It felt so one-sided
because she was the only one
who made the sacrifice
and defended their love
against all odds.
So while she shielded herself
from items thrown
that cut her deeper
than other physical blows
He was out
with other women
telling them that he loves them
and he’d whisper the
same things to her.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
It felt so one-sided
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
(stolen from a site i can't remember.)
2 AM. Manila.
The crowd is still thick. Many are mingling, bobbing their heads to the music, beer bottle in hand. Some find their way to little pockets of conversations happening between small groups of people. You catch the occasional flicker from cigarettes being lit up. It’s hard to hear anything else above the din so you just let your eyes wander to what people are wearing instead – the vintage shirt, a deconstructed pair of sneakers, an unusual accessory, a personalised bag. Stepping out for less noxious air leaves you with that distinctive ringing in your ears.
Rakenrol. Welcome to the local underground music scene.
Band logo, BoldstarMusicians, writers, photographers, and other artistically inclined people congregate in small, dimly lit venues to hear music. Live, original music. The vibe is warm and friendly. It’s easy enough to find yourself hanging out with a group of people even when you’re new. To the uninitiated, it feels exciting because you get to mingle with rock stars who have reached cult status. The lesser thrill (but a thrill nonetheless) would be meeting all these interesting people. And it helps that they’re nice too.
Much has been said about the Filipino’s penchant for music. Every neighbourhood in town has a self-confessed guitarist who gets called upon to play and sing during drinking sessions in front of a small sari-sari store (sundry shop). Restaurants in middle class districts have karaoke nights where its patrons can just sing the night away to Sinatra’s “My Way.” Many of our musicians and singers find their way in other countries’ hotels, clubs, bars, and even cruise ships. Truly, music is in our blood. And it is something we are good at. Bagging the title for the 2005 World Championships of the Performing Arts (WCOPA) is one such example. When Lea Salonga landed the role of Kim in the London and New York run of Miss Saigon, she affirmed that Filipino performing artists are “world-class.”
While this fondness for musical expression permeates all walks of life, what makes the underground, “indie” scene different is the pursuit of creative integrity in their work.
In a country where mainstream is king, making it big with one’s original composition can set a band for life. Or at least for the next five years. Songs that received heavy airplay ten years ago are still popular even now. Some have been remixed by electronica artists or revived by new bands. Even rock legends like Joey “Pepe” Smith of the Juan dela Cruz band, who at 59, is reaching out to younger generations by rocking it out with more contemporary bands.
Many of the indie artists have a strong following among the youth. Campus tours and pocket concerts around the country are well-attended and documented by various bloggers and scenesters on the Internet. It comes as no surprise that a lot of the audience are in bands themselves, doing the rounds at their school organisation’s event. Pretty much how the people they look up to now started out.
Getting the work out has also gotten easier, especially with the availability of digital formats and cheaper recording equipment. Nu107, a radio station that promotes rock and alternative music acts as a megaphone for anyone in the scene. Gigs become a hub for selling albums and other band paraphernalia such as t-shirts, pins and posters. iPods and other MP3 players become mobile music stations for listening to new yet unpublished materials. Online mailing lists become a veritable source of pretty much everything you need to know about the artist. Word of mouth and SMS are the tools of choice for spreading the word. It’s easy to be in touch and to find out where the next gig will be.
One’s network can stretch as far as other countries, where albums and materials are exchanged through the post with other musicians. This active conversation refreshes the scene with a vitality that has not been seen in recent years. Local bands were the “in” thing in the 90’s with acts like the Eraserheads being likened to the Fab Four. Their songs were quirky and presented a slice of life in an effervescent way. It was, distinctly Pinoy.
Though the Pinoy-ness in Original Pilipino Music (OPM) has always been there, there is, I believe, a more conscious attempt at infusing the work with a Filipino flavor, whether it’s using local instruments, writing songs in Tagalog (or some other dialect), or just singing about being Filipino.
We are also seeing more collaboration across genres and groups. The clash between “metal-heads” and “hip-hop” groups in the early 90’s often resulted in their disciples slugging it out in a popular mall in Pasig. The times have definitely changed. Hip-hop music in a rock act is enthusiastically anticipated by both fans and listeners alike. Electronica artists fuse multi-media and visual arts when they perform.
Ironically, the underground movement is permeating the mainstream surface.
Advertisers are now taking notice of the influence of these artists, signing them up to grace a campaign or pen out the sound track for TV or radio. Some have become endorsers. Even noontime programs have invited them as guests. Many have been on MTV. There’s nothing as mainstream as that. An ambitious project to bring together alternative and classical music gave birth to Rockestra, which had six of the major indie bands perform with the Manila Symphony Orchestra, the oldest symphony group in the Philippines.
Despite these developments, life is hard for those who choose to be a musician in the Philippines. Not much value is placed in the arts, unless you’re an artista (movie star). These artists do not get paid a lot even if they’re more popular than an upcoming starlet. Lucky if they receive a pittance at all. Free food and beer sometimes become the staple payment in low-cost productions.
Getting signed by a major label is an exciting prospect but also provide a source of unease because they tend to meddle with the creative process.
“Bakit pa? Eh kaya mo naman gawin mag-isa.” (Why go with them, when it’s easier to do it yourself?)
Artists are aware that they can get additional mileage from record labels but it’s no longer a compelling reason to go to one. Major labels have cut back on their budget and would rather put their money behind a safe and popular choice. No one’s willing to take the gamble. Those who do get signed give the master copy of their album. The attitude is simply, “take it, or leave it.” No retouching. Please.
These people perform because they love what they do. Fame and fortune are nice, but not on the account of being owned by someone else. The thought just makes them cringe.
The success of a gig is dependent more on whether it was fun rather than how much money was earned from it. No one wants to play to an unresponsive audience. “Sulit kung lahat masaya” (It’s all worth it when everyone’s having fun) is the quick reply.
An outsider might think that the starving-artist syndrome is typical of these indie artists. A quick reality check shows that they do have “day jobs” that help pay for their craft. Several years ago, all one did was to play in a band. But no one is exempt from paying the rent. No matter how seemingly uncompromising one is.
When night falls, one leaves all these concerns at the door. In this case, the door is at Sa Guijo, a two-storey house that accommodates a thrift shop, art gallery, and band performances.
There’s just something about playing in a more intimate environment that puts you in touch with yourself. Even for those who made it big. It calls you back to participate, listen, and discover. No posturing, no egos. You come as you are.
At the end of the day, it is still all about the music.
*Rakenrol is a derivative of “rock n’ roll” which has been loosely used to mean a lot of different things – from c’est la vie to “just wing it.” And it’s a nice way to start and end a conversation with someone.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
So I bought a deck of tarot cards during a trip to Hong Kong a few years back. I only had but one concern when I made the purchase then – the illustrations had to be nice. No campy medieval images. Just really nice drawings and maybe a guidebook that’s easy enough to follow.
I never read for other people because I don’t think I’m “gifted” enough. To do so would be a great disservice to those who do. I use my deck to stimulate me creatively. I like how the cards unfold themselves, revealing plots and twists. I become both storyteller and listener. Truth becomes relative. It’s almost like iterative fiction. If there’s such a thing.
But today was different.
Maybe I was looking for answers from beyond. Maybe I needed something to focus on. But whatever it was, I didn’t take out the cards to amuse myself.
I lit a candle and sat down. I shuffled the deck cautiously, hoping that the way they’re rearranged can influence what I’ll be seeing.
And so I read.
Trial. Objectivity. Strength. Love. Surrender. Time.
The cards unfurled what I state I was in and what I needed to do. Whether it was something I already knew, there was no doubt that I had to move on and set myself free.
With all the noise around me, sometimes it’s hard to recognise which signs are actually relevant and real. Call it an over stimulation of the senses, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to listen and see what really matters. A curse and blessing of the times.
At the end of the day, you just need to be quiet enough to hear your own voice.
In a dimly lit room. November 3, 2005.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
I urged myself to get up but no amount of goading worked. The ceiling was staring at me with a cold blankness that made it difficult to look away. I felt the hot trail of tears making its way to an already soaked pillow.
Something inside me died that day.
I’m starting to think that the problem might be deeply rooted and just manifest itself that way. He has become a serial offender. Without remorse or guilt. I was horrified to learn that he did the exact same thing the following day. After promising me that he won’t do it anymore. I wanted to run, as far away as I could. But he stopped me.
“I don’t want to lose you. I’m sorry. Please. Please. Please don't go.”
And I believed him.
Dumb, fucking idiot.
People have been amazed at how I’m handling it. I too, have been surprised by my resilience.
I wish I were really that brave. In the four corners of my bedroom wall, I feel small and afraid. The heaviness threatens to envelop me into hopelessness.
I thought I knew him. And maybe I did. Because I saw right through what’s eating him. He said that I forced him to look at himself and he didn’t like what he saw.
What pains me is that he knows that he’s giving up something that will probably never happen in both our lifetimes again. We were friends, lovers, partners-in-crime. We found both comfort and challenge in each other. He inspired me to be better. With him, I felt that there was nothing I couldn’t do. And his friends noticed the same thing about him. It was a profound happiness that I never thought possible.
When something’s bothering him, I felt it even when we’re not together. It seemed irrational at first, but we soon discovered that we had an unexplainable bond with each other. Sending messages at the exact same time, placing calls just because we happened to be thinking about each other at the very same moment. It was uncanny. And I knew then that what we had was the real thing.
It was, unfortunately, the same connection that gave me that gnawing feeling that he wasn’t being completely honest with me. Paranoia comes from mistrust. I didn’t want to be caught up in that.
One night, while we were laying out all our cards, I shared my anxieties with him. I just had to ask.
What I learned disgusted me. I wanted to know why he did those things. Why it had to happen over and over. Why us? Why me?
Nothing is hopeless. People can change. Everyone deserves a second chance. And I gave it.
“No more lies. No more secrets.” He said, holding me close.
I believed him.
In the end, he let his demons consume him.
Somewhere in Manila. November 3, 2005.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Sa buhay na ito
Kundi nasa ibabaw
Piliin mo ito
Kung takot ka sa mundo
Ang buhay mo ay iyo lang
Ligaya sa pagiisa
Manila, November 2, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
“I think I want to be a travel writer next year.”
“Then go for it.”
Yeah. I told myself with quiet resolve. I glimpsed at Isa who also seemed to be deep in thought. I stared at my coffee, milky-brown from too much milk. I don’t know the first thing about travel writing.
I don’t really write. I drew. I made art projects for other people. I did comic strips. I was a skilled squigglist. My friends on the other hand, wrote. Articles for the school newspaper, poems in literary folios. Serious stuff. My ex-boyfriend was a writer.
Writing was a passing fancy in fourth grade. I churned out page upon page of childish prattle from an old, musty typewriter. It was brown, heavy and a little rusty. No casing to hide the long, skeletal arms whose keys left blotchy characters on paper. I loved it. I declared myself a “writer” in the summer of ’89.
In that same year, I discovered the beach. My first ever. It was the filthiest, most crowded piece of shoreline I will probably see in my lifetime. The water did not disappoint me. It was as salty and stingy as I imagined. The sand was coarse and hot and littered with empty bags of Chippy. I’d watch the sunset with a Kentucky Fried Chicken drumstick in one hand and a watered down Coca-Cola in the other. Such bliss.
Several years later and the lure of Batangas beaches over, I boarded the next transport to many other places. With camera in hand, I have amassed hundreds of photographs that never really found their way anywhere. Except maybe Friendster. I was never the instamatic kind of shooter. I detested the lack of control that one button gave me. “Press here, stupid” it seemed to tell me.
I inherited my dad’s old Canon SLR when I got to college. It felt nice and heavy in my hands. The camera was also equipped with macro-lens that I enjoyed using for black & white portraits. A few semesters before graduation, I was told by a friend and fellow enthusiast that she used my portraiture style to shoot writers and artists for a special issue of Heights, the school’s literary publication. Unfortunately for me, I never really had the guts to have my pictures published.
I would end up bringing this same camera to many local trips. By then, I had learned how to use the flash properly and even invested in a nice camera bag. I wanted to know more about the craft to the point that I became obsessive about it. I bought books from Amazon and flipped through old issues of Life magazine and National Geographic. I attended photo expos in Glorietta as an usisero – always looking but never really buying. I even toyed with the idea of being a photojournalist after college. Touring the world and covering important events were exciting propositions. Just me and my Nikon (because all important photojournalists seem to have them). I even sent an inquiry to study photography in France. I wanted a scholarship. The school would follow up on me for the next two years. I never bothered. I bought a book on Henri Cartier-Bresson instead.
“Dude, you just have to go out and do it.”
For all the pipeline dreams I have, this is something that seems worth pursuing. And if there’s something I do know and can do is that I write with pictures.
Yeah. Why not?
One morning in the pantry of an advertising agency. October 2005.