now! *applause*

So my sincerest thanks to Raph Doval-Santos and the rest of the Association for counting us among alumni whose efforts are worth recognizing. For any almuni out there, the AAA are looking for stories to tell and people to feature. If you think you're one of them (or know someone who is), e-mail them at AAA@admu.edu.ph, or visit their site here.


Oh and wait! Tinta's new ART WEEKENDS! begin Saturday, July 5th. 2 courses - Drawing & Painting - will go on for 6 weekends. We've got kids, teenagers, young adults, and the young at heart in our classes, so if you've always wanted to learn art, here's your chance. I will be personally handling the classes as Trins will be moving to Jakarta for work. For more info on ART WEEKENDS! click here

The family planned a luncheon at Greens, a local vegetarian restaurant in the Scout area. Perhaps Garlic overheard us talking about the tasty faux sisig and tofu kebabs, and so, decided to have his veggies as well. 

PS. I miss writing "deep", thought-provoking entries. It was either the pooch or a seething lament of emo-ness. Woof!

So after 2 months of art classes, Trins and I have finally reached the culmination of our work. This is a showcase of the students we've spent our time and gainly wisdom with. Anyway, they're awesome young artists, and you and your friends should check them out. :-)

What: I HEART ART - A group exhibition by the Tinta Art Workshop Summer '08 students
When: Now until June 21, 2008
Where: 91A Roces Ave corner Scout Tobias, QC

Browse through Multiply and you won't have to look hard to find someone's fresh batch of travel photos. Naturally, it's summer, and the reasonable city-dweller will have packed his or her bags at least once this season to flee honking cars and the clickety-clack of trains for something much more soothing. People flipping 360 degrees on wakeboards in Cam Sur or basking in the powdery sands of Boracay -- these are just some of the pictures and destinations filling my Inbox right now. Just to see a shot of lush green landscape or the expanse of crystal-clear water seems enough to forget the drabness of the city outside my doorstep. At least for a while.

Everyone seems to be getting a travel itch these days:
Jon's been crisscrossing the States for a month now, having enjoyed casino winnings and Vegas showgirls among his other hijinks.
Bianca too spent a month in California, and one week later, was off to Malaysia.
Trin's is preparing to work in Jakarta next month.
Aiel's preparing to move to NYC for his Master's.
My parents are in a 9-day Alaskan cruise, jogging on the ship deck while admiring snow-capped mountains.
A bunch of other friends seem to island-hop every weekend just because.

And here I am, stuck in the city, my greatest achievement is driving as far Caloocan only to make a U-Turn before Monumento and head back to QC.

Sometimes I wonder where my sense of adventure went; if by chance it got tired of waiting, and has gone off wandering without me. Perhaps somewhere out there is an exact double, manic and daring, jumping out of airplanes and scuba diving dozens of feet into the blue deep. There was a time not too long ago when I prided myself in having a passport almost as thick as a club sandwich with the names of fanciful destinations such as Jamaica, Tokyo, and Budapest stamped recklessly all over the insides.

Just a while ago, one of my students, a sprightly sixth-grader, YM'd me saying she was off to the beach again. She never got around to specifying which one, as if all beaches were actually part of one very long stretch of sand from coast to coast. And it probably doesn't matter what your reason is -- if it's for snorkeling or diving or sunbathing; if you're there to spend time with friends and family, or to get away from everyone else. It must be the act of simply leaving things behind for something new and possibly exciting that gives me butterflies in my belly.

The kind that I imagine would stir some part of me to do the same.

To switch off the aircon, peek out the window for good weather, and walk out the door.

Once in a while, my family decides to do their shopping in a little nook of Indian delights along Jupiter Street called Assad. Upon entering the store, you'd be immediately overwhelmed by the aroma of incense. I felt drugged the first few times I went there, shambling around the grocery and going through boxes of exotic hair dye and cereal, or leafing through magazines written in squiggly Hindi.

Today I stumbled upon a pack of Parle-G biscuits, its bright yellow and red wrapper just screaming for attention. I was initially drawn to the doll-like girl, a rosy-cheeked ideal of Indian cutesy-ness complete with thick eyelashes and plump fingers, itching for biscuits.

There's something subtly funny going on. The word balloon stating INDIA REJOICES brings to mind crowds of Indian children hopping for joy at the fact that their favorite snack now carries one (1) extra biscuit (or 6.25% more in fact). An extra biscuit is a milestone of course, providing more milk and wheat yumminess to people worldwide.

Many questions arise from this, chief among them: What is the girl pretending to hold? What does "Original Gluco" refer to? Is wheat playfully stirred into a glass of milk on order to achieve the same great-tasting biscuits that plump children all over India have learned to love? What is the meaning of life? Is there life after death? Think about this next time you have some biscuits.

Once in a while, when I tell people I take pictures for a living (or partly for a living), they ask if I do weddings. I raise my eyebrows and look up to the ceiling, or if there's none, just admire the sky. "Well... not really." I don't really do weddings. Never done a wedding. Food? Sure. Fashion? Sometimes. Events? Yup. But weddings? Never. Ever. Sometimes the person clicks their tongue and says something like, "Sayang, you really should. There's a lot of money in wedding photography."

As if weddings are the be all end all when it comes it photography. Sure, photographers can make a killing just plying their trade in the sacrament of matrimony, but not everyone with a camera's cut out to do it. It requires patience, teamwork, persistence, and definitely a lot of investment in gear.  Then there's the pressure. Imagine you accidentally reformat your memory card on the go! Working within a short time limit and with so much money on the line would surely drive me insane.

But when it comes down to it, after all reasonable excuses have been said, the plain truth is I don't really like weddings. I truly envy photographers who get to know deeply each and every couple they work with, but I've had my fair share of wedding attendances - even hosted a reception - and for some reason each one demands immense endurance, gallows humor, and a lot of glasses of wine or champagne just to get through to the end. It's not that I hate weddings; that's different. When people say they're in love and would like to be together for the rest of their lives, that's great. I'll never quarrel with that. So it comes down to the pomp and ceremony of it, the mushy speeches and cliché oaths of love and sacrifice through the good and bad times that gets me riled.

Perhaps there are others out there - confused not cold, flustered not flattered - who also can't seem to shed tears of joy during weddings, even if it's someone so close who's tying the knot. Some would eventually ask themselves, When will it be my turn? When will I find my own true love?, or Our marriage used to be this happy! It's tough when one's mundane life is compared to what could seem like a fairy-tale showcase. Like the wicked step-sister of the Christmas syndrome, as others get happier, the more one's shortcomings get intensified.

Now I'm not out to bash weddings or relationships or anything. I just came from a wedding yesterday, and I'm just trying to figure out why despite the festivities filled with great people and great food, a part of me just refused to be impressed. Maybe I'm just naturally pessimistic. Maybe it's this totally alien concept people call "love" that seems to be in abundance all the time, but I can't seem to pin down. In the end, the problem isn't even about weddings or marriage; that's for the bride and groom to worry about. Maybe in time it'll change, but for now, the tricky part is sitting in the church pew, watching love unfold in front of you, and not being able to realize it.

"You will die because of my friend, Mr. God!"

The boy raised his fist dramatically like he was a miniature version of Hamlet staring at poor Yorick's skull. This was no empty threat. Or so it seemed. In his mind, his classmates were zombies and he was out to purge every one of them. How he ought to do it -- none of us had the faintest idea. Perhaps it would be by driving us insane as another student had suggested. After all, in the past half hour, the boy thought he was Spider-Man or Spider-Werewolf or something. He whirled his arm across the table cover, making big circles with the charcoal stick, and drawing squid-like things that threatened to eat all of us. His imagination was that wild.

I look at a framed watercolor hanging in my room, something I did when I wasn't much older than my student, and see the resemblance. Bold, swirling pink streaks that seemed to spill over the edges. Blotted splotches and loop de loops that went on and on. Somehow, in the framed painting is an invented galaxy. No moons or stars, but the blurry mass and random collision of inked ideas that could eventually spawn something greater.

This of course from a childhood that ended many, many years ago. But then again, it's visible in subtle traces on the papers pinned to the classroom wall. Scribbles and doodles that could be something greater. What that is, I don't know. These kids could be anything.

Join us at Tinta Art Workshop for our upcoming Painting Classes this April 21st! We'll be exploring watercolor and acrylic painting as exciting and enriching paths for limitless creativity and self-expression. Our workshop delivers personalized guidance balanced with fun group activities which aid in a fulfilling learning experience. Topics include color theory, brushwork, still life, and abstract painting.

When: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from April 21st - May 9th
             9-11 AM ~ Ages 5 - 12
             2-4 PM ~ Ages 13+ (yes, we accept grown ups who are young at heart)

Where: 22 South Maya, Philam Homes, QC

Limited slots only. If you'd like to enroll, please inform us by Saturday, April 19th, so we can prepare the necessary materials for you. :-)

Meet Yandro - one of the many students who's taking our Drawing classes at Tinta this summer. Like most 5-year olds, he's wildly kinetic, running around our classroom like he's on fire. He craves attention and will do just about anything to get it. Just this afternoon, he decided it was funny to make his yellow kneaded eraser 'ooze' out of the zipper of his pants. Of course, this was after he hopped across each stepping stone in the garden three or so times, shrilling with glee.

On a side note, he likes cheese sorbetes (he ate two cups a while ago, which turned him into a human cyclone), and worships Spider-Man. Just check out his red and blue Crocs and the plump spiders he added to his self-portrait. Sure, his attention span lasts as long as this sentence, but it's hard for the class to not fall for his boyish charms and little half-pranks.

So that's it. Join our workshop and meet our class mascot. :-)

it was only last week
one evening
she visited my house
like an old lover

the strings had been cut
what was left of it had been
wrung around her wrist
like a corsage missing its flower

to open her present
meant courage
meant shame
a reminder of being two years mute
and then she touches my throat

the fury was still there,
still missed
like a passion undone
hips hit, lips bit
smoke and ladders
snakes and mirrors

Just wanted to spread the word about my upcoming art classes this summer. If you and your friends are looking for something new to do, hey, why not try your hand at art? It's taught by yours truly and another instructor and good friend, Trins Roa. If you're too old, tell your younger siblings and cousins about us! With three exciting courses - Drawing, Painting, and Arts & Crafts - you won't be disappointed. Enrollment is now ongoing. :-)

For inquiries, contact me, Ryan Fernandez, at 09154009255 / 9288616. Check out our syllabus and other details at tintaartworkshop.multiply.com

Since it's summer, my friend, Trins, and I have decided to cash in - oops - seize the opportunity to share our talents with others and come up with an art summer workshop. Brainstorming up the idea was no problem. The basic gist of the argument was, well, we both are sort of into art, and both of us taught kids at one time or another. Combine these two realms of knowledge and we arrived at a more or less feasible new enterprise. Conjuring a syllabus hasn't been easy though. Given a list of topics to fill, all I've been able to jot down are vague phrases such as "April 2nd - Today we draw." and "April 21st - A painting will be painted". My hope is that one evening, magical art faeries will show up while I'm asleep, and finish the syllabus for me.

Next to that, the hardest part is convincing myself that I can still draw a decent flowerpot. The skill might be somewhere in the back of my brain, piled on top of other pathetic skills such as ice skating, ballroom dancing, and regular conversation. So I decided to go back to where it all began - my mysterious college education in the hallowed halls of Fordham. I visited the Visual Arts section of the school's website and found these...



This is where my advisor, Bill Conlon, lambasts our homework. Sadly, the tears of emotionally-broken classmates were never considered as a viable painting medium.



Yeah, I remember dressing like a bum and making drippy paintings all while being high on Red Bull. God how time flies.

Three knocks on my door, and then it creaked open. Something slowly crept into view. It was a white lump, round and smooth like the surface of a giant Macadamia nut. The mysterious lump turned itself to reveal a small tuft of black hair and, as the door opened further, two doll-like eyes, a small nose, and tiny pink lips. Baby Lance had come for a visit.

For a moment it seemed amazing that a nine-month year old could fly up and twist the door knob open. As a rule, infants stayed close to the ground, never really opting to fly around the room and spook people. But there was Lance, bobbing his head from out of the door's edge like it was a hand puppet show. It took a few seconds for my brain to register that someone may in fact be holding him up.

"Tada!" said a familiar high-pitched voice. My mom finally revealed herself, Lance helpless and scared in her arms. Or so it seemed.  It had been twenty one years since her only child began to wobble across the room, forsaking the safety and comfort of her presence to wander the wider world aimlessly in search of table edges to bump into and small dangerous objects to swallow. She was almost manic with glee reliving what seemed to be a second motherhood with this newfound baby.

"Uchuchuchcuchu," she said. Lance looked mesmerized by the odd sounds emanating from this strange woman's lips. It was both a blessing and a curse really. Incapable of tantrums, too mellow to squirm and budge -- his fate was to be passed around from aunt to aunt like a small sack of oranges or a bag of chips. They hoisted him up in the air and made him swoop like Superman. They tugged at his little hands as if introducing themselves to a Victorian gentleman. "How do you do, sir?" they'd begin. "What a pleasure to meet you!" But Lance simply stared back.

We would present him with colorful knickknacks: a small sculpture of a turtle, a shiny ballpoint pen, a set of false teeth. These would hold his attention for a few seconds before his eyes would glaze over and resume their blank stare into space. My mom would take this lack of enthusiasm badly to the point where she became desperate. She'd plop him on a couch and pretend to leave just to see if he would cry. Sometimes he didn't care, but usually he did, his smooth round face crumpling into a frown. It was amusing the first few times until I realized how it must have been with me. Here was my mother, the woman who abandoned infants for fun. Of course she'd only take a few steps before turning back, or hide herself behind the door before popping out again, but Lance panicked almost every time.

It wasn't long before they both got tired. She, exhausted from walking away and running back to him, and he, confused as to whether he should cry, laugh, smile, or pout. This was a game no one really wanted to play anymore. It was getting late, and Lance had to be returned to his real parents downstairs. He wriggled his arms and legs until she finally picked him up. My mom then held his slack wrist, and waved his hand at me. "Goodbye," the baby said. His voice was strangely feminine and squeaky as if coming from someone else. Like mother and son, they left the room as discreetly as they had entered.

Switching the TV on last night, I chanced upon Titanic. Usually this would get my skin crawling. It's been close to a decade since I first saw it, and I swore never to sit through the entire sappy, cry-fest ever again. Even now, many years later, hearing Celine Dione's My Heart Will Go On is enough for me to weigh the variable possibilities of ending the suffering as quickly as possible. The moment she wails the refrain, my eyes dart for the nearest sharpened kitchen knife or electrical outlet to put a fork in. Jumping out of a window is another option given that it's high enough from the ground to guarantee a cracked skull and immediate unconsciousness.

What stopped me from doing so last night was (besides being on the ground floor) that the TV network had conveniently chopped the movie into two or three digestible episodes shown each Sunday. Our helper Vivian lamented this, having already forgotten who was who, and what exactly was the plot. "Ay, nako. Si kwan kasi, si Leonardo tsaka yung  babae nasa barko," was all she could say. The story had finally gotten to the good part: Jack and Rose were teetering on the head of the ship which had already split in two and was being sucked into the deep. The rest of the passengers, those who couldn't hold on, tumbled down and across the deck, randomly slamming and bouncing off fixtures like pinballs. Fast forward a few scenes later and the unlucky couple is half-dead, drifting somewhere in the freezing Atlantic. In a selfless act of  sacrifice, Leonardo di Caprio, with icicles growing out of his nostrils already, finally lets go and sinks deeper and deeper and deeper and...

Of course this is all a flashback. An old Rose is actually just reminiscing all this time. Jacks continues to live in her heart,  a heart that will presumably go on. If there's a moral to the story it's that one should steer clear of icebergs that tend to show up out of nowhere like a cruel ex-girlfriend or overdue bills. Then again, it wouldn't hurt leaving behind a legacy to the world or at least to loved ones. Sure it's cheesy, but if you're trapped in a sinking ship you too would want to be remembered somehow.  Everyone old enough to know what death is has probably mulled this over at least once. Think about it. Imagine years from now people could still be talking about your perfectly preserved body coated with wax, or your marble tomb topped with golden cherubs and an eternal flame. Consider the fame and attention you'd receive when, centuries from now, archaeologists will discover the remains of your mummified self and your favorite pet. When you realize that history is a glorified bathroom stall with your name scribbled on the wall ("______ wuz here"), then you'll understand that the possibilities are endless.

Just the other day, Bianca was asked for a contest what wish she'd like granted. Knowing full well that the it was rigged from the very beginning, and that they'd grant her wish, she seriously began to wonder what she could get. Friends were texted, a survey was conducted, all in hopes of narrowing down the choices to one. "Wish for more wishes," I told her. "That's what I'd do." It seemed like a clever little loophole until she told me the wish had to be realistic and doable according to the contest organizers. In fact, it had to be within a certain budget. Instead of a fantasy trip to Italy, it seemed more likely that she would be getting a free lunch at Pizza Hut. But more than traveling abroad or getting a new computer, what she really wants is to be remembered. Far from my wild, morbid ideas of being mummified alive, or cryogenically kept until a time when science would be advanced enough to keep humans alive forever, her wish is much, much loftier.

"I want to be an acknowledged expert in a particular field--enough to be considered a guiding force for students who want to enter the same field. To become an authority on something, enough to make thousands of students need to read my work." Normally, this would be the kind of response that would get chuckles out of me; the kind of response that was returned with a loud snort and a sarcastic, "Come on, really now?" It's too deep and too ambitious; like a statement ripped from a cocky college essay or the question-and-answer portion of a beauty pageant for nerdy academics. But looking back at it, she's well on her way to fulfilling that wish, penning award-winning essays and being invited to speak in universities in and around Metro Manila. And it's been less than a year since she graduated.

In a way I was embarrassed by it. The wish was for her, but ultimately, it was posed on me and everyone else who's opinion she asked. To say you want a shiny new camera or to own a car built more recently than 1994 is peanuts. What do you really want? What do I really want? To wish for more wishes was to be like the snooty rich kid, bragging to others what he could buy but never really getting anything that made him happy. Hey, I want to be remembered too... I muttered to myself. How this would happen without showing up in a wanted list or a scandalous video on YouTube I really don't know. Tombs of gold are too expensive and gaudy these days. Freezing one's self is growing futile in a world experiencing global warming. Would there be anyone willing to remember this boy and recall his name  when shown a locket or a textbook? Would their heart to go on, letting the boy rest, finally, as he slowly, happily sinks to the bottom of the ocean?

If florists, chocolatiers, hotels, and Hallmark had their way, Feb 14th would be a national holiday. After all, with long weekends and breaks scattered throughout the Philippine calendar (not including the occasional tropical storm), would another holiday make a difference? To those in a relationship, but are quite worried that it doesn't amount to the explosive kind of heated passion advertised in film and television, you are not alone. Here's an excerpt from David Sedaris' short essay, The End of the Affair:

"They rarely make movies about long-term couples, and for good reason: our lives are boring. The courtship had its moments, but we've become the predictable Part II no one in his right mind would ever pay to see. ("Look, they're opening their electric bill!") Hugh and I have been together  for so long that in order to arouse extraordinary passion, we need to engage in physical combat. Once, he hit me in the back of the head with a broken wineglass, and I fell to the floor pretending to be unconscious. That was romantic, or would have been had he rushed to my side rather than stepping over my body to fetch the dustpan. "

"Call me unimaginative, but I still can't think of anyone else I'd rather be with. On our worst days, I figure things will work themselves out. Otherwise, I really don't give our problems much thought. Neither of us would publicly display affection; we're just not that type. We can't profess love without talking through hand puppets, and we'd never consciously sit down to discuss our relationship. These, to me, are good things. [...]"

"Movie characters might chase each other through the fog or race down the stairs of burning buildings, but that's for beginners. Real love amounts to withholding the truth, even when you're offered the perfect opportunity to hurt someone's feelings. I wanted to say something to this effect, but my hand puppets were back at home in their drawer. Instead I pulled my chair a few inches closer, and we sat silently at our little table in the square, looking for all the world like two people in love."

The thing with blogging is that the more angsty I am, the more I write. Little snippets of bitter word-play. Purposely ambiguous entries. That happened a lot before. I seriously envy people who can sit down and simply type, "I want gadget A," or "Today, I had pancakes with maple syrup," or "Today, he flirted with me." My girlfriend's good at that. Writing. She's won several awards for it by the way.

Tonight, I find myself wanting to write the same way one might want to fill an empty corner of a room. It doesn't have to be epic or fancy. Anything will do in fact. Sadly, nothing occurs to me. Where did all the drama go?






 

Does anyone know where I could get fake moustaches -- the kind Juan Luna sported back in the good old days? Ok, fine. Any kind of artifical facial hair would do. I could snip some fur from my dog, but I'd feel bad having him run around with a missing patch on his back.

So if any of you know, let me know? Ok? Ok. Ok!

Gracias.