“The difference between a smart man and a wise man is that a smart man knows what to say, a wise man knows whether or not to say it.”-F.M. Garafola
Reading has no other end than learning. That may very well be arguable, but I stand my ground. In the case of reading for entertainment: we are entertained when we learn of events that have occurred elsewhere, fates that have befallen others, ideas from others’ minds. Reading to merely pass the time also still allows one to learn, although passively.
Through reading too, we get to augment what we know, and also learn how much we really don’t know. Much like standing on the highest peak of a certain place—we see a lot; further our horizon, and yet, we know that beyond that horizon, there is more to discover, more to learn.
Reading also gives one a better command of a language—allowing you to say more with fewer words. This lends better direction to what you think, what you say, and eventually what you write. Simply put, it simplifies life.
Let me end with the reminder that the best readings of a work are done between its lines but not all lines are of words, on books, on paper. Sometimes, the best stories are told by the lines of a furrowed brow, streaks left by fallen tears, lips parted in silence—the lines of a weathered life.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
iDunno
The iDunno; Apple's largest influence in my life.
Alright, alright-- it's all in my head. Lately, more than ever, I've been pondering whether or not to purchase an iPod Touch or an iPad of my own. Everyone around me seems to have either one of those, or at least even an older iPod. I know of some who've owned practically all the versions of the iPod, and yet I haven't owned one. Not even one.
Don't get me wrong. I've had plenty of experience with Apple Products. I've played with iPods and iPhones; iPads, both original and spin-offs; and even MacBooks. They've just never been mine. The closest I've come to owning my own Apple Product are the different versions of iTunes that I've had-- once for my Moto Razr, and my current one is the version I downloaded to keep track of the clips we used for our radio productions.
So, why don't I get an i-Something of my own?
Well, iDunno. Well, actually I kind of do.
First off, I don't like Apple's proprietary accessories. Just the PC cable irritates me enough, though the player I use now is guilty of this too, my player was just a gift, and not a purchase willfully made by myself. There are also some accessories such as speakers which work for only the newer products. This is practically discriminatory.
I've also kind of been back on computers. My family just doesn't understand the use of buying newer, better ones when the old ones still work. So, iTunes has almost always been a problem for me. It made my computer lag like crazy-- all for what?
And please don't get me started on the iTunes interface. My current player allows me to drag and drop my files into it via Windows Explorer, create folders, etc. Much like a regular flash drive. iTunes won't even let me use my Windows Playlists. Not that I have much, I just don't want to redo things I've already done before. I've also have numerous iTunes crashes. Misspelled names also make the program create new entries. Meh.
Also, at the rate that Apple comes out with new products, before I saved up enough money to buy my own product, mp3 players went from black and white disk based ones to touchscreen ones and tiny tiny, paperclip-sized ones. Not to mention the sometimes lack-luster updates.
As for the iPad, for its price, I'd rather get a new laptop with GOOD wi-fi. Wi-fi that doesn't freeze my webpages et al.
Still, iDunno what to get. Maybe I should start with a bigger bank account first.
Alright, alright-- it's all in my head. Lately, more than ever, I've been pondering whether or not to purchase an iPod Touch or an iPad of my own. Everyone around me seems to have either one of those, or at least even an older iPod. I know of some who've owned practically all the versions of the iPod, and yet I haven't owned one. Not even one.
Don't get me wrong. I've had plenty of experience with Apple Products. I've played with iPods and iPhones; iPads, both original and spin-offs; and even MacBooks. They've just never been mine. The closest I've come to owning my own Apple Product are the different versions of iTunes that I've had-- once for my Moto Razr, and my current one is the version I downloaded to keep track of the clips we used for our radio productions.
So, why don't I get an i-Something of my own?
Well, iDunno. Well, actually I kind of do.
First off, I don't like Apple's proprietary accessories. Just the PC cable irritates me enough, though the player I use now is guilty of this too, my player was just a gift, and not a purchase willfully made by myself. There are also some accessories such as speakers which work for only the newer products. This is practically discriminatory.
I've also kind of been back on computers. My family just doesn't understand the use of buying newer, better ones when the old ones still work. So, iTunes has almost always been a problem for me. It made my computer lag like crazy-- all for what?
And please don't get me started on the iTunes interface. My current player allows me to drag and drop my files into it via Windows Explorer, create folders, etc. Much like a regular flash drive. iTunes won't even let me use my Windows Playlists. Not that I have much, I just don't want to redo things I've already done before. I've also have numerous iTunes crashes. Misspelled names also make the program create new entries. Meh.
Also, at the rate that Apple comes out with new products, before I saved up enough money to buy my own product, mp3 players went from black and white disk based ones to touchscreen ones and tiny tiny, paperclip-sized ones. Not to mention the sometimes lack-luster updates.
As for the iPad, for its price, I'd rather get a new laptop with GOOD wi-fi. Wi-fi that doesn't freeze my webpages et al.
Still, iDunno what to get. Maybe I should start with a bigger bank account first.
I Believe
It sometimes bothers me that I feel like I have too much of a human-interest-bordering-on-emotional perspective of most everything in life. It bothers me more when I have to confront it in relation to other disciplines, journalism not being an exception. Of the four articles we had to read this week, of all the points raised there, that which affected me the most was the issue on having too much teaching from Realities in RP Science.
In the olden times, one’s profession became part of one’s name, eventually becoming the name by which the family went. Cartwright’s were cart makers. Miller’s were those who tended to the mill, and the grains. If professions were so important then, that it became part of one’s identity, I could not help but wonder about the political correctness of the designations of today.
There is a hierarchy in the academe. Educational attainment earns one the right to use the title of “instructor,”“lecturer,” or even “professor.” But what do these people really do? A senior from my course once asked me,”Have you ever had a good prof from our department?” In my head, I reviewed my whole academic stint and came up with but a handful of names of those who have seriously influenced me by their teachings. These are the few who truly still profess—those who strive to enlighten, to inspire, to impassion. They to me truly deserve to be called professors. Everyone else? Everyone else who exist without passion; everyone else who cannot make one dream? They may very well be just chismosas to me.
Allow me to end with a poem I had written back in the years enamored by the rebellion of youth.
In the olden times, one’s profession became part of one’s name, eventually becoming the name by which the family went. Cartwright’s were cart makers. Miller’s were those who tended to the mill, and the grains. If professions were so important then, that it became part of one’s identity, I could not help but wonder about the political correctness of the designations of today.
There is a hierarchy in the academe. Educational attainment earns one the right to use the title of “instructor,”“lecturer,” or even “professor.” But what do these people really do? A senior from my course once asked me,”Have you ever had a good prof from our department?” In my head, I reviewed my whole academic stint and came up with but a handful of names of those who have seriously influenced me by their teachings. These are the few who truly still profess—those who strive to enlighten, to inspire, to impassion. They to me truly deserve to be called professors. Everyone else? Everyone else who exist without passion; everyone else who cannot make one dream? They may very well be just chismosas to me.
Allow me to end with a poem I had written back in the years enamored by the rebellion of youth.
I preach my Faith
Not just God's word.
It's my belief-- my own
Not the whole world's
Saturday, July 10, 2010
July 10, 2010
Hmmm... Today...
Well, mom bought me a new sofa to replace my old love. And she bought a sofa that's bigger than my bed... So... hahaha
I realized that I should have written about my gym experience for the new experience project rather than all that philosophical shit I used.
I think I'll continue commuting on Mondays na. So that I can make-tipid din in a way. Well, we'll see. :)
This is today in some photos.
Review/Commentary 2
TL;DR
TL;DR. I’m not sure if you have come across those letters before. I sure am proud that I haven’t seen it as a comment on any of my works, though I’m quite sure some people have thought of it.
Seated on my shabby sofa chair, laptop before me, a cold drink by my side, I feel older than I should with my vision seeming to fail me. Amidst multiple open browsers and web pages spewing out seeming gibberish about my thesis, a familiar “ding” distracts me. A sound I thought would be a welcome surprise—a distraction. I look to the lower right-hand side of my screen and see that it was a notification. It read: “This Week’s Readings.” I just about dropped dead.
I wanted to freeze the moment—pull out of my body, snap a picture of myself there, and with big, blood-red letters, stamp across the image: TL;DR. Yet, I took it as a welcome change of scene as I initially thought it would be.
The first three articles were really a sight for sore eyes and tired minds. They really brought me to a different place; a world different from what was just a browser tab away from them. In fact, I was reminded of the new experiences that I had undergone for this very subject. I wanted to write my project the way Neel Chowdhury wrote about the railway system of Malaysia. I wanted people to feel my own impatience, see the sights, smell the discomfort the way I felt his through his article. In the same manner, David Pogue re-awoke my desire for a new phone; an endeavour that I had side-lined because of so many other things to worry about. And Dylan Tweney’s article on tweeting through the opera brought me fond memories of my days in the news and war room of ABS-CBN. It even brought to mind a similar project which one of our shows featured wherein Romeo and Juliet was played out entirely through tweets. I was so engrossed that I felt like I could read all 5 articles then and there and then write my own.
I then opened the Kentucky Derby article and just by the way the scroll bar shrunk, I knew I was in for a read. By the 2nd time he mentioned “Playboy,” I had already become enthralled, confused, and then also lost interest. By the Friday before the author even wrote about the big race, I had once again stamped the scene that was my life with TL;DR. The varying shades of gray and white did not help keep me on the page either. What I understood from this article is that he had transformed into something he feared—much like a zombie in an apocalypse.
As for, “The String Theory,” this is the only one that held true to TL;DR—too long; didn’t read.
TL;DR. I’m not sure if you have come across those letters before. I sure am proud that I haven’t seen it as a comment on any of my works, though I’m quite sure some people have thought of it.
Seated on my shabby sofa chair, laptop before me, a cold drink by my side, I feel older than I should with my vision seeming to fail me. Amidst multiple open browsers and web pages spewing out seeming gibberish about my thesis, a familiar “ding” distracts me. A sound I thought would be a welcome surprise—a distraction. I look to the lower right-hand side of my screen and see that it was a notification. It read: “This Week’s Readings.” I just about dropped dead.
I wanted to freeze the moment—pull out of my body, snap a picture of myself there, and with big, blood-red letters, stamp across the image: TL;DR. Yet, I took it as a welcome change of scene as I initially thought it would be.
The first three articles were really a sight for sore eyes and tired minds. They really brought me to a different place; a world different from what was just a browser tab away from them. In fact, I was reminded of the new experiences that I had undergone for this very subject. I wanted to write my project the way Neel Chowdhury wrote about the railway system of Malaysia. I wanted people to feel my own impatience, see the sights, smell the discomfort the way I felt his through his article. In the same manner, David Pogue re-awoke my desire for a new phone; an endeavour that I had side-lined because of so many other things to worry about. And Dylan Tweney’s article on tweeting through the opera brought me fond memories of my days in the news and war room of ABS-CBN. It even brought to mind a similar project which one of our shows featured wherein Romeo and Juliet was played out entirely through tweets. I was so engrossed that I felt like I could read all 5 articles then and there and then write my own.
I then opened the Kentucky Derby article and just by the way the scroll bar shrunk, I knew I was in for a read. By the 2nd time he mentioned “Playboy,” I had already become enthralled, confused, and then also lost interest. By the Friday before the author even wrote about the big race, I had once again stamped the scene that was my life with TL;DR. The varying shades of gray and white did not help keep me on the page either. What I understood from this article is that he had transformed into something he feared—much like a zombie in an apocalypse.
As for, “The String Theory,” this is the only one that held true to TL;DR—too long; didn’t read.
Assignment 2
The Experience Article
Happenstance
“Write in white heat; edit in cold blood.”
My journalist mom always told me to stick with what I knew. But in writing this new experience project, I wanted to steer as far away as possible from that. Given this assignment, much like when I first entered UP, I felt like I could conquer the world. I had a multitude of experiences that I wanted to try and experience for myself, some of these new and quite far-out while others I had already experienced for the first time years ago and have mostly forgotten about.
I started a lot of experiences simultaneously. I tried to steer clear of Facebook (FB) and the general internet for a whole week. I tried making dinner for a week. I even tried going to the wet market one weekend with my mom. These were all wonderful experiences—which the universe seemed to conspire against.
Thesis writing seems to have internet use as a requirement these days. With a lot of sources and resources up online, I was on the World Wide Web the very afternoon that I came up with the idea of ditching it. Apparently too, more and more people are using FB to coordinate even school activities; people including professors. I failed that endeavour on my 3rd day of being FB-free.
I thought dinner would have better results. I really do cook after all, my recipe having already been featured online once. http://www.pinoycook.net/ernests-pancit-canton/. I cooked a total of three dishes, two of which have pictures here. The first one was pasta with sauce from scratch. It had fresh tomatoes, chicken chunks, and even olives. It was a lot like a cooked salad, actually. I think I’ll be making it more often.
The next one was Bicol Express. I chose not to check out recipes beforehand because I wanted the recipe to be my own. I just winged the procedure.
Later on, I learned that I should have used either bagoong or patis and not just salt for flavouring, and my gata should have been nagmamantika.
All in all, it was delish! The last dish was something I forgot to photograph. Both cellphones were charging and I didn’t dare bring my camera that close to boiling soup. It was Misua with Patola and Meatballs. It ended up being very tasty though clumpy and strange. Note to self: unlike other types of pasta and noodles, misua is not supposed to be washed before use. It disappears into the drain. Alas, my culinary escapades came to an end the night before I had to pass 50 more annotated bibliographies for my thesis. So much for my Michelin Star!
Lastly, mom and I went to the market! It’s been so long since I’ve gone marketing. The last time I stepped foot in a wet market was as an actor shooting a short film. That was an experience that is worthy of a blog-post of its own. Anyway, the day started early. We favour a wet market in Taguig which has a nice selection of different finds and are open from dawn until around lunch time. Different because they have stuff that are fresh from mom’s childhood-in-the-barrio-memories like itlugan ng manok or what I think is the tract that eggs pass through in a chicken. It’s like an intestine with eggs in various stages of development. It’s quite good with adobo or tinola. They also have fishes that are sinaing or cooked in brine and, sometimes with pork fat and kamias or the Bilimbi fruit—a sour Cucumber-looking thing. I personally don’t eat this dish, but mom loves it. The thing is: we couldn’t find the market! There was a vast, empty lot where it should have been. That goes to show how long since we’d been there.
I was feeling kind of lost already. My backup plans were not backing me up at all. Then, a bit of luck—or the lack of it, tossed me into an experience that was not quite new, but definitely out of my routine and comfort zone. I had to commute from Paranaque to UP Diliman. Something I haven’t done again since 2007—my first year in college. I have taken public transportation to North Avenue since then, but even that experience was a year or so ago.
My car was broken and no one could take me to UP that day so early in the morning. I had a practice for a performance and could not afford to be late. My family went into crisis and troubleshooting mode. Within minutes of calling my aunt if I could hitch a ride to the Taft Station, an uncle had been assigned to take me to UP, lunch had been packed, and my fare was all laid out. My allowance was also slashed to 200 Pesos; 100 pesos in two different wallets so that should I lose one wallet, or God forbid it get stolen, I’d still have another 100 on me. This was not what I had in mind. I specifically wanted to burst this little protective bubble and just get on with life.
I explained to them that I could not wait for my uncle to take me to school at 10 am precisely because I had a schedule to follow. They had apparently been expecting that, hence the other preparations. I also told them that I would not be taking the packed lunch because I wanted to travel light. And that, yes, I would travel alone. I did not take anything else they had laid out. I unpacked my backpack—took out my big camera, heavy script, excess books, and laptop leaving me with just 2 books and a notebook and a bunch of index cards. I took my wallet and cell phone pouch. My wallet had about 600 in broken bills, my pouch had about 50 pesos in coins. I also grabbed my old, small, point-and-shoot camera. The looks of smile-masked worry on my family’s faces were priceless.
The ride to the station was filled with idle and nervous banter. I don’t know how many times she offered to take me to school in just that short trip. She’s an important lady, mind you, with people waiting for her orders and instructions. And, well, she could make them wait if she wanted. I declined. She comforted herself in reassuring me that my dad (and perhaps all our dead relatives) would be there to guide and protect me. She then segued into the give-the-bad-people-your-phone-and-wallet speech. Perhaps the 5th time I’d heard it in the same hour. But her voice had never seemed more beautiful, nor the sky any cloudier than that moment. I cannot say that I was not scared.
She dropped me off as close as she could to the steps leading into the station. I got off, looked back, and waved. I had my happy face on. The moment I turned my back, my game face took its place. “I’m not new, I’m not lost.” These were what I wanted to project to everyone around me. Everyone who didn’t even seem to notice I was there. The steps into the station were the same, the station itself was not. There were signs and passages I swore were never there. And the ticketing booths had transferred and so did the place to line up. Dammit, I was lost. I kept my cool though. I followed the general flow of the people until I was assimilated into the unified mass of bodies. It was all like a procession in some festival—the sights, the sounds, the smell. People all around me were mumbling, some probably reviewing their schedule, some their routes, I definitely heard some curses from some though. I realized that a lot of these people probably do and see all these more routinely and more religiously than they did their prayers nor saw their parish church.
I cannot say that the trip was uneventful. For one, I swear my derriere was touched at least once just in line to get my ticket. A pretty nurse smiled at me, and an old man glared at me for what reasons I may never know. People definitely stopped and stared when I stopped and took photos.
I even heard a snippet of a conversation probably about me taking pictures. The kid asked his mom “...bakit ‘Nay?” and the mother replied, ”Malay ko ba, wala namang maganda dun.” Oh was she wrong. There was ganda all around, but they had reduced it into mundane-ness that they failed to see how maganda things really were. I snapped shots of all the station signs that I could. Some signs were either out of sight or obscured by the masses of pedestrians. There were nice sights, but what I really wished I could capture were the weird looks I got. If those people knew what “WTF?” meant, I’m sure they were thinking it about me.
While the train ride was strangely beautiful on its own—also having given me the chance to offer my seat to a lady and seeing several other men do so in suit, the station I got off at was what surprised me the most. Back when I first used to commute, the Quezon Ave. Station would lead you down into a messy lot complete with patches of swamp land, a rickety bamboo bridge which I swore people were betting wouldn’t hold me, and copulating sheep. Yes, copulating sheep. Of course piles and the smell of trash and the tambays were a given. There were no roofs to hide from neither the heat nor the rain. Well, that was back then. So, I was pleasantly surprised by the new Eton Centris Mall conveniently connected to the station. It was still closed at the time, but the station seemed to have gotten brighter and cleaner from what I remember of it. The marshland, most of the trash, and the copulating sheep were gone. They were replaced by food stalls and umbrellas waiting for their early morning customers. The jeepneys and the taxis were also lined in order, and there weren’t any long lines for people waiting to ride. The tambays and barkers were still there though. Minutes away from school, I knew I had made it “home” safe and sound.
Now, comfortable and safe here on my sofa, writing about my experiences, I realized that I had made a mistake. I set off to write a series of articles but instead ended up with an epic. This was not a project, it was an adventure.
Happenstance
“Write in white heat; edit in cold blood.”
My journalist mom always told me to stick with what I knew. But in writing this new experience project, I wanted to steer as far away as possible from that. Given this assignment, much like when I first entered UP, I felt like I could conquer the world. I had a multitude of experiences that I wanted to try and experience for myself, some of these new and quite far-out while others I had already experienced for the first time years ago and have mostly forgotten about.
I started a lot of experiences simultaneously. I tried to steer clear of Facebook (FB) and the general internet for a whole week. I tried making dinner for a week. I even tried going to the wet market one weekend with my mom. These were all wonderful experiences—which the universe seemed to conspire against.
Thesis writing seems to have internet use as a requirement these days. With a lot of sources and resources up online, I was on the World Wide Web the very afternoon that I came up with the idea of ditching it. Apparently too, more and more people are using FB to coordinate even school activities; people including professors. I failed that endeavour on my 3rd day of being FB-free.
I thought dinner would have better results. I really do cook after all, my recipe having already been featured online once. http://www.pinoycook.net/ernests-pancit-canton/. I cooked a total of three dishes, two of which have pictures here. The first one was pasta with sauce from scratch. It had fresh tomatoes, chicken chunks, and even olives. It was a lot like a cooked salad, actually. I think I’ll be making it more often.
The next one was Bicol Express. I chose not to check out recipes beforehand because I wanted the recipe to be my own. I just winged the procedure.
Later on, I learned that I should have used either bagoong or patis and not just salt for flavouring, and my gata should have been nagmamantika.
All in all, it was delish! The last dish was something I forgot to photograph. Both cellphones were charging and I didn’t dare bring my camera that close to boiling soup. It was Misua with Patola and Meatballs. It ended up being very tasty though clumpy and strange. Note to self: unlike other types of pasta and noodles, misua is not supposed to be washed before use. It disappears into the drain. Alas, my culinary escapades came to an end the night before I had to pass 50 more annotated bibliographies for my thesis. So much for my Michelin Star!
Lastly, mom and I went to the market! It’s been so long since I’ve gone marketing. The last time I stepped foot in a wet market was as an actor shooting a short film. That was an experience that is worthy of a blog-post of its own. Anyway, the day started early. We favour a wet market in Taguig which has a nice selection of different finds and are open from dawn until around lunch time. Different because they have stuff that are fresh from mom’s childhood-in-the-barrio-memories like itlugan ng manok or what I think is the tract that eggs pass through in a chicken. It’s like an intestine with eggs in various stages of development. It’s quite good with adobo or tinola. They also have fishes that are sinaing or cooked in brine and, sometimes with pork fat and kamias or the Bilimbi fruit—a sour Cucumber-looking thing. I personally don’t eat this dish, but mom loves it. The thing is: we couldn’t find the market! There was a vast, empty lot where it should have been. That goes to show how long since we’d been there.
I was feeling kind of lost already. My backup plans were not backing me up at all. Then, a bit of luck—or the lack of it, tossed me into an experience that was not quite new, but definitely out of my routine and comfort zone. I had to commute from Paranaque to UP Diliman. Something I haven’t done again since 2007—my first year in college. I have taken public transportation to North Avenue since then, but even that experience was a year or so ago.
My car was broken and no one could take me to UP that day so early in the morning. I had a practice for a performance and could not afford to be late. My family went into crisis and troubleshooting mode. Within minutes of calling my aunt if I could hitch a ride to the Taft Station, an uncle had been assigned to take me to UP, lunch had been packed, and my fare was all laid out. My allowance was also slashed to 200 Pesos; 100 pesos in two different wallets so that should I lose one wallet, or God forbid it get stolen, I’d still have another 100 on me. This was not what I had in mind. I specifically wanted to burst this little protective bubble and just get on with life.
I explained to them that I could not wait for my uncle to take me to school at 10 am precisely because I had a schedule to follow. They had apparently been expecting that, hence the other preparations. I also told them that I would not be taking the packed lunch because I wanted to travel light. And that, yes, I would travel alone. I did not take anything else they had laid out. I unpacked my backpack—took out my big camera, heavy script, excess books, and laptop leaving me with just 2 books and a notebook and a bunch of index cards. I took my wallet and cell phone pouch. My wallet had about 600 in broken bills, my pouch had about 50 pesos in coins. I also grabbed my old, small, point-and-shoot camera. The looks of smile-masked worry on my family’s faces were priceless.
The ride to the station was filled with idle and nervous banter. I don’t know how many times she offered to take me to school in just that short trip. She’s an important lady, mind you, with people waiting for her orders and instructions. And, well, she could make them wait if she wanted. I declined. She comforted herself in reassuring me that my dad (and perhaps all our dead relatives) would be there to guide and protect me. She then segued into the give-the-bad-people-your-phone-and-wallet speech. Perhaps the 5th time I’d heard it in the same hour. But her voice had never seemed more beautiful, nor the sky any cloudier than that moment. I cannot say that I was not scared.
She dropped me off as close as she could to the steps leading into the station. I got off, looked back, and waved. I had my happy face on. The moment I turned my back, my game face took its place. “I’m not new, I’m not lost.” These were what I wanted to project to everyone around me. Everyone who didn’t even seem to notice I was there. The steps into the station were the same, the station itself was not. There were signs and passages I swore were never there. And the ticketing booths had transferred and so did the place to line up. Dammit, I was lost. I kept my cool though. I followed the general flow of the people until I was assimilated into the unified mass of bodies. It was all like a procession in some festival—the sights, the sounds, the smell. People all around me were mumbling, some probably reviewing their schedule, some their routes, I definitely heard some curses from some though. I realized that a lot of these people probably do and see all these more routinely and more religiously than they did their prayers nor saw their parish church.
I cannot say that the trip was uneventful. For one, I swear my derriere was touched at least once just in line to get my ticket. A pretty nurse smiled at me, and an old man glared at me for what reasons I may never know. People definitely stopped and stared when I stopped and took photos.
I even heard a snippet of a conversation probably about me taking pictures. The kid asked his mom “...bakit ‘Nay?” and the mother replied, ”Malay ko ba, wala namang maganda dun.” Oh was she wrong. There was ganda all around, but they had reduced it into mundane-ness that they failed to see how maganda things really were. I snapped shots of all the station signs that I could. Some signs were either out of sight or obscured by the masses of pedestrians. There were nice sights, but what I really wished I could capture were the weird looks I got. If those people knew what “WTF?” meant, I’m sure they were thinking it about me.
While the train ride was strangely beautiful on its own—also having given me the chance to offer my seat to a lady and seeing several other men do so in suit, the station I got off at was what surprised me the most. Back when I first used to commute, the Quezon Ave. Station would lead you down into a messy lot complete with patches of swamp land, a rickety bamboo bridge which I swore people were betting wouldn’t hold me, and copulating sheep. Yes, copulating sheep. Of course piles and the smell of trash and the tambays were a given. There were no roofs to hide from neither the heat nor the rain. Well, that was back then. So, I was pleasantly surprised by the new Eton Centris Mall conveniently connected to the station. It was still closed at the time, but the station seemed to have gotten brighter and cleaner from what I remember of it. The marshland, most of the trash, and the copulating sheep were gone. They were replaced by food stalls and umbrellas waiting for their early morning customers. The jeepneys and the taxis were also lined in order, and there weren’t any long lines for people waiting to ride. The tambays and barkers were still there though. Minutes away from school, I knew I had made it “home” safe and sound.
Now, comfortable and safe here on my sofa, writing about my experiences, I realized that I had made a mistake. I set off to write a series of articles but instead ended up with an epic. This was not a project, it was an adventure.
Review/Commentary 1
On
The Biggest Little Man in the World
http://www.gq. com/sports/ profiles/ 201004/manny- pacquiao- boxer
If Genius is madness, then the writer of this article must surely have been a genius.
The writer used a style that, according to my old-world journalistic training, was unorthodox. This was a story, not just a mere scoop—not quite biased, not quite untainted either. His approach to the article was different, but all too familiar.
Unlike how most journalistic articles seem desensitized, this paints a picture, rather than just itemizing whatever needs to be known. Personally, I felt like the work raised the reader from mere spectator to an actual part of the piece, imagining, relating to the experience.
The article goes on to relate the evolution of Pacman from his beginning in 1995, to the annihilator that he is now. Pacquiao’s image is even made greater by the author’s explanations of little facts that may be beyond the normal reader’s stock knowledge. He identifies little facts such as the issues most boxers face with weight changes, and even a short (although not so positive) profile of the Philippines and the Filipinos. I eventually got to wondering how this man seems to know so much about Manny. Then the beans spill. He is now Pacman’s chief of staff.
On
Author Nicholas Carr: The Web Shatters Focus, Rewires Brains
http://www.wired. com/magazine/ 2010/05/ff_ nicholas_ carr/
This was an unbelievably easy read. The title actually turned me off at first. It was so succinct, so straight-to-the-point, so boring. But as I read through the rest of the article, I found myself learning and enjoying at the same time. Something I haven’t done since Art Attack went off air.
The afore mentioned title was actually reflective of the characteristics of the rest of the article. It was straight to the point and understandable with the least amount of effort. The words used were simplified, yet not dumbed down. When there were highly technical terms that were essential to the understanding of the facts in their full magnitude, there was a brief explanation, or a convenient link to Wikipedia, or both. Or, most amusingly, there were very simple, mundane analogies that explained other complicated happenings that we never even knew were going on in our systems.
Sweet irony came to light upon reading the second page of the article. This semester has found me with multiple copies of readings—copies made when I found something interesting for my thesis in articles I had actually already made copies of for a different passage. Sometimes, hasty skimming does make waste.
On
The Networker
http://www.newyorke r.com/reporting/ 2010/07/05/ 100705fa_ fact_auletta
“The Networker,” these two words encapsulate the whole of the article. It talks about a man; it talks about the man. It tells you of what he does. It tells you about what the article tells you about. It talks about how one man might very well be your 6-degree-connection to the annals of world power.
If I were given the honor of re-titling the article on a criterion of my own, I would call it “Journal-ist.” The whole article is relaxed but very informative. It was filled with segments that seemed to roll themselves right out the tip of the pen. There were some tidbits that may have been best introduced by “Oh yeah, did you know that...” or, “and, by the way...” The author seemed to be telling a story, not to a brother, nor to a best friend, rather a more intimate companion. He was talking to a version of himself whom he saw a week, a month, a hotel, or a world away. It was so honest, so impromptu, that it gave the sense of reading someone’s diary of secrets and observations. It was like reading the author’s little entries—his little log into his journal.
On
Oprah Talks to Ellen DeGeneres
http://www.oprah. com/omagazine/ Oprah-Interviews -Ellen-DeGeneres -Ellens-O- Magazine- Cover/1
This was a chat log with a 1-page introduction to contextualize it and a nice wrap-up in the end. Definitely a human interest story, it was sadly, not very interesting.
I am not a fan of the two subjects of the article, though I have watched my share of their shows. Based on what I have watched, their appeal is in their honesty and charity. Both have given away countless gifts on air, of course pioneered by Oprah giving away cars to each of her unsuspecting audience members. Ellen herself has a yearly 12 Days of Christmas give-away promo. Along with the laughs, the smiles, and their flamboyant characters, these two have also shed their own fair share of tears on air. I guess it is because of these that I expected more from the article. I had the illusion that somehow, there were still behind-the-scenes acts that would be opened up to us. Of course, we can see it in different ways. There may still be privy scenarios which are still privy from us, or that these two icons have been so open that, what we see on screen, is what we would get whatever vantage point we have.
The Biggest Little Man in the World
http://www.gq. com/sports/ profiles/ 201004/manny- pacquiao- boxer
If Genius is madness, then the writer of this article must surely have been a genius.
The writer used a style that, according to my old-world journalistic training, was unorthodox. This was a story, not just a mere scoop—not quite biased, not quite untainted either. His approach to the article was different, but all too familiar.
Unlike how most journalistic articles seem desensitized, this paints a picture, rather than just itemizing whatever needs to be known. Personally, I felt like the work raised the reader from mere spectator to an actual part of the piece, imagining, relating to the experience.
The article goes on to relate the evolution of Pacman from his beginning in 1995, to the annihilator that he is now. Pacquiao’s image is even made greater by the author’s explanations of little facts that may be beyond the normal reader’s stock knowledge. He identifies little facts such as the issues most boxers face with weight changes, and even a short (although not so positive) profile of the Philippines and the Filipinos. I eventually got to wondering how this man seems to know so much about Manny. Then the beans spill. He is now Pacman’s chief of staff.
On
Author Nicholas Carr: The Web Shatters Focus, Rewires Brains
http://www.wired. com/magazine/ 2010/05/ff_ nicholas_ carr/
This was an unbelievably easy read. The title actually turned me off at first. It was so succinct, so straight-to-the-point, so boring. But as I read through the rest of the article, I found myself learning and enjoying at the same time. Something I haven’t done since Art Attack went off air.
The afore mentioned title was actually reflective of the characteristics of the rest of the article. It was straight to the point and understandable with the least amount of effort. The words used were simplified, yet not dumbed down. When there were highly technical terms that were essential to the understanding of the facts in their full magnitude, there was a brief explanation, or a convenient link to Wikipedia, or both. Or, most amusingly, there were very simple, mundane analogies that explained other complicated happenings that we never even knew were going on in our systems.
Sweet irony came to light upon reading the second page of the article. This semester has found me with multiple copies of readings—copies made when I found something interesting for my thesis in articles I had actually already made copies of for a different passage. Sometimes, hasty skimming does make waste.
On
The Networker
http://www.newyorke r.com/reporting/ 2010/07/05/ 100705fa_ fact_auletta
“The Networker,” these two words encapsulate the whole of the article. It talks about a man; it talks about the man. It tells you of what he does. It tells you about what the article tells you about. It talks about how one man might very well be your 6-degree-connection to the annals of world power.
If I were given the honor of re-titling the article on a criterion of my own, I would call it “Journal-ist.” The whole article is relaxed but very informative. It was filled with segments that seemed to roll themselves right out the tip of the pen. There were some tidbits that may have been best introduced by “Oh yeah, did you know that...” or, “and, by the way...” The author seemed to be telling a story, not to a brother, nor to a best friend, rather a more intimate companion. He was talking to a version of himself whom he saw a week, a month, a hotel, or a world away. It was so honest, so impromptu, that it gave the sense of reading someone’s diary of secrets and observations. It was like reading the author’s little entries—his little log into his journal.
On
Oprah Talks to Ellen DeGeneres
http://www.oprah. com/omagazine/ Oprah-Interviews -Ellen-DeGeneres -Ellens-O- Magazine- Cover/1
This was a chat log with a 1-page introduction to contextualize it and a nice wrap-up in the end. Definitely a human interest story, it was sadly, not very interesting.
I am not a fan of the two subjects of the article, though I have watched my share of their shows. Based on what I have watched, their appeal is in their honesty and charity. Both have given away countless gifts on air, of course pioneered by Oprah giving away cars to each of her unsuspecting audience members. Ellen herself has a yearly 12 Days of Christmas give-away promo. Along with the laughs, the smiles, and their flamboyant characters, these two have also shed their own fair share of tears on air. I guess it is because of these that I expected more from the article. I had the illusion that somehow, there were still behind-the-scenes acts that would be opened up to us. Of course, we can see it in different ways. There may still be privy scenarios which are still privy from us, or that these two icons have been so open that, what we see on screen, is what we would get whatever vantage point we have.
Assignment 1
There are two versions of this work. The first, unhindered version has 554 words, and the other, trying to follow the restrictions more closely has only 315 words.
http://eloquentbabbler.blogspot.com/2010/06/i-met-her-first-on-12th-of-june.html
I first met her on the 12th of June.
It was early still, but the morning promised a hot, sunny day. Perpetually early for most everything, I ambled up the UP CMC steps an hour or so early for class. Surprisingly, a girl was already standing there, reading notices where my class should have been. “J109 class under Sir Oliva will not meet tomorrow June 12, 2010” read one of the notices posted right above the door knob. She asked me with a smile if I was there for that same class. I said yes. We agreed that it was a pitiful waste of time to have come to class so early. She said she was from somewhere near Commonwealth when I asked her where she was from. I told her I came from somewhere further. Without saying much more, we parted ways.
I met her next on the 19th of June.
Like the week before, it was early still, and already the morning promised a hot, sunny day. An hour or so early for class, I ambled up the CMC steps. A girl sat there with an already familiar smile. I walked past her, checking out the room—no deterring note this time, just the overwhelming heat and smell of the empty room. I exit the room to the hall outside where she was waiting, fanning herself. We talk idly, shallowly, but we get along.
In class, the first activity is to choose a partner to get to know. I playfully lay my arm across her. She just smiles. We leave the room to talk—get to know each other. We babble about things, joking each other, mention random facts. She lost her dad when she was two. She’s twenty-six now, still the youngest of six siblings. She’s back in school, taking up what she really wants. She had already finished Interior Design, but had known for a while already that she preferred something more expressive; something literary, more artsy. She tells me she’s worked, though outside of the field she studied for. It was in these jobs that she realized she wanted to write, to express herself more. It was in her story of those jobs that I got to know her more.
She directed programs and handled students under the employ of the Center for Pop. After that, she worked for Vera Files, focusing on Voter Education. I guess it comes from her mother being a school teacher once that she sought to educate, and that she actually could. But she later on qualifies that it was in fact in her nature to care for others, sometimes more than herself. I found it strange that the youngest child would do that. I was the eldest and only child in our family for years, and thought that the job of caring for others came from being the Kuya. I realized that it was actually from being treated as the youngest part of the family that molded me more. We were here caring for others because we knew how to be cared for. We wanted to share it with others—to pay it forward.
Everyone has a story, it’s just that sometimes we need someone else’s story to introduce us to our own.
I met Bernadette Ilao first on the 12th of June.
http://eloquentbabbler.blogspot.com/2010/06/i-met-her-first-on-12th-of-june-2.html
I first met her on the 12th of June.
It was early still, but the morning promised a hot, sunny day. Perpetually early, I was an hour or so early for class. A girl sat there with a familiar smile. I walked past her, checking out the empty room only to be greeted by the overwhelming heat and smell of it. I return to her. We talk shallowly, but we get along.
In class, the first activity is to choose a partner to get to know. We leave the room to talk. She lost her dad when she was two. She’s twenty-six now, still the youngest of six siblings. She’s back in school, taking up what she really wants. She had already finished Interior Design, but had known for a while that she preferred something more expressive. She tells me she’s worked, though outside of the field she studied for. It was in these jobs that she realized she wanted to write, to express herself. It was in her story of those jobs that I got to know her more.
She directed programs and handled students for the Center for Pop. After that, she worked for Vera Files, focusing on Voter Education. I guess it comes from her mother being a school teacher once, that she sought to educate, and that she actually could. But she later on qualifies that it was in fact in her nature to care for others. I found it strange that the youngest child would do that. I was once the eldest and only child in our family and thought that the job of caring for others came from being the Kuya. I realized that it was actually from being treated as the youngest that molded me more. We were here caring for others because we knew how to be cared for. We wanted to share—to pay it forward.
http://eloquentbabbler.blogspot.com/2010/06/i-met-her-first-on-12th-of-june.html
I first met her on the 12th of June.
It was early still, but the morning promised a hot, sunny day. Perpetually early for most everything, I ambled up the UP CMC steps an hour or so early for class. Surprisingly, a girl was already standing there, reading notices where my class should have been. “J109 class under Sir Oliva will not meet tomorrow June 12, 2010” read one of the notices posted right above the door knob. She asked me with a smile if I was there for that same class. I said yes. We agreed that it was a pitiful waste of time to have come to class so early. She said she was from somewhere near Commonwealth when I asked her where she was from. I told her I came from somewhere further. Without saying much more, we parted ways.
I met her next on the 19th of June.
Like the week before, it was early still, and already the morning promised a hot, sunny day. An hour or so early for class, I ambled up the CMC steps. A girl sat there with an already familiar smile. I walked past her, checking out the room—no deterring note this time, just the overwhelming heat and smell of the empty room. I exit the room to the hall outside where she was waiting, fanning herself. We talk idly, shallowly, but we get along.
In class, the first activity is to choose a partner to get to know. I playfully lay my arm across her. She just smiles. We leave the room to talk—get to know each other. We babble about things, joking each other, mention random facts. She lost her dad when she was two. She’s twenty-six now, still the youngest of six siblings. She’s back in school, taking up what she really wants. She had already finished Interior Design, but had known for a while already that she preferred something more expressive; something literary, more artsy. She tells me she’s worked, though outside of the field she studied for. It was in these jobs that she realized she wanted to write, to express herself more. It was in her story of those jobs that I got to know her more.
She directed programs and handled students under the employ of the Center for Pop. After that, she worked for Vera Files, focusing on Voter Education. I guess it comes from her mother being a school teacher once that she sought to educate, and that she actually could. But she later on qualifies that it was in fact in her nature to care for others, sometimes more than herself. I found it strange that the youngest child would do that. I was the eldest and only child in our family for years, and thought that the job of caring for others came from being the Kuya. I realized that it was actually from being treated as the youngest part of the family that molded me more. We were here caring for others because we knew how to be cared for. We wanted to share it with others—to pay it forward.
Everyone has a story, it’s just that sometimes we need someone else’s story to introduce us to our own.
I met Bernadette Ilao first on the 12th of June.
http://eloquentbabbler.blogspot.com/2010/06/i-met-her-first-on-12th-of-june-2.html
I first met her on the 12th of June.
It was early still, but the morning promised a hot, sunny day. Perpetually early, I was an hour or so early for class. A girl sat there with a familiar smile. I walked past her, checking out the empty room only to be greeted by the overwhelming heat and smell of it. I return to her. We talk shallowly, but we get along.
In class, the first activity is to choose a partner to get to know. We leave the room to talk. She lost her dad when she was two. She’s twenty-six now, still the youngest of six siblings. She’s back in school, taking up what she really wants. She had already finished Interior Design, but had known for a while that she preferred something more expressive. She tells me she’s worked, though outside of the field she studied for. It was in these jobs that she realized she wanted to write, to express herself. It was in her story of those jobs that I got to know her more.
She directed programs and handled students for the Center for Pop. After that, she worked for Vera Files, focusing on Voter Education. I guess it comes from her mother being a school teacher once, that she sought to educate, and that she actually could. But she later on qualifies that it was in fact in her nature to care for others. I found it strange that the youngest child would do that. I was once the eldest and only child in our family and thought that the job of caring for others came from being the Kuya. I realized that it was actually from being treated as the youngest that molded me more. We were here caring for others because we knew how to be cared for. We wanted to share—to pay it forward.
A Notice To My (Imaginary) Audience
I just realized that I've been treating this blog much like a lot of things I've been doing as a kid-- I've been pretending that I'm reaching a huge audience who I try to personally talk to and communicate with through everything I'm doing. Hey, to each his own, right?
Well, I'm just writing this as a notice for that huge audience of mine. I'll be reposting most everything I've written for class in order to get my assignments straight. Due to some file name and posting confusion in class, I just wanna put my files in order.
So, to my many followers, carry on. :)
Well, I'm just writing this as a notice for that huge audience of mine. I'll be reposting most everything I've written for class in order to get my assignments straight. Due to some file name and posting confusion in class, I just wanna put my files in order.
So, to my many followers, carry on. :)
Friday, July 9, 2010
Happenstance
“Write in white heat; edit in cold blood.”
My journalist mom always told me to stick with what I knew. But in writing this new experience project, I wanted to steer as far away as possible from that. Given this assignment, much like when I first entered UP, I felt like I could conquer the world. I had a multitude of experiences that I wanted to try and experience for myself, some of these new and quite far-out while others I had already experienced for the first time years ago and have mostly forgotten about.
I started a lot of experiences simultaneously. I tried to steer clear of Facebook (FB) and the general internet for a whole week. I tried making dinner for a week. I even tried going to the wet market one weekend with my mom. These were all wonderful experiences—which the universe seemed to conspire against.
Thesis writing seems to have internet use as a requirement these days. With a lot of sources and resources up online, I was on the World Wide Web the very afternoon that I came up with the idea of ditching it. Apparently too, more and more people are using FB to coordinate even school activities; people including professors. I failed that endeavour on my 3rd day of being FB-free.
I thought dinner would have better results. I really do cook after all, my recipe having already been featured online once. http://www.pinoycook.net/ernests-pancit-canton/. I cooked a total of three dishes, two of which have pictures here. The first one was pasta with sauce from scratch. It had fresh tomatoes, chicken chunks, and even olives. It was a lot like a cooked salad, actually. I think I’ll be making it more often. The next one was Bicol Express. I chose not to check out recipes beforehand because I wanted the recipe to be my own. I just winged the procedure. Later on, I learned that I should have used either bagoong or patis and not just salt for flavouring, and my gata should have been nagmamantika. All in all, it was delish! The last dish was something I forgot to photograph. Both cellphones were charging and I didn’t dare bring my camera that close to boiling soup. It was Misua with Patola and Meatballs. It ended up being very tasty though clumpy and strange. Note to self: unlike other types of pasta and noodles, misua is not supposed to be washed before use. It disappears into the drain. Alas, my culinary escapades came to an end the night before I had to pass 50 more annotated bibliographies for my thesis. So much for my Michelin Star!
Lastly, mom and I went to the market! It’s been so long since I’ve gone marketing. The last time I stepped foot in a wet market was as an actor shooting a short film. That was an experience that is worthy of a blog-post of its own. Anyway, the day started early. We favour a wet market in Taguig which has a nice selection of different finds and are open from dawn until around lunch time. Different because they have stuff that are fresh from mom’s childhood-in-the-barrio-memories like itlugan ng manok or what I think is the tract that eggs pass through in a chicken. It’s like an intestine with eggs in various stages of development. It’s quite good with adobo or tinola. They also have fishes that are sinaing or cooked in brine and, sometimes with pork fat and kamias or the Bilimbi fruit—a sour Cucumber-looking thing. I personally don’t eat this dish, but mom loves it. The thing is: we couldn’t find the market! There was a vast, empty lot where it should have been. That goes to show how long since we’d been there.
I was feeling kind of lost already. My backup plans were not backing me up at all. Then, a bit of luck—or the lack of it, tossed me into an experience that was not quite new, but definitely out of my routine and comfort zone. I had to commute from Paranaque to UP Diliman. Something I haven’t done again since 2007—my first year in college. I have taken public transportation to North Avenue since then, but even that experience was a year or so ago.
My car was broken and no one could take me to UP that day so early in the morning. I had a practice for a performance and could not afford to be late. My family went into crisis and troubleshooting mode. Within minutes of calling my aunt if I could hitch a ride to the Taft Station, an uncle had been assigned to take me to UP, lunch had been packed, and my fare was all laid out. My allowance was also slashed to 200 Pesos; 100 pesos in two different wallets so that should I lose one wallet, or God forbid it get stolen, I’d still have another 100 on me. This was not what I had in mind. I specifically wanted to burst this little protective bubble and just get on with life.
I explained to them that I could not wait for my uncle to take me to school at 10 am precisely because I had a schedule to follow. They had apparently been expecting that, hence the other preparations. I also told them that I would not be taking the packed lunch because I wanted to travel light. And that, yes, I would travel alone. I did not take anything else they had laid out. I unpacked my backpack—took out my big camera, heavy script, excess books, and laptop leaving me with just 2 books and a notebook and a bunch of index cards. I took my wallet and cell phone pouch. My wallet had about 600 in broken bills, my pouch had about 50 pesos in coins. I also grabbed my old, small, point-and-shoot camera. The looks of smile-masked worry on my family’s faces were priceless.
The ride to the station was filled with idle and nervous banter. I don’t know how many times she offered to take me to school in just that short trip. She’s an important lady, mind you, with people waiting for her orders and instructions. And, well, she could make them wait if she wanted. I declined. She comforted herself in reassuring me that my dad (and perhaps all our dead relatives) would be there to guide and protect me. She then segued into the give-the-bad-people-your-phone-and-wallet speech. Perhaps the 5th time I’d heard it in the same hour. But her voice had never seemed more beautiful, nor the sky any cloudier than that moment. I cannot say that I was not scared.
She dropped me off as close as she could to the steps leading into the station. I got off, looked back, and waved. I had my happy face on. The moment I turned my back, my game face took its place. I’m not new, I’m not lost. These were what I wanted to project to everyone around me. Everyone who didn’t even seem to notice I was there. The steps into the station were the same, the station itself was not. There were signs and passages I swore were never there. And the ticketing booths had transferred and so did the place to line up. Dammit, I was lost. I kept my cool though. I followed the general flow of the people until I was assimilated into the unified mass of bodies. It was all like a procession in some festival—the sights, the sounds, the smell. People all around me were mumbling, some probably reviewing their schedule, some their routes, I definitely heard some curses from some though. I realized that a lot of these people probably do and see all these more routinely and more religiously than they did their prayers nor saw their parish church.
I cannot say that the trip was uneventful. For one, I swear my derriere was touched at least once just in line to get my ticket. A pretty nurse smiled at me, and an old man glared at me for what reasons I may never know. People definitely stopped and stared when I stopped and took photos. I even heard a snippet of a conversation probably about me taking pictures. The kid asked his mom “...bakit ‘Nay?” and the mother replied, ”Malay ko ba, wala namang maganda dun.” Oh was she wrong. There was ganda all around, but they had reduced it into mundane-ness that they failed to see how maganda things really were. I snapped shots of all the station signs that I could. Some signs were either out of sight or obscured by the masses of pedestrians. There were nice sights, but what I really wished I could capture were the weird looks I got. If those people knew what “WTF?” meant, I’m sure they were thinking it about me.
While the train ride was strangely beautiful on its own—also having given me the chance to offer my seat to a lady and seeing several other men do so in suit, the station I got off at was what surprised me the most. Back when I first used to commute, the Quezon Ave. Station would lead you down into a messy lot complete with patches of swamp land, a rickety bamboo bridge which I swore people were betting wouldn’t hold me, and copulating sheep. Yes, copulating sheep. Of course piles and the smell of trash and the tambays were a given. There were no roofs to hide from neither the heat nor the rain. Well, that was back then. So, I was pleasantly surprised by the new Eton Centris Mall conveniently connected to the station. It was still closed at the time, but the station seemed to have gotten brighter and cleaner from what I remember of it. The marshland, most of the trash, and the copulating sheep were gone. They were replaced by food stalls and umbrellas waiting for their early morning customers. The jeepneys and the taxis were also lined in order, and there weren’t any long lines for people waiting to ride. The tambays and barkers were still there though. Minutes away from school, I knew I had made it “home” safe and sound.
Now, comfortable and safe here on my sofa, writing about my experiences, I realized that I had made a mistake. I set off to write a series of articles but instead ended up with an epic. This was not a project, it was an adventure.
My journalist mom always told me to stick with what I knew. But in writing this new experience project, I wanted to steer as far away as possible from that. Given this assignment, much like when I first entered UP, I felt like I could conquer the world. I had a multitude of experiences that I wanted to try and experience for myself, some of these new and quite far-out while others I had already experienced for the first time years ago and have mostly forgotten about.
I started a lot of experiences simultaneously. I tried to steer clear of Facebook (FB) and the general internet for a whole week. I tried making dinner for a week. I even tried going to the wet market one weekend with my mom. These were all wonderful experiences—which the universe seemed to conspire against.
Thesis writing seems to have internet use as a requirement these days. With a lot of sources and resources up online, I was on the World Wide Web the very afternoon that I came up with the idea of ditching it. Apparently too, more and more people are using FB to coordinate even school activities; people including professors. I failed that endeavour on my 3rd day of being FB-free.
I thought dinner would have better results. I really do cook after all, my recipe having already been featured online once. http://www.pinoycook.net/ernests-pancit-canton/. I cooked a total of three dishes, two of which have pictures here. The first one was pasta with sauce from scratch. It had fresh tomatoes, chicken chunks, and even olives. It was a lot like a cooked salad, actually. I think I’ll be making it more often. The next one was Bicol Express. I chose not to check out recipes beforehand because I wanted the recipe to be my own. I just winged the procedure. Later on, I learned that I should have used either bagoong or patis and not just salt for flavouring, and my gata should have been nagmamantika. All in all, it was delish! The last dish was something I forgot to photograph. Both cellphones were charging and I didn’t dare bring my camera that close to boiling soup. It was Misua with Patola and Meatballs. It ended up being very tasty though clumpy and strange. Note to self: unlike other types of pasta and noodles, misua is not supposed to be washed before use. It disappears into the drain. Alas, my culinary escapades came to an end the night before I had to pass 50 more annotated bibliographies for my thesis. So much for my Michelin Star!
Lastly, mom and I went to the market! It’s been so long since I’ve gone marketing. The last time I stepped foot in a wet market was as an actor shooting a short film. That was an experience that is worthy of a blog-post of its own. Anyway, the day started early. We favour a wet market in Taguig which has a nice selection of different finds and are open from dawn until around lunch time. Different because they have stuff that are fresh from mom’s childhood-in-the-barrio-memories like itlugan ng manok or what I think is the tract that eggs pass through in a chicken. It’s like an intestine with eggs in various stages of development. It’s quite good with adobo or tinola. They also have fishes that are sinaing or cooked in brine and, sometimes with pork fat and kamias or the Bilimbi fruit—a sour Cucumber-looking thing. I personally don’t eat this dish, but mom loves it. The thing is: we couldn’t find the market! There was a vast, empty lot where it should have been. That goes to show how long since we’d been there.
I was feeling kind of lost already. My backup plans were not backing me up at all. Then, a bit of luck—or the lack of it, tossed me into an experience that was not quite new, but definitely out of my routine and comfort zone. I had to commute from Paranaque to UP Diliman. Something I haven’t done again since 2007—my first year in college. I have taken public transportation to North Avenue since then, but even that experience was a year or so ago.
My car was broken and no one could take me to UP that day so early in the morning. I had a practice for a performance and could not afford to be late. My family went into crisis and troubleshooting mode. Within minutes of calling my aunt if I could hitch a ride to the Taft Station, an uncle had been assigned to take me to UP, lunch had been packed, and my fare was all laid out. My allowance was also slashed to 200 Pesos; 100 pesos in two different wallets so that should I lose one wallet, or God forbid it get stolen, I’d still have another 100 on me. This was not what I had in mind. I specifically wanted to burst this little protective bubble and just get on with life.
I explained to them that I could not wait for my uncle to take me to school at 10 am precisely because I had a schedule to follow. They had apparently been expecting that, hence the other preparations. I also told them that I would not be taking the packed lunch because I wanted to travel light. And that, yes, I would travel alone. I did not take anything else they had laid out. I unpacked my backpack—took out my big camera, heavy script, excess books, and laptop leaving me with just 2 books and a notebook and a bunch of index cards. I took my wallet and cell phone pouch. My wallet had about 600 in broken bills, my pouch had about 50 pesos in coins. I also grabbed my old, small, point-and-shoot camera. The looks of smile-masked worry on my family’s faces were priceless.
The ride to the station was filled with idle and nervous banter. I don’t know how many times she offered to take me to school in just that short trip. She’s an important lady, mind you, with people waiting for her orders and instructions. And, well, she could make them wait if she wanted. I declined. She comforted herself in reassuring me that my dad (and perhaps all our dead relatives) would be there to guide and protect me. She then segued into the give-the-bad-people-your-phone-and-wallet speech. Perhaps the 5th time I’d heard it in the same hour. But her voice had never seemed more beautiful, nor the sky any cloudier than that moment. I cannot say that I was not scared.
She dropped me off as close as she could to the steps leading into the station. I got off, looked back, and waved. I had my happy face on. The moment I turned my back, my game face took its place. I’m not new, I’m not lost. These were what I wanted to project to everyone around me. Everyone who didn’t even seem to notice I was there. The steps into the station were the same, the station itself was not. There were signs and passages I swore were never there. And the ticketing booths had transferred and so did the place to line up. Dammit, I was lost. I kept my cool though. I followed the general flow of the people until I was assimilated into the unified mass of bodies. It was all like a procession in some festival—the sights, the sounds, the smell. People all around me were mumbling, some probably reviewing their schedule, some their routes, I definitely heard some curses from some though. I realized that a lot of these people probably do and see all these more routinely and more religiously than they did their prayers nor saw their parish church.
I cannot say that the trip was uneventful. For one, I swear my derriere was touched at least once just in line to get my ticket. A pretty nurse smiled at me, and an old man glared at me for what reasons I may never know. People definitely stopped and stared when I stopped and took photos. I even heard a snippet of a conversation probably about me taking pictures. The kid asked his mom “...bakit ‘Nay?” and the mother replied, ”Malay ko ba, wala namang maganda dun.” Oh was she wrong. There was ganda all around, but they had reduced it into mundane-ness that they failed to see how maganda things really were. I snapped shots of all the station signs that I could. Some signs were either out of sight or obscured by the masses of pedestrians. There were nice sights, but what I really wished I could capture were the weird looks I got. If those people knew what “WTF?” meant, I’m sure they were thinking it about me.
While the train ride was strangely beautiful on its own—also having given me the chance to offer my seat to a lady and seeing several other men do so in suit, the station I got off at was what surprised me the most. Back when I first used to commute, the Quezon Ave. Station would lead you down into a messy lot complete with patches of swamp land, a rickety bamboo bridge which I swore people were betting wouldn’t hold me, and copulating sheep. Yes, copulating sheep. Of course piles and the smell of trash and the tambays were a given. There were no roofs to hide from neither the heat nor the rain. Well, that was back then. So, I was pleasantly surprised by the new Eton Centris Mall conveniently connected to the station. It was still closed at the time, but the station seemed to have gotten brighter and cleaner from what I remember of it. The marshland, most of the trash, and the copulating sheep were gone. They were replaced by food stalls and umbrellas waiting for their early morning customers. The jeepneys and the taxis were also lined in order, and there weren’t any long lines for people waiting to ride. The tambays and barkers were still there though. Minutes away from school, I knew I had made it “home” safe and sound.
Now, comfortable and safe here on my sofa, writing about my experiences, I realized that I had made a mistake. I set off to write a series of articles but instead ended up with an epic. This was not a project, it was an adventure.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
TL;DR
TL;DR. I’m not sure if you have come across those letters before. I sure am proud that I haven’t seen it as a comment on any of my works, though I’m quite sure some people have thought of it.
**********
Seated on my shabby sofa chair, laptop before me, a cold drink by my side, I feel older than I should with my vision seeming to fail me. Amidst multiple open browsers and web pages spewing out seeming gibberish about my thesis, a familiar “ding” distracts me. A sound I thought would be a welcome surprise—a distraction. I look to the lower right-hand side of my screen and see that it was a notification. It read: “This Week’s Readings.” I just about dropped dead.
I wanted to freeze the moment—pull out of my body, snap a picture of myself there, and with big, blood-red letters, stamp across the image: TL;DR. Yet, I took it as a welcome change of scene as I initially thought it would be.
The first three articles were really a sight for sore eyes and tired minds. They really brought me to a different place; a world different from what was just a browser tab away from them. In fact, I was reminded of the new experiences that I had undergone for this very subject. I wanted to write my project the way Neel Chowdhury wrote about the railway system of Malaysia. I wanted people to feel my own impatience, see the sights, smell the discomfort the way I felt his through his article. In the same manner, David Pogue re-awoke my desire for a new phone; an endeavour that I had side-lined because of so many other things to worry about. And Dylan Tweney’s article on tweeting through the opera brought me fond memories of my days in the news and war room of ABS-CBN. It even brought to mind a similar project which one of our shows featured wherein Romeo and Juliet was played out entirely through tweets. I was so engrossed that I felt like I could read all 5 articles then and there and then write my own.
I then opened the Kentucky Derby article and just by the way the scroll bar shrunk, I knew I was in for a read. By the 2nd time he mentioned “Playboy,” I had already become enthralled, confused, and then also lost interest. By the Friday before the author even wrote about the big race, I had once again stamped the scene that was my life with TL;DR. The varying shades of gray and white did not help keep me on the page either. What I understood from this article is that he had transformed into something he feared—much like a zombie in an apocalypse.
As for, “The String Theory,” this is the only one that held true to TL;DR—too long; didn’t read.
**********
Seated on my shabby sofa chair, laptop before me, a cold drink by my side, I feel older than I should with my vision seeming to fail me. Amidst multiple open browsers and web pages spewing out seeming gibberish about my thesis, a familiar “ding” distracts me. A sound I thought would be a welcome surprise—a distraction. I look to the lower right-hand side of my screen and see that it was a notification. It read: “This Week’s Readings.” I just about dropped dead.
I wanted to freeze the moment—pull out of my body, snap a picture of myself there, and with big, blood-red letters, stamp across the image: TL;DR. Yet, I took it as a welcome change of scene as I initially thought it would be.
The first three articles were really a sight for sore eyes and tired minds. They really brought me to a different place; a world different from what was just a browser tab away from them. In fact, I was reminded of the new experiences that I had undergone for this very subject. I wanted to write my project the way Neel Chowdhury wrote about the railway system of Malaysia. I wanted people to feel my own impatience, see the sights, smell the discomfort the way I felt his through his article. In the same manner, David Pogue re-awoke my desire for a new phone; an endeavour that I had side-lined because of so many other things to worry about. And Dylan Tweney’s article on tweeting through the opera brought me fond memories of my days in the news and war room of ABS-CBN. It even brought to mind a similar project which one of our shows featured wherein Romeo and Juliet was played out entirely through tweets. I was so engrossed that I felt like I could read all 5 articles then and there and then write my own.
I then opened the Kentucky Derby article and just by the way the scroll bar shrunk, I knew I was in for a read. By the 2nd time he mentioned “Playboy,” I had already become enthralled, confused, and then also lost interest. By the Friday before the author even wrote about the big race, I had once again stamped the scene that was my life with TL;DR. The varying shades of gray and white did not help keep me on the page either. What I understood from this article is that he had transformed into something he feared—much like a zombie in an apocalypse.
As for, “The String Theory,” this is the only one that held true to TL;DR—too long; didn’t read.
Monday, July 5, 2010
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