Snippets

So, since it is common knowledge that I lack the ability of following through anything thoroughly, I will try to write in random here in my blog--stay long enough to warm the place, but not that long to contrive another senseless entry, just for the sake of. 

Over the few months that I was away, life again happened. Some in a good way, as I see my children on the grind and enjoying school, I have finished the last Harry Potter book, yay!; after which I felt a frenzy for reading again, so it seems I had been in good company of Willa Cather, Isabel Allende---from which thought I derive much pleasure-----and some which happened in not such a good way, namely that I had been ill and was having episodes of stabbing pains that I was clueless about until an ultrasound told me that stones had been making a sanctuary of my gall bladder. 

The surgery went fine, but the psychological pain was something I would not venture to talk about right this moment. Suffice it to say that I am gall-free today, but a slight amount of fat in what I eat would render my insides a wreck. The migraines are still there, but they are not as often anymore. This was a fair amount of warning for me not to take my health for granted, so I am right into that.

 

I'd like to think I'm at 
a crossroads.
Discovering a path
which does 
converge with 
the old 
familiar one
but on which 
is more promise
of change
of goodness
of everything
that is 
better.

In Praise of Food

There is no love sincerer than the love of food.

George Bernard Shaw

I am not a good cook thus I content myself on appreciating what is served on the dinner table. I am no certified gourmand either so I cannot claim to be a reliable source of opinion on culinary fares. I wouldn’t possibly even identify what’s in the food that I indiscriminately stuff into my mouth, just that if it’s not spoiled, then it’s a go; but if it’s laden with cyanide and I suddenly fell  stiff on the floor , then it’s a bit late to do some complaining, ain’t it?  And try as I might to whip up something good in the kitchen,  I do so with very little success. It’s a relief, hence, to have a husband who is skilled with his meat and herbs, like he is with his graphic designs. My only critique about Oliver’s cooking is that he gets homicidal with the pepper, and dashes it like there’s no tomorrow, that everyone in five feet radius of him gets crazy with their sinuses. I am a living victim of that.

Over the years , I’ve done the rounds of  Italian, French, Thai, Mediterranean, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, American, and of course Filipino restaurants---not frequently as I would have liked to, but thanks to our company dinners, I get introduced to these different cuisines in my lifetime, something which I wouldn’t even possibly have come across, had I relied entirely on my own pocket.

But like all fundamental human cravings, there are particular food that don’t really have to be chef -anointed,  or labelled  “cuisine” for us to appreciate and hank for it. That is why there is such a thing as comfort food.  In fact, I discovered early on, that I am just a girl with simple carenderia taste. Not that carenderia food is something to be mortified about.  Filling one’s stomach with home-cooked meals, no matter how common or simple, brings a sense of nostalgia, and yes comfort--- a feeling of being in a warm, comfortable place, of being a child again, wandering through a kitchen full of cooking women, of waking up in the morning, the aroma of coffee and newly baked bread wafting in the air, of your first taste of wine and t-bone steak,  of  easy days when the sunshine is bountiful and pretty, and everyone is dressed in summer clothes, drinking lemonade, taking turns on the barbecue grille, dancing merrily across the lawn, looking fondly at the rowdy kids joshing each other by the poolside, just being happy  knowing you are a part of that beautiful memory. I know I am just dreaming some of these up, but one will get my drift.

I found out that most of the food that had left a lasting impression on me, and have in the long run become my  favourites, are actually those associated with recollections of my childhood. The fact that they were all humble family recipes and that I will probably never taste them again unless I spent a fortune dining at an authentic Spanish restaurant, makes me respect my roots all the more.  And even now that my gastronomic experience progressively stretches to much broader horizons each time I eat out with my work bosses, my strong desire to indulge in what I would call my  happiness food is becoming more and more homeward bound.

Cabbage Rolls—one of my most beloved Ilonggo dishes. I say Ilonggo because I only tasted this from my  grandmother who called her version “meat in blanket” . It is seasoned ground meat wrapped in cabbage leaf, and tenderized by pressure cooking it in tomato sauce and spices. Even some of my aunts, who took after my grandma’s expert kitchen skills, have never tried this recipe. Save for a friend’s New Year dinner I once went to in Baguio, I have not tasted this dish again after my grandma passed away. The cabbage rolls in Baguio was of a slightly different variation, it tasted good, but there was perhaps an ingredient missing to remind my palate of the special blend I so treasured as a child. One day I’d like to get my culinary flair working, if there is one hidden at all, to whip up this dish for my family. Until then, I’d have to keep imagining it in my head and on my taste buds. Sigh....

Lengua Estofado—again another Ilonggo cooking I grew up into. This was a staple on special occasions like fiestas or birthdays, and has become a conversation piece among the foodies in my clan. Years ago, when my son was baptized and we threw a dinner party for family and friends, I asked my aunt to cook this dish for us. I went with her to the market to pick up the best ox tongues, but little did I know that these things, when raw, looked, and quite honestly, smelled disgusting. It takes a lot of scrubbing and cleaning before the dirt comes off, it’s a tongue after all, and I firmly saw to that until I was mentally convinced it was clean enough for cooking. The moment one sees and tastes the finished product though, one forgets all her skivvies and eeew moments.

Pancit Molo and La Paz Batchoy—I’ve tasted a few variations here in Manila, but nothing comes up at par with the authentic ones I’ve had as a child in Bacolod. Even the sweaty fat Manoy who  cooked and owned the batchoyan across the street at the mercado in La Castellana had more appeal to me than the well-groomed crew at the pricey air-conditioned Ted’s restaurant in Filinvest. Again, it’s the secret ingredient, which my cousins would teasingly tell me was Manoy’s kili-kili power. But could I care? If it was, then I certainly loved me some of Manoy’s power.  But that was long ago, and last time I checked, standing in the batchoyan was now an internet cafe. My only consolation at Ted’s here in Manila is their soft puto manapla, which makes me sorely miss my hometown each time.

Paella Valenciana—I prefer valenciana more than seafood paella because of its more subtle taste. Like any paella dish though, it’s a meal in itself and one could get generous helpings. I love it when the pork liver and peas and bell pepper and boiled egg are fused together in the mouth ,that creates an interesting texture.  If cooked very thoughtfully, the paprika flavour surfaces and the nice saffron coloring on the rice makes it all the more delectable.

Drunken shrimp—aka nilasing na hipon. Don’t care much whether them shrimps imbibed beer, or wine, or just plain Sprite before their lives passed on, right smack in the pan, perverse though it may sound. The mere pleasure of peeling off their shells, eating them with bare hands, dipping them in a mean mixture of sinamak (spiced vinegar) and  soy sauce, and wolfing them down with a palmful of steaming hot rice, leaves me in one word----delirious!

Softdrinks Chicken—or Coke chicken, to be more exact. This is a simple dish I stumbled upon when my sister in law came to visit one day. Her chicken was wrapped in foil, stuffed with whole bulbs of onion, cloves of garlic, lemongrass, and carefully turned over in the fire, in a mixture of coca-cola and soy sauce which serves as its basting. The steam on the pot cooks the chicken to the tenderest bit .It tastes pretty much like the local lechon manok and to borrow Max’s byline, is sarap to the bones. I have since tried cooking  this on my own, and somehow I would never get the exact same taste again. Gah, now I’m reminded of the spicy buffalo wings I used gobble up every night at Jollibee when I was working on a  graveyard shift. It was the kind of food that leaves one finger-licken and happy as a clam in butter sauce, to put it quite literally.

In brief, my other "happinesses" are:

Peach and tangerine yoghurt--- I can have it every day of my life

Dark Chocolate—any kind. The darker, the better (translation-60% cocoa and above)

Blueberry Cheesecake---makes me cry , because it’s so delicious and expensive.

Barbecued Chicken Ass--alright, you can now laugh your ass off at me....

There are several other dishes that are incredibly too mouth-watering for words, and which  for sure I have hugely enjoyed and make me smack my lips with gusto and say, mwaaah!

La vie est belle!

Thirty-Nine!

What I got for my birthday.....

sweet notes on my bedside table...

nice simple dinner.....

a roll of sinful, sumptuous (dark!) chocolate cake....

yummy cheese ice cream....

....and lots of family lovin.

Can't be any more perfect. Merci beaucoup!

Movie Time

Some of the most notable movies we have seen recently, aside from Up,Diary of a Wimpy Kid which preempted my plans to read the series, and How to Train your Dragon (yet to see), are stop-motion animations that on the surface seem to be made for children, but really contain underlying observations of our true human behavior. I also find them very good even when they are marketed for kids, because unlike other films where parents have to sit down and suffer through them in the name of adult supervision, I myself really enjoyed them and don't have qualms if my children watched them over and over again.

Mary and Max

Very touching story about a lonely Aussie girl and her pen-friend, an obese New Yorker who suffers from Asperger's syndrome. Their friendship spanned twenty years through letters, how they made each other's lives less sufferable by discovering common grounds like a love for chocolates. The ending made me cry, but no spoilers here..

Coraline

Based on the Neil Gaiman 2002 novel, Coraline is a horror-fantasy film about a girl who wishes for something to take her out of her boring existence when she feels neglected by her writer parents. Being brave and curious, she discovers another world where The Other Parents seem to be much cooler and more attentive. Gab and Sophia were horrified with some scenes, especially about Other Mother with the button eyes, and so was I. This is a keeper though, I would not tire of viewing this again. And by the way, it's Coraline, not Caroline : )

Fantastic Mr. Fox

Even in animation, George Clooney (Mr. Fox's voice) proves to be hot, and a force to reckon with. The movie is based on the Roald Dahl classic book about a wily fox who returns to his old wily ways, two years after nearly losing his life when he and his wife Felicity (Meryl Streep) were once caught in a fox trap. The events lead up to his attempts to steal fowl and apples and alcoholic cider from three dimwitted farmers- Boggis, Bunce and Bean--and how they tried to outsmart him by not-so-smart means. Full of sarcastic humor, I was worried at first that it may not be appropriate for kids, but what do I know, they laughed and winced at the right moment. Lesson 101, never underestimate the kids' grasp of the english language. They may be young and little, but they get it. Got it? : ) Lots of laughs in this movie, and also something to learn about greed and over-estimation of one's self.

Relax, see a movie!

Mindoro

The weekend that my cousins and I were supposed to fly down to Bacolod for the Holyweek, it was called off and we made an alternative trip to Mindoro. I had been to Puerto Galera before, but I had not explored the other side of the island. This was for me another journey with zero expectation, but with a hundred percent optimism.

If we’d pushed through with Bacolod, we probably had been busy participating in the Semana Santa with our Angustia. Born from a family of devout Catholics, Angustia (aka Pieta) was an heirloom passed on to us from the great great grands. Our aunts travel every year from as far as Davao and Manila to prepare the carroza and dress up the Angustia (a figure that depicts Mother Mary cradling the wounded Jesus Christ on her lap). This is especially meaningful to them because my grandfather painstakingly restored it from the state of serious decay, after years that it was noticeably missing from the Santo Entierro procession. I remember as a grade schooler, that Holy Week would coincide at a time when my mother would cut my hair really short, like a bob (being summer and all), and as we were the ones helping out on the carroza after the procession, folks would ask for their handkerchiefs to be wiped on the Angustia for blessing, calling out to me “Ari pa, toto” (here, boy!) –apparently mistaking me for a male. With a sour face, I would grudgingly take their handkerchiefs while I’d silently curse them for the slip-up, thus somehow taking away whatever potent powers they believe was caught into the handkerchiefs. My aunts have been saying it’s high time they pass the responsibility on to us, I mean our generation. Because of that, by default we are expected to be in Bacolod every year, and thereafter, to look after the Angus. 

Nonetheless, Lisa and I, together with our families, found ourselves on the bus heading to Batangas port on the early Wednesday morning. It was a perfectly hot sunny day and the kids were running up and down the roro vessel while I was battling a bit of seasickness. My cousin Ed was kind enough to use his uhrm, authority, to exempt us from having to get into a long line of passengers to buy our tickets. We were privileged enough to almost be the first ones to sit on the air-conditioned lounge. Bad idea, however. Five minutes into the trip, after a small meal of beef strips and rice, Gabby was nauseous and was vomiting his guts out. I led him out of the lounge for some fresh air, but he fancied being outside more, so I had to endure the clammy, salty air for the rest of the trip. 

When we got to Calapan port, my aunt was down at the ramp waving at us. It was nearing sunset, there was an aura of quiet and calm, and I suddenly had that instinct to sing “Ploningggg!”, as I remember the movie being predominantly set on some seashore, and everything was small and quaint and nostalgic. As an aside, I love small and quaint places---the more off-beaten, the more shy and self-effacing the people appear, the more I am attuned to it. I found it rather ill-bred therefore when someone once off-handedly declared that Saigon (Vietnam) was “one big toilet”. Wow, I would never say that of another country, unless my opinion had been borne out of a very bad encounter, or I was just plain bigoted. Even so, there must surely be something in a place that would more importantly reflect its history and culture, in its artifices and people, and not its urban planning, or lack thereof.  To travel is to keep an open mind to new things and experiences, and to give due respect to the territory. Unless otherwise I went on a business or shopping trip, then I will be compelled to shut up about it and keep my ignorance to myself .

At 4pm we headed down to Anahaw. Personally it wasn’t much of a beach, but I didn’t expect much either. We didn't choose Galera because it was peak season, and all we were looking forward to was a breather and the company of family. My cousins and I treat each other like sisters, it’s a bond that I have to thank my aunts for instigating, as their brood of 15 is not a joke, though they have somehow managed to pull the clan together and kept the closeness firmly on ground level. The sand on the beach was as black as the night, there was nothing very appealing about the resort, but the kids couldn’t care less. They scampered off with their swim rings and buckets and shovels before we could even admonish them to stay close by. My shooting chance proved nil as the light was gone, but still I tried. I was wishing I had a wide-angle lens, but I wasn't about to rant and go mental about impossible things. I consoled myself with a few snapshot moments, and forgot trying to be a flickerite. Dinner was spent lounging at the pool side as we went on and on about our childhood, joking good-naturedly about the way we were back then, and the way we still are presently, while the children were just being gloriously happy in the water. It was all I hoped for in a way.

The next day, more cousins arrived. The women found an occasion to walk around town a bit before we did our marketing. There were no malls in Calapan, just one two-storey building where everyone does their grocery shopping. The folks prefer to get their stuff from the wet market and small shops for their dry goods, but otherwise, they seem live a simple, almost primordial existence here. But the traffic light was a revelation. One time, we reached an intersection where a modern-looking traffic post loudly went tick tick tick, almost like a bomb was counting down to explode. We crossed the street in a huff, but in our confusion thought it was a go light, and someone behind us shouted that it was a stop, but we walked on anyway. They were very mindful  not to get caught or be penalized. Funny thing is, the streets were a mere one-third size of a city street in Manila, and in Manila people are foolhardy enough to cross the wide streets at any time they fancy, even if they risk colliding with a speeding vehicle. In Calapan, you sense the discipline, you’d hardly see a candy wrapper on a gutter, and people cross on pedestrial lanes, and not anywhere else they please. Hard pill to swallow, eh?

Well, anyway, it was all a swimming affair in Mindoro, as we spent Thursday in another resort, and Friday  in a different beach. It was a great experience among our little kids and they hit it off admirably. So it was with us and our spouses. Oliver suffered a bit of a snag though, as he had a gout attack, but all that paled in comparison to the other things. The food was marvelous, fresh and splendidly cooked by my able cuz-in-law Jona. Our hosts were great, and it helped that we had service deluxe anywhere we went, and vip treatment at the port, courtesy of my aunt : )

I also learned how to play tongits, and took pleasure in my so-called beginner’s luck (hey I won around a hundred bucks!). I used to frown on card games, and I kept repeating this story to everyone, that I spent most of my teenage years with grandparents who never passed an afternoon without a session of mahjong or Panguingue, but I never learned to play them because I had a self-imposed aversion to it. Someone taught gin rummy though, and I really enjoyed it, but as long as it didn’t involve money, I never considered a game chancy like gambling. Now that I am adult though, I regret not learning to mahjong, especially on occasions where the skill becomes your meal ticket to inside conversations and witty repartees. So, I’ve resolved to learn mahjong this year and bug, even niggle, my cousins about it. Saturday afternoon, we were on the roro back to Batangas, and we heaved our tired but blissful souls back home.

I have not forgotten about Bacolod and our Angustia, eventually. The thought subdued me from all the noise in my surroundings during the bus trip home. Even if I wasn’t physically present, I mentally walked with my aunts in the procession, closed my eyes in unison to their prayers and reflections, and on a very personal level, acknowledged God in the center of what I had done in the past three wonderful days.

Thoughts—On Birthdays and Life Lessons

I will be 39 in a couple of months. Just looking at the prospects makes my insides go suddenly rigid. How could have life gone away in a blink? I used to think that 25 was the benchmark, an age where a woman finds herself in a standstill and eventually leaves the mockery of youth forever. Beyond that, she begins to shape herself into an ideal of grace and virtue, bearing the wisdom of a sage and the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. So it was a bit of shock to me that at 26, I still felt that I have not moved up a rung and mapped out my life more clearly. I was way past my quarter life and had not started my own family, at the very least. I was still hanging out at cafes and associating with uncommitted friends.

Maybe I am just the perennial late bloomer. Everything comes to me long after others have gone on to revel at new things and make pioneering choices in their life. When my colleagues have decided to find themselves some fine chap, get married and have children, I was still at the stage of aspiring to meet a boy. I was caught up in the romantic notion that if a certain Jay Gatsby comes by, tries to sweep me off my feet, throw lavish parties and shower me with a parade of worldly goods and excesses, I would turn him down like Daisy did; but in favor of a financially-strapped sickly looking artist-type boy who would impress me, with only a tattered copy of his Foucault-despite not understanding Foucault--- just because he is too broke to afford anything else. I had the belief that if he was bold and honest enough to present himself as thus and win me over, then all is good. For me it was a young, passionate and quixotic idea, enough to make me fall in love. But even if I had sounded foolish and impractical then, I was not being superficial at all. 

Now that I am married, with kids, and about to become an official member of the joy luck club, I have to be more grounded and realistic. Good news is that I am a late bloomer and therefore amenable to change. Bad news is I feel that in two months’ time, I will be hanging on a precipice, where 40 looms over more closely than 39, and everything will be too late. Whatever I will learn now won’t do me much good. One day soon, I will slip over the hill and become too old and antiquated to even remember how to get up, much less reflect on things like love and passion. Rather, I will be apprehended by incontinence and the chaos of grandchildren. There’s realism for you. 

We all emotionally grow up at some point that our priorities and our stances change. For the worst or the better, only we can know. But while I’m at it, I continually struggle to discover the more fundamental lessons in life. Take for instance, Contentment. If you ask me today-- and I would never admit this years earlier-- I will say that money, is a necessity. It pays the bills, it puts food on the table, it sends my children to school, it ensures my retirement years, it sets me off to buy some occasional womanly trifles for myself.  What I failed to account though is that with money too, I can lose sleep over outstanding debts, I can lace my feet with a pair of Louboutins and still feel grossly inadequate, I can habitually sip a cup of Starbucks and create the idea in my head that I belong with my imaginary in-crowd, I can warrant myself a free pass into private soirees of  the rich and what haves, and assimilate in their lifestyle by acting like one, I can buy friendships and loyalties and people’s souls, I can stand out and be exasperated by the curiosity of irrelevant humans even if their candor had once been my source of happiness. I never thought that money had that much power, and seeing how people change and become spellbound to it and even become, well greedy, for lack of a better term; I begin to suspect that money indeed can be more important than goodness, and that it all becomes a matter of worshipping the hero of one’s choice.

But I choose goodness, over money.  Of course, if I had the money I’d probably be singing a different tune. Imagine the liberties it would afford a working-class woman like me! With money, I’d probably be jetting off to Europe basking on some Parisian afternoon sun, tasting the finer things, carrying about the air of a well-traveled woman with that so-called je ne sais quoi--- instead of skulking at some ratty second-hand bookstore, surreptitiously reading and daydreaming about stories set around a Parisian afternoon sun and a well-traveled woman. But does money need to change me, ingratiate me with the thought that I can be perceived as a better person when I have it or smell like it? How long will it make me happy? Will it ultimately make me happy? I have always thought that we have to be content at some point.  If I had enough of it, will I be content then and not want anything? Are there things that can be had without having to mention money? Are they a better option? 

In two months, I would like to start something. I would like to advocate simplicity and contentment. I would like to believe that we work to live, and not live to work. I am not wont to be in the forefront of some angsty crowd, crying battle cries of the oppressed or weak. I don’t need to level any playing field and seek equality from anyone, such that my personal values and fulfillments become lost on me. I would like to think that motherhood, and wifehood and womanhood is an act of faith and whether it has set disadvantages from what I had wanted to do, it has certainly done me more good than harm. I would like to convince myself that money can be used for good things, very good things.

I would like to have the answers above and see how it can make me a better person, at 39.

Hello 2010

So, although it seems like I have completely abandoned blogging in deference to being a full-time something (maybe a mom, worker or photography enthusiast), my heart still hankers for a space to go home to, where I can unload my emotions or thoughts. Do thoughts really need to be unloaded, yes perhaps, because it drains me to have that much to keep inside my (almost) pea-sized brain and not have the means to elucidate myself about them, on account of people around me being busy living their lives as well. My only consolation is, I have a life, and am not moping around waiting for things to miraculously move from point a to point b. 

Well sometime ago I have created another blog on which I intended to post my photos. I did, for a while. But as per usual, I tend to start my little ventures and fail to finish or follow them through. Honestly, I get a little overwhelmed with having to keep a lot of things up, I have admitted that I am not good at multi-tasking and that's why maybe my focus is singular in one thing, but any more than that, and I crack down. It's not having an excuse, it's just the truth. So I guess I will keep things simple instead and maintain this original blog. Hopefully I could post more often, or if I lack the initiative to write, I can put up photos of my Sophia my daughter, who happens perhaps to be the only willing model in my, well, photographic pursuits, which honestly causes my self-confidence to vacillate at times. As Henri Cartier Bresson would say though,  your first 10,000 photographs are your worst, and seeing that I am probably just on my 3 thousandth, I am not too worried about it. I just get a little impatient, especially after having assumed lots of my shots were good and end up cussing them to varying degrees once I realize the exposure mistakes I've made, and the opportunity I've wasted. It's just me, I can be that single-minded that if you ask me what I ate last night, I wouldn't have remembered.

Things have happened so fast in the last few months, it seems such a daunting task to recall now what they were, but darn I am trying very hard to redeem myself here. Alright, so my little Sophia is not so little anymore. She celebrated her 4th birthday in October of last year. She had her first pink/purple bike from her dad and couldn't have been any happier with it. But I think the bike was just a tad too big for her frame that after a few frustrating tries, and some cuts and bruises to boot, intrepid soul that she is, she shoved the bike in a corner and gave it up for good. I watched her silently hoping that she'd pick it up again one day, but so far she hasn't. Fortunately though, she is one to always have her hands onto something, like drawing. I have observed how she would wiggle happily when I come home with a box of crayons for her, and although she is  way past the stage of writing on walls, she comes up with these fascinating stick figures and colorful copies of princesses and mermaids that she sees in her books. I can't say that they exude anything so genius that would make me suspect her of being gifted, but being a mom and someone who appreciates art, I would like to be the first person to give her that latitude she might need to grow into this kind of passion, and even encourage it. I see that she enjoys it and proudly shows me her work when I come home, so I can't help but be positive about it.

My son Gabriel is now 7 years old. He is in grade 1 and becoming much more independent than we could have prepared ourselves for. He is immersed in television, and has outgrown a lot of his toys which reminds me that I should now have to decide whether to keep them or give them away, and should stop  buying anything unless he absolutely begged for it. Isn't it true though that when you are a parent, you go through stages of compulsion to provide for your children and smother them with the most colorful little plastic stuff just so you know you are being a good mommy and not depriving them of the essentials of a happy childhood? But yeah, well I've learned, and now I suppose I'll be stubborn about it.  

So how about me? What's up with me? Lotsa things, but now I have to go see if  I can take a break and come back in a few days.

     

thoughts on ondoy

The lady who goes up to our building selling books at discount price came with an armload of new books some two weeks ago. I immediately noticed one and bought "The Story of Natural Disasters". I thought, great, this should complete Gabby's series, as he already has The Story of Dinosaurs and something else I can't recall. Gabby is an avid follower of shows in Discovery Channel. He likes watching Mega Disasters, Air Crash Investigation, Gone in Seconds, stuff like that, and though the images can be quite graphic, there is still a very logical approach as to why things go amiss and how people could  prevent it from happening in the future, so I leave him be.

Gabby, who has a not-so secret ambition of becoming a fighter jet pilot (cough, cough!),  has to be coaxed into reading books too, apart from watching tv because, I tell him, that's basically how people learn stuff and go on to become what they want---like a fighter jet pilot. Of course, he believed me. My son however has a new-fangled habit of taking interest in new things for exactly 24 hours, on the dot, and dropping them to the pit of certain oblivion the next. So I decided to put off taking the new book home and shoved it in my office drawer. At one time, i scanned a few pages and came to these facts about Hurricanes:

 "The thousands of islands facing the Pacific Ocean to the east and the South China to the west are particularly at risk (from giant hurricanes). They experience typhoons from June to December, corresponding with the region's rainy season. In the Philippines, in 1984, two major typhoons sank 11 ships and caused more than 1,600 deaths".

 I thought whoa, so we bear the curse of being geographically located along the typhoon belt, and that is something we've all had to live with. Well, unless some future technology makes it feasible for us to be transported to planet Mars and abandon Philippines, then there's a glimmer of hope, we can leave and start life anew there. I shoved the book back to my drawer and shrugged at my silly thought.

Two weeks passed, and one Saturday, I wake up to ominous clouds. I could feel the ground spew out heat, and I angrily cursed the weather for acting up. I had wanted to go to Divisoria, or get some photos of my daughter in the sun-drenched garden of the city hall. The storm came, and there was nothing much to do except wait it out, curl up in bed and read an old book. I even washed my clothes. It was a storm alright, but we have already been used to it around these months, and it was just something you weather, so to speak. I was miffed that my husband even took his sweet time lounging around and not doing his usual grocery shopping. For me, it was nothing more than another storm, and life should absolutely go on as usual.

And then Sunday, I woke up to the din of frantic news reports on TV, and Kris Aquino's non-stop babbling and self-praising. And then, looking closely at the footages and images on TV,  I recalled that little trivia I read from the book and momentarily forgot about Kris.

It was as if a rug has been swept from beneath me, shocking me to my core, suspending me in a disbelief that all these happened in a mere twelve hours that I was being a bitch about the bad weather. Twelve hours, and everything has become so dissonant---cars and houses getting swept in currents, children losing grip of their parents' hands and getting lost in murky waters, people shivering in the cold and getting hungry, people crying for help and getting none, people marooned in roofs and trees and electric wires, fear and dread eating them up slowly as they wait for something to intervene them from being killed or killing themselves, people who suddenly become just an anatomy of helpless bones and muscles and weak flesh, pliant to the strong winds and the wrath of mother-fucking-nature. And I sit here at home, warm and dry, hot coffee cup dangling on my fingers, watching the scenes being retold as if I'm from another world, fear gripping me. It runs in my head, this fear, this shame, that ALL THIS so close to home, and yet I could do nothing but bawl my eyes out crying.....

And so, is this how easily we become statistics in Discovery Channel, mere numbers or footnotes in the Story of Natural Disasters?

The world is screwed, and I am utterly useless.

PS....After picking my brains up, I decided not to be so useless. The world can do away with one less fucked up person, so I am doing my little share in helping the victims of Ondoy. I hope everyone of us should, in whatever little way we can.

  

Remembering Ninoy

Pusila! Pusila!

Those are the only words that lingered in my mind while marathon surfing about Ninoy Aquino on you tube today. Being Ilonggo, it's bloodcurling to hear it. Pusila is Visayan word for barilin (in English, an order to shoot someone). This was uttered I believe by one of the soldiers who escorted Ninoy out of the plane on the fateful day of August 21, 1983. "Pusila! Pusila!" This was shouted at Rolando Galman while he was down at the tarmac waiting for Ninoy to step out of the plane. But because Galman was clueless as to what "top" mission he was going into, until that very moment, it was quite evident that he was taken aback at the gruesome murder he was about to commit, at someone very popular and loved nonetheless, and hesitated to do it. Then one of the soldiers said, "Ako na, ako na"....and shots were fired. Galman was shot. At the very same instant, a hero falls.

Tomorrow I'll offer a moment of silence to the memory of the person who bought us freedom with the price of his life.

Life's Heroes

Many are still in the state of euphoria I guess over President Cory Aquino’s burial yesterday. It was an event reminiscent of Ninoy’s burial back in 1983, when everyone was boiling over with nationalistic ardor and passion. Everyone has his own moment or experience to savor, now that the same things seem to unfold again, reminding us jarringly of what we once were as a nation, and that somehow we have already come full circle.

I was only twelve when Ninoy was assasinated. I didn’t take much stock of what was happening to places outside of my hometown, and owing to my poor memory, I can only remember my grandfather one night, knocking on doors of our neighbors and telling my uncles and aunts what had happened in Manila. It seems at that time, there were only two simple truths: either you were a Marcos loyalist, or a Ninoy lover. I found it rather strange why my grandfather would be overzealous when no one else seemed to share his reactions. Apparently, majority of the families in our family compound were for Marcos. We were the odd ones out. But like anything else that didn’t really interest me, these things passed before my eyes like snippets of an insignificant dream.

My more vivid memory of Cory therefore, was in 1986, three years after Ninoy passed away. My mother was traveling to Manila to receive her cobalt treatments, and I was a 15- year old kid, who processed events in my mind still no more differently than I did when I was twelve. Simply put, politics were beyond me. I was just happy doing teenage things in a partly obscure place like Sum-ag. But in the months leading up to People Power, I had suddenly began hearing more frequently, things like oust, revolution, snap election, leftists, activists, summary killing, church and state unification. It just felt like something imminent was coming. I just didn’t know what.

Back in Bacolod, I was suddenly thrown into a whirl of events that I am just recalling now with faint amusement, because I felt like it was just the most spontaneous thing to be in. I was a middling character even back then and was never destined to have any voice about anything. Besides, blogs were not in fashion yet so even if I had wanted to write about it, the effort would have proved futile and easily forgotten. Doy Laurel was running for president against Marcos, under the Nationalista Party, but people were keener on having Cory run. What I understood was that Doy gave way and would run as her Vice-President. The reason why Doy Laurel came to mind is because his wife Celia Diaz-Laurel happens to be my grandfather’s first cousin. And one of the Diaz grandchildren was my good friend and classmate in St. Scho. I used to come over to their big ancestral home in Lacson Street. As a caveat though, I didn’t intend to speak of these people as though I have a direct affinity to them. I maybe a distant cousin, but if we had any relationship at all, I was definitely that proverbial poor relation. Moving on….

The hub of Doy’s campaign in Bacolod is in that house in Lacson, so you probably get the picture of how busy things got there. This was one of the many occasions that I was invited to come around, and since they always treated me well, I tried to make myself useful in the process. Rizza and I, together with her young cousins, were tasked to go around the city in a pickup van to place Doy stickers on virtually everything we could legally get our hands on. Later on, more cousins and relatives began to volunteer. Our new job was simple. We just needed to put stickers with Vice-President over Doy’s posters that says for President. There were hundreds and thousands of those posters, but I never questioned anyone of the change. I was just there happy being in the middle of all that flurry, excited to be of help, and elated at the chance to be in the same room with Senator Doy Laurel, and one of the sons, Cocoy who was fond of singing all the time. No one was probably aware of my existence there in that small capsule of time, and there was definitely no life-changing paradigm shift taking place inside of me, but yeah, it’s an amusing memory altogether.

In February, my mother and father were still in Manila, and then the People Power happened. Mother called long distance to tell us, not about her treatment, but that she was in the Edsa rally, taking part in the historic event. It was great to imagine her exhilaration although I still didn’t fully comprehend why it was such a big deal. Now in my adult mind, 1986 becomes a year of importance—a year we had our first woman president, a year the Philippines was catapulted into global consciousness, a year my mother finally lost her battle to cancer. And probably also a year I emotionally grew up.

So, where is Cory in all of these? Well, after Cory was proclaimed president, life went back to its normal state. I was motherless, and the price of commodities inflated sky-high. All of a sudden, everyone was skimping on food, foregoing vacations, feeling utterly poor. Nothing much changed for us. If at all, life turned for the worse. It’s not because of her administration; it was just my state of things at that time.

Fast forward to 2009, I am a mother to two children who have little peculiar quirks as I do. I still cringe at the thought of discoursing politics with anyone, let alone myself. I am just not born with an astute mind to analyze, or an acerbic tongue to critique, or an ample amount of confidence to speak up and be in the know of things intelligently in that general scale. I leave that to the experts. I am content to be one of the nameless millions who make up the productive sector of our society and that is good enough for me. I feel that my role is to live a life with benevolence and compassion towards everyone, to pay my taxes dutifully and obey traffic rules, to buy groceries and bring my own brown paper bag so that I don’t in essence cut more trees, to be a conscientious mother who makes sure that my children do not grow up delinquent and freeloaders so that more taxpayer money is wasted on unsustainable causes because I should know I am a taxpayer myself, to give to charities whenever I have the means, to donate or recycle old things so that I don’t have to keep buying new ones, to try not to watch pirated DVDs which is a hard habit to break but absolutely feasible. My role is to be a good person in very minute, even traditional, ways. And that is okay for me. My reason is that if millions of us do these things every single day, only in realistic proportions, and not in a sweeping radical sense that is good only as our fifteen minutes of fame and media mileage, then certainly we do not have to be overwhelmed like children and join the anarchy in the streets for the right passions but the wrong reasons.

But I veer farther away from Cory. Now there is a woman, who accepted the burden of steering millions of people to the right path even if she was only a housewife, who stayed the course of her presidency with utmost decency and integrity in her character, who esteems her country more than she does her life, who for the many adulation she is given remains to be humble and distant from the trappings of materialism, who believed that everyone has equal chance at everything, who until the very final chapter of her life wanted nothing much but tangible human resolve to be better and do better, whose name Corazon (heart) is simply the embodiment of what she really was in her life. Her heart was bigger than life itself. That was her role in life--to be herself and inspire. Her son said that for all the praises about his mother and father, being heroes of our life, the fact remains that they are just human and ordinary like everyone else, that they were just thrown into extraordinary circumstances, and did the right thing. In this entry, I will label them "angels".

In life we encounter people who have done illustrious things and possess characteristics that we can only draw inspiration from. They are the brand of people we’d like to look up to as our personal heroes. But, we should also not forget that within us is an innate goodness that we need to tap—that quality that makes us ourselves little heroes in our own right.

Ex Libris...

If I were very rich, I would build a really humongous badass library full of great books. I'll have every single book its own smug Ex Libris label: From the library of XXX, collector extraordinaire. But it's not very likely I'll be, so, I'd settle on getting them bit by bit, probably even second-hand. That was just me dreaming a tad late in the day. Anyways, these are the titles I'd like to get my hands on, pronto, in no particular order of importance or literary value:

Diary of a Wimpy Kid Series- Jeff Kinney

Witches of Eastwick

Widows of Eastwick- John Updike

HP 6 The Deathly Hallows- JK Rowling

The Mysterious Benedict Society- Trenton Lee Steward

I happened to watch this feature of JK Rowling in the Biography Channel one day, and was impressed about her rags to riches life story. Not one without its twists and turns, there was a point when she was living on her social security checks, she was suffering from depression after her first marriage crumbled, and was close to committing suicide. Yet, shy as she was, she was also an avid lover of literature and was able to channel all of her life experiences to create a story that now, without question, goes down in history. The first of Harry Potter series (The Philosopher's Stone a.k.a The Sorcerer's Stone) started out as an idea during a long train journey, and whose manuscript she typed on a very old typewriter. It was not a very smooth ride before she got published, but many already saw the big potential in her writing. From obscurity, she would soon rise to fame and become one of the best loved writers of children's books.

She said that Harry Potter is representative of her, although characters like Hermione Granger are also loosely based on her from when she was a younger. I suppose then horrid things like the Dementors need not be explained further. When she sold the rights of her first book to a movie outfit, it made her an instant millionaire. And it follows that she broke publishing records by selling milllions of copies of the rest of her seven books, the last installment of which she finished and published in 2007. It sold overwhelmingly, hotter than hotcakes, not only in the UK, but all over the world. Even the cheapskate that I am got five of her books and am now willing to cut a limb, if it would cost me that much, to have the two remaining books.

In the feature, A Year in the Life, the story revolves around JK Rowling working on the last of her HP books, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Snippets of her life are shown--- she hies off in a secret hotel room to slog on her manuscript, also a brief look at her house in Scotland, and a few miles away, her old tiny apartment (or what they call flat in the UK ). I am quite blown away at her real fortune----a castle-like home, great family and husband, and a very peaceful life. But it also showed a part of her tearing up at the recollection of her less than perfect childhood, and her life as a single mother. She visits her old flat in Edinburgh and looks back at a time when it (the HP idea) all started and where her life finally took a big turn. She largely remains a private person, and is often seen to be an aloof media personality. But she explains that the fame thing is something she still constantly struggles and is never comfortable with. Presently, she is someone who probably never has to worry about her finances for as long as she lives. But also because of that, she has focused a part of her fortune to philanthrophic causes, being an advocate in helping women and children cope with situations in single-parent homes. Great story, ain't it?

All that can be said though, why Harry Potter is such a hit, is that it simply made children (and even adults like us, admit it!) find love for reading anew. And on that alone, I think Joanne Rowling deserves whatever fortune has come her way.

Don't Be Hatin'!

These past few days, I have been trying to analyze a person’s actuations---the long face, the sudden silence, a defiant silence that says “leave me alone, people”. It’s very easy to understand that, the wanting to be alone part, except that nobody knows where it’s coming from, and how unexpectedly. The awkward feeling is really unwarranted, especially in a place where only a handful of familiar faces deal with each other everyday. I mean, sure there are no catfights and open animosity to worry about. But pretending that everyone is collectively okay about it, for days going, while the other person marches in and about as if she’s on a global strike, well isn’t it easier to just join the picket line and boycott her the same way?

But I wouldn’t want to. I want to understand how the other person is feeling. Have we done anything wrong? Was it a slight? PMS maybe? Or just plain bad mood? Well, it’s easy to assume things, especially if the person is not so keen to keep her body language in check. So do I go up to her and talk about it? But how, when she suddenly storms out of the room at the first opportunity, avoiding everyone like a plague? I probably have had enough of this sour face that I’m really close to losing my top, and tempted to rant about it in the open. I guess I won’t.

Thank goodness for blogs where I can vent out all of these maddening thoughts, and yeah, expose my vulnerability in the process. But who cares. Isn’t this a better option, than ruminate a fight plan and eventually get myself into an epic verbal scuffle with a person? So, blogging is the answer. I promise, the moment I get over into my last sentence, I’ll feel better. I just needed to get this off my shoulders. I hope though that the bone of my contention realizes what an emotional aggravation this whole thing is to me, and to the rest of the clueless world….

It’s funny that as we grow older, the harder it becomes to open up and be forthright with our feelings towards other people. There are such things as a heart-to-heart talk, but I believe with people our age, it’s more of the head that does the dealing. Often, we hesitate to lay down all our cards, and only in a tiny moment of vulnerability will we reveal more of what’s inside us. But we would withdraw once again, with such alacrity, because it always seems imperative to be in control of the game and be poker-faced about it.

Children are different. They are brutal with truth, but once they say what’s in their hearts, there is no emotional baggage or excesses that’s carried over. They'll leave, move on with life lightly, and without apprehensions. It is only around their growing up years that they learn to fib and distort the truth. It’s a rite of passage, a milestone that sadly marks their entry into the corrupt world of adults.

If I were to be a child again this very moment—blunt and honest--- all I can say about this whole commotion is:

It’s just jealousy, honey.

Get over it.

And don’t be hatin’!

Mourning for Michael

Can you sincerely cry over the death of someone you do not personally know? Can emotions really be evoked in you, seemingly out of nowhere, when you learn of a person who unexpectely crossed to the other side? If it was someone who had an imperfect past, was caught in moral crossfires, was famous in different but opposing contexts, who only sang and danced his heart out and did many wonderful things, but has faced eternal public persecution for the things he may have not, would you have the same level of sympathy for him , like you would for a person related to you by blood?

As one who has invariably professed sadness and trepidation over the passing of people she knows and loves, I think my only true emotions of sadness lie in the fact that the sudden demise of a person, regardless of who he was, would affect the people he left behind, in a way that will leave them painfully empty and out of touch from anything real for a while, numb to say the least, until they are able to allow proper emotions to well up in them, and make them come to terms with what had happened.

Much like the millions of others, I was shocked with the news of Michael Jackson’s death. When the memorial for him aired live on CNN, my husband and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning. I believe I cried a bucket, going through similar emotions that gripped the millions of people who watched the proceedings that day (or night from my side of the globe). But I cried, also because a lot of things were stoked up in me. It wasn’t until much later that I found myself really thinking about his death, unconsciously rummaging for explanations that baffle my ordinary mind, and what it was that got me involved in this sort of emotional upheaval that had every other man talking about, both in public and in private.

I think it is because I am a mother like Katherine (Jackson), a parent who derives intense pleasure in knowing that my children are safe in my arms and that this shocking loss is something I have not prepared myself for. Also, I am a daughter (like Michael’s children), who do not know what to make of my parent’s passing, at a time when I least expected it, because there was so much promise of tomorrow, of the years that we could share together, of the experiences that would imprint in me emotionally, as I slip into adulthood, but was suddenly cut short because the one person I leaned on to isn’t there anymore.

The death of Michael Jackson has brought out a flood of differing opinions from people of all walks of life--people who feel they are authorities to his life, people who wax philosophical about what he really was and why he was what he was, and people who are quick to dismiss his death with ridicule and contempt, because they say so. Sadly, in life and in death, Michael Jackson had to suffer for his art....

I have no useful opinion of Michael Jackson’s history and life, or the intricacies of it, as I believe I am one of those segment of society who prefer to stay in the periphery of things, whose social mediocrity and lack of strong estimation of who he was is eclipsed only by my simple appreciation of his music, the music which lulled and still lulls my heart and fences it within, every time Childhood plays, the groove

I get into with the infectious beat of Billy Jean, the awe I hold in the majestic simplicity of his moonwalk, and many things else that encompass what I know of him, as an artist---not the distortion of a persona who wore surgical masks and who was believed to sleep in a hyperbaric chamber, or was an extra-terrestrial. He could have been a wasp in another dimension, for all I care.

I won’t even allow myself now to use the word “iconic”, which begs yet another question as to why in spite of many choosing him an icon, someone who is supposed to rise out and above the din of society’s woes and frailties, many others still found pleasure in ripping him apart and depriving him of basic human respect.I am tempted to say, leave him alone, now that he is gone, as his brothers begged---but I think people would not yet relent, not until they probably prove themselves right. Not until they have torn up every shred of his poor soul. At least, not for a while.

Because of his music, I only saw Michael Jackson as a distant star, an idiot like Prince Myshkin in Dostoevsky’s book, who was the quintessence of both humility and greatness. His naive belief that people would appreciate and love him, simply for himself and his music, had instead come down to earth to suffer, without reason, a taste of human bigotry in all its ridiculous proportions, throughout the major part of his creative life. It’s a Michael who wanted to do good and positive things, but was thrown in the pits of derision and isolation, because of the fallacy that surrounded him, fallacies that rose out of prejudice in human eyes, eyes that claimed they knew good from evil.

My heart rains for his soul...

Photography-Things I Learned

I am tenacious, in the same way that I can be a drifter, yet learning my way through photography is something that I can proudly say of as my own. Scouring the web for anything that might prove useful in getting the whole concept of "a picture", I had gone to so many websites where I study beautiful photos, to forums where others share their tips and tricks in editing, while some others are just too uppity to express their mild aversion to post-processing.

However, some of the best photographers I have come to admire admit that they process and proof a hundred percent of their photos before these even get to see the light outside of their digital darkroom, and on to their sites. So, that's probably saying a lot. I have tried many fancy stuff myself in Photoshop, and hell, I even get to keep a small notebook with me where I chronicle my constantly evolving workflow, hoping that one day I can shout my eureka to the world, and settle on the very most perfect kick-ass workflow ever, and be the next Annie Leibovitz of the 21st century. But well, one has to be grounded and wake up to the real world. As always, I would go into my lengthy and tedious mini-speech before I even get to my main beef.

So, anyway, this entry is a sort of amalgamation of all photography-type things I have learned, technically on my own, but with the aid of many sites where people are just too happy to share what they know. Even if I sort of sound like one of those counter-productive asses who complain about things but shamelessly filch company work hours to do personal stuff, seriously, this is something I'd also like to share with whoever is interested, in keeping with my pay-it-forward project:

* Nothing beats learning your camera first before you even get out there and expect for it to do the work for you. Too often, we start out with wrong settings, or without understanding the basic functions of our camera, and blame it for our blah photos. Of course it helps if you own a first-rate gadget, but it's only as good as you know it.

* Proper exposure equals great colors, shadows and highlights right on. If you made a mistake firsthand, there is still hope, a way to salvage a photograph. When post processing, always look at the histogram of your photo before you do anything else. Correct levels is synonymous to appropriate exposure, which almost eliminates the need to sharpen images after post-processing. If your camera is capable of RAW, so much the better. But let us assume, for the sake of argument, that you are using a middle range point and shoot or dslr, and that you were just too eager beaver to take your shots. Then don't fret.Your next best bet: editing.

*ISO-I always wonder how others achieve those creamy photographs. The secret: use the lowest possible ISO setting you can get, and never bump it up unless necessary.

*Composition-something I am still working on, even as I speak, but this is probably the key to all beautiful photographs you see and drool on. You just have to try and try, until you get the hang of it. It doesn't matter if you get one good shot out of a hundred crappy ones. Everyone starts there. I am still there. Try all techniques in the book, and then through your own eyes or perspective, until you learn that creative approach, such that you are able to bring images into a unique visual form, something that will differentiate a photo from your usual snapshot.

*Much as I appreciate originality, I think there is absolutely nothing wrong about admiring other artists, whose work inspire you to try out their techniques until you are able to fetch ideas of your own. If at all, it is a serious form of flattery. The more fickle you are with your style, the more likely you will be able to understand what you really finally want. And, remember there is no rule that says you can't change your style. I wouldn't want to get stuck in one, and realize too late that I could have done better. There are two photographers that I really admire so much, Wynona for her very clean, evocative images, and Beth Jansen for her amazing colors and unique, bold style (links coming up). Both photographers are mothers like me, who also started when they had their first child, and who were self-taught. It's a fact that gives me quite a headstart, that one is never too old, or obscure to learn things. Copying blatantly or stealing images from these people who worked so hard on their images, however, is another thing. As the beautiful Anna Scott said, "Rufus, you belong in jail"..... Eeek.

*I found that to get tack-sharp images, you have to tinker with your camera's f-stops. Sometimes we misunderstand, because it's not necessarily the lowest (widest aperture) in our camera that gives us the most pointed photos. For instance, my kit lens give me very good results at f5.6 or f8. Or, I heard, that a lens with 1.8 max aperture is in its sharpest at 2.0 or 2.2. So, it's all relative. Maybe, we should all get a pair bionic eyes to determine that.

* 85% of the time, my subjects are my children. The 15% are self-portraits, my other family members, and things in my surroundings. You know how children can be uncooperative when you take photos of them sometimes, I mean most times? Yes. The more your force them into your frame, the more disinclined they will be at posing for you. But although, they are some of the most difficult subjects to photograph, they can also give you some of the most delightful photos you'll ever have. You'll just have to be very patient with them. And then of course it helps if you're always ready to aim at those special moments when they're not really looking, but they are there. For me, that is a lot of hard work, but there is where I find my joy.

That's it for now. I'll try to give this topic another whirl when I find myself here again. These are my observations as a beginner though, and I'm sure a lot of seasoned photographers who happen to get lost here would find themselves raising a hairy brow at some things I said. This is no bible truth, totally, and one is welcome to challenge or even correct me, but let me be the first to say I am a perennial work in progress, so next time, I might just possibly disown my words here.

On Gratitude

Not so long ago, I signed up with a photo sharing site Flickr, and met some virtual friends who shared a mutual interest in photography. From their photostreams, I would find an overwhelming amount of inspiration and knowledge--in the way they perceive things, their techniques with the camera, their processing workflow, and more than anything, a slice of their personal lives...what they do, where they go to, who they are with. Where I stood, I had absolutely nothing much to show to my small newfound circle of friends, except photos of me and my family, especially that of my two little children. The camera I was using then was a 6megapixel point and shoot that my husband got me one Christmas. But in Flickr, it wasn't about your camera or your gear. It's first and foremost about the story you want to share. Then, it's about the people you share that story with.

You see, I had always thought there are certain things that polarize us human beings, that give us that explicit, glaring distinction from one another-- like good and evil, rich and poor, beautiful and ugly---and that sometimes, we are caught up in that grey area in between those two extremes, where we can't really point out where we belong. That's why we can be confused, or worst, delusional. But I also think that there are things that even us out, balance us, or to put it bluntly, equalize us, regardless of who we are and where we are at in our lives. And that is where Flickr comes to mind, as all other user-generated sites do, where everyone, and I mean everyone, can say and has a say.

A year into joining Flickr, I had made friends with a very kind couple who, from the little that I've gathered about them, are very artistic and are living a quiet albeit very successful life in Europe. They are also Pinoys who have ventured far, and simply put, are just blessed with everything, probably brought about by being both born with silver spoons. C is an artist, a painter, sculptor, singer--a beautiful woman with an even more beautiful spirit. I say this because I have once met her in person and I was just truly overwhelmed at the fact that she welcomed me with so much sincerity and warmth, that it was almost a little silly of me to act coy towards her, when she was trying to reach out like she'd known me for a long time. But you know, you get a little star struck with people whose personalities are just like the sun, you want to bask in their warmth, and yet they are too huge for you to take in suddenly? I wish my daughter, who I brought along with me when I met C, have already had the sense to know what a great experience she got into---because for me, that was something I would like for her to remember in a long, long time and when she grows up.

The other half of this couple is R, and he is the big reason why I continue on to try better at my photography. He was my very first friend, I suppose, in Flickr, and probably the most consistent one to rally me on to keep uploading my photos---and even my writing. Intelligent, artistic, on the same creative pursuits as his wife, and like all the other people who comment in my photostream, he says the kindest things, and appreciates the candidness conveyed especially by the images of my daughter Sophia. There is a great empathy in what he does, and though I am one to express my gratitude a little too sweepingly sometimes, I had never wished for more than just being able to relish the pleasant words being exchanged in the affable Flickr circle I was in--- a small circle of people from different parts of the earth, brought together and equalized by the same love of photography, looking through but beyond cultural differences, financial status, and skin color.

So it was indeed a tad too....what's the proper word.....well, I'd say humbling, yes that's how it felt really, humbling-- that one day, I'd get an email asking how I would like to have a DSLR. A digital single lens reflex camera? from a stranger friend? I mean, they're not strange people at all, but to be offered something like that from someone you'd never met---- and it’s certainly not just a box of chocolates, although a box of chocolates would have been prized just the same, it’s an expensive camera, darn it!---well don't things get a little too much twilight-zonish strange??? And do I say yes, or no? To be honest, it was a little embarrassing at first. I had to check whether I had insinuated about wanting to get a new camera, somewhere in my photo stream or blog, and probably yes I had, but I had wished it aloud, to myself, and no, I had not wanted to impose that wish on anyone, outside of myself. But again, if a person had very magnanimously offered you something he owns, because he felt that he had learned much from it and would like to pass it on to you so you can benefit from it the same way, and simply because he believes you got a chance at something, do you refuse? out of tact, or pride, or sheer embarrassment? I had to struggle with it all for a while. I just realized though, that refusing the offer, would have meant a lot more--- letting a good person down, letting myself down, letting my dreams down. And it was something I thought I would hate to regret about someday. And yes...., I said yes.

Far from suddenly owning a precious object, absolutely free of charge, what was even more humbling was the value of a person’s trust and friendship that comes with it. That even though the selfless act of giving was something I l had long convinced myself of as entirely real, there is a definitive part of me that feels I have the responsibility to emulate this kindness in the everyday things that I do. Not that I’ve never been kind. I believe that I had done my fair share in the compassion department, without heralding those few things. But when luck falls on your lap, as big and as overwhelming as this one, you can’t help but feel that you must be accountable to take care of it and make it grow, and love it with all your might, and spread it far and wide, so that others will also sow and eventually reap the same seed of kindness. A little act indeed maybe for people like Clarissa and Ramon.......but I just had to have grand illusions about it.

And again, it is never too late, or out of fashion, to say THANK YOU.