So i should have been an artist, journalist or actress. All but the latter i knew before i took up engineering because i had the arts inclination, exhibited passion and i certainly had the temperament. I get impatient when the picture is wholly formed in my mind and the others can't see it, and i have to explain. It's like trying to explain a joke, though whereas the act of explaining a joke makes it lose its humour, explaining an end result, what i want accomplished and how it should be done, often just irritates me. It took me years of experience to be better at this, but often I rely on forming a relationship of trust with the team first before they can understand me. My bark is worse than my bite, and now they love me, or at least, love me more than hate me. But imagine if i were an artist, and i'd have to explain why i painted the sun blue or why i chose genre or portrait,over abstract. I reckon i'd get "mad" during the whole process, but then again, i remember how it felt when i used to sketch and draw. When i was in accelerated class during elementary, i used to sketch and i did decent drawings, filling sketch pads of still life, birds and landscapes. I gave away these sketches to dear friends, and now i don't have a single copy. It made me feel relaxed, happy, challenged, but fulfilled after each work. Anyway, as Cielo so aptly captured it, BUT IM ALL GROWN UP NOW, and chose a different path. I could have been a journalist, but i knew I wasn't good enough, certainly not a Palanca awardee material. An actress, maybe I can act (yes, at shoots i do well in memorizing lines and display just the right emotion), but alas, i didnt have the illusion i was bound to be one, certainly not in my destiny. So, gasp, did that mean i chose engineering and chose a life of mediocrity? After all, if i wanted to become a real engineer, i would have chosen the more elite ECE rather than the more management-focused industrial engineering. In fact, the main reason i chose engineering is so i can easily get a job. I figured since i didn't have a famous surname, and my writing is at best sophomoric, what field would have an even playing field? The sciences and math courses would certainly be, as cerebral these courses are. I also felt I can always attempt to write.
Now I question this path: should we, in fact, choose our strengths in pursuing a lifetime career? It sounds simple enough. The better we are at something, the easier it would be to develop our skils, and the faster we gain competency. The more competent we are, the more confident we get, and the less it gets to feel like a job. The more we have fun, the more interest we show in furthering our skills, the less stress we get.
The other tenet is this: Did I dare to be? Did I take enough risk, pursuing my heart's desire?
What if both answers tell us we didn't dare enough?
I should be an artist.
But i'm all grown up now.
Doo shoo ka na? (what then?)
- i create art in my own way. By designing products out of our minds, developing the concept from birth to launch, from raw material to packaging to merchandising materials, the logo, the overall look, all that is art. It takes a vision, a picture in mind, a feel, a taste, a sensory experience to translate that to an actual product and let it fight it out in the market. My industry is the fiercest there is! The customers either buy the product or they don't.
-i get to write business writeups, correspondence, business plans, presentation materials,sales pitch, creative talks on ideation, product planning, researching using local and foreign market travel exposure, as well as sifting through pictures from current trends or marketing breakthroughs. As a distraction, I blog to refresh my right brain and release stress.
-i have my own way. I am told to think outside the box.
-i control my own pace.
eventhough, on hindisght i feel i should have pursued a career based on my strongest interests and should have given myself no limitation or restrictions,i do not regret the accidental path i had. Fate has, in fact, chosen me and has played the biggest role in my choices and where i am at today. I could have been a quality management auditor, an it person (i tried many times but doors would open and then a better one led me to marketing).
Now i'm thinking I would have liked being a web developer (understanding both the technical aspect and content /design management), as well as becoming my own boss, of an internet-based company, offering my own products online, or a service as a mystery shopper of lifestyle products and services. Yep, that would be my dream job, where i will be happily clicking away at my laptop, writing, processing orders out of my own home office, my creativity the only limit to infinite success.
In the meantime, what really frustrates me is when my creativity is curtailed, a superior at one time ordering me not to innovate, or some HR officer asking my opinion about wearing an office uniform (hello, i don't work for a bank wearing a really dull-colored skirt and matching blouse that i have to pay for with my own salary;we're also not a japanese company to be wearing shirt jacks).
I sent this questionnaire to my boss who sent me back his results: he's better off as a mechanic, a colleague can pass as a "subtle" politician, another colleague is better off as a doctor. We all agree the personalities match the results. So when i feel a need for drama, maybe i can use that line now,"but I'm an artist!"
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
What I'm Up to
| You Should Be an Artist |
 You are incredibly creative, spontaneous, and unique. No one can guess what you're going to do next, but it's usually something amazing. You can't deal with routine, rules, or structure. You're easily bored. As long as you are able to innovate and break the rules, you are extremely successful. You do best when you: - Can work by yourself - Can express your personality in your work You would also be a good journalist or actor. |
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
4-day Work Week
I don't know if it's age or just the season, the weather, the rain, but whatever it is, every Monday is dreadful. The weekend would pass so swiftly, I haven't had enough sun, or wind on my hair; there are errands to run and people to see, and before you know it, the weekend is over, and I would start counting the hours before I wake up to a Monday morning, stressed by the alarm clock and disoriented from sleep. Tuesday morning is no different, as I wake up later than usual and scurry faster than yesterday. Tuesday, and I start counting the days before it's Friday, when it's a holiday.
A simple joy, a 4-day work week. Except I was in bed Monday and Tuesday recuperating from a flu. I am still looking forward to Friday. Actually, I am looking forward to Thursday when it will almost be a Friday.
A simple joy, a 4-day work week. Except I was in bed Monday and Tuesday recuperating from a flu. I am still looking forward to Friday. Actually, I am looking forward to Thursday when it will almost be a Friday.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
A House With Uneven Columns
I woke up one day to a soft dewy morning,
Looking up at a chestnut tree,
In a house on a hill.
This is my chestnut dream,
The house of my future,
The house of my dreams.
Whereas
I now sleep in a country house,
I used to come from a simple edifice,
A thatched hut
With uneven columns.
A basic house,
With pillars of strength,
Its foundation can support even a superstructure.
I used to live in a simple edifice
A primitive hut
With a gargoyled spout,
Its grotesquely carved figure
Attached to walls of dried mud,
It’s a simple house that does not stand out
Except when it rears its ugly head.
This is the house of my past, my family,
The house of my stories,
The house of my daydreams,
Where I used to wake up some days to a soft dewy morning
Looking up at a chestnut tree,
In a house on a hill.
Pillar of Strength I
My mama is a martyr
A strong independent woman
Borne out of the bosom of poverty
Embraced by love
Hardened by her trials
Caressed by God.
She is not the soft clay you pound on, hit, wedge or pug,
But the kiln from which formed clay is fired
Molded by years of experience.
Day in and out,
Relentlessly, without abate,
She is tousled, beaten, scoured
Only to come out with character
Well worth the effort that God put her through.
“Where is your brother,” she would wake up after dozing off
in front of the TV, her body spent from working from 5 AM,
toiling away at her canteen, doing the marketing, menu planning,
the PR, the accounting, so she can send us to school.
“What time is it?” startled, at other times she would say
as soon as she opened her eyes,
and closed her open-hanged mouth,
not really demanding an answer
Then she would transfer from the couch to her bed,
sleeping alone, with her languid thoughts,
her worries, about bills,bills, bills
and her special child.
It’s only now that I wonder
What a pillar of strength she is
Forgetting about her own self
She is a mother, a daughter, a friend, a boss, a neighbor,
A guidance counselor, a sister, a servant, a prayer warrior, a healer.
never the wife,until recently.
Bearing the family burden of raising the kids,
Managing the household, keeping a profitable coop.
She must have felt lonely,
With a queen bed all to herself, I realize now,
never the queen, always the servant.
She would feed us, clothe us, entertain us,
Educate us, hug us, kiss us.
She was seldom angry but always busy, always tired.
“When you don’t have anyone else to hold on to,
you learn to talk to God as you would to a friend.
Go ahead, talk to him,”
She told me once when I began to hit some snags.
She prayed at dawn, prayed towards the sun, prayed for everyone.
She worshipped, she danced, she forgave a thousand times,
Then she would be off to work.
But not after fixing our breakfast,
our allowance on the dining table,
our tuition ready.
She is the pillar of our home--
She kept it together
In spite the distance from her husband
Who worked in a foreign land most throughout their marriage.
She never wavered in believing he did not cheat, or lie.
She never succumbed to temptation beguiling at her feet during her 30s, her 40s.
Her husband toiled away, sending money for school
While he waited for his naturalization,
she danced, she bowled, she prayed,
She was busy, she had her life.
She kept us together.
She kept the love alive within her family, within her marriage.
She was a buttress of the cause of love, of the cause of family.
“Mama, how often should we forgive? It’s too hurtful and I’m tired..,”
I told her one night when the cloud of dread swept over our house
like a smoke in a fire.
The smoke started to engulf everyone,
and its smell permeated all the tiny corners of our simple house.
It reeked, it smelled, it destroyed.
It wreaked havoc in its way, and almost robbed us of sanity.
It chipped away at our foundation, shaking us to the core. Even her.
She lost weight and her eyes, they grew sad.
The vibrant young woman I knew, one day turned old.
A warrior in the midst of a battle,
She grew weary but she never gave up.
“We must forgive seventy seven times seven times, “
And with that, almost everyone turned their backs on her,
Including me, for what she was asking was too much.
We are, after all, only human.
She forgave my father for retiring too early,
Leaving all responsibilities to her.
She forgave his outbursts,
his uncontrollable anger, coming in staccatos,
A hurricane in a path of destruction
Leaving the wind knocked out of everyone.
But in one instant she could forgive,
Knowing he was once a baby, left alone in his crib,
Crying his heart out in hunger and loneliness
While his mother eked out a living.
She loved him enough to put up with him,
A simple minded man who had simple dreams and means.
She easily forgave,
and told me, to learn to forget .
She often asked for signs, and she acted out her ways.
No one believed her when she uttered her prayers
“That all my kids will finish college, “ she swore she would, and she did.
Even our brother, who was a drug addict.
Dear God, please don’t take her yet.
I have so much to learn from her.
Let me love her; let me help her, let me serve her.
My mama is a martyr
A strong independent woman
Borne out of the bosom of poverty
Embraced by love
Hardened by her trials
Caressed by God.
Pillar of Strength II
My father, the provider.
He always went away, to the Middle East, to colonized islands,
Chasing after the green dollar, a greener pasture, the American dream.
He was never at any of my graduations, from kinder to college.
But I remember his gifts, he would ask us what we wanted, and he would deliver.
He remembered and he would always send them in giant boxes,
enough for me and my sister to slip into.
He would send bars of chocolates thicker than my arms
A Barbie doll for my sister
A Samsonite attaché case for me
(Which was just what I wanted),
A baby piano for Christmas
A train set with tracks
My father, the provider
I never knew how to kiss him,
Relate to him or respect him.
I never had to.
Until he came home,
Bloated from a fishing incident, and
With rheumatism gnawing at his joints and tips,
My father, the provider
Ceased to be.
I remember the year, it was 1998.
And I overheard him say
“I can’t work anymore, I am sick.”
To this day I recall how it made me feel,
Put a knot in my stomach, was unable to breathe,
Time stopped for a moment, before it hit me.
I am, now, the provider.
For years it took a lot of struggle to accept this.
I was young, I should enjoy life, have boyfriends, be normal.
But I am now, the provider.
It took me years, but the sooner I accepted my fate,
The easier it became.
I worked, I struggled, I enjoyed life, and I traveled.
I provided, but anger did not overcome me- I still loved our home.
Because my father was still the provider.
He cooked hearty meals and no one went hungry, or remained tired for long.
He showed his love and affection through a plateful of pasta,
He batted out I’m sorrys by whipping out adobo even if no one wanted to eat.
He knocked on our doors to call out breakfast, lunch, dinner, merienda.
He banged if you did not open at once.
When I worked in Japan, it was his recipes I asked for, not my mama’s.
And even when I moved to my own place,
He still managed to send his cooking, a package full of his love.
His food was warm, his love, sincere.
My father, a simple guy with simple dreams
His giant heart housed both his anger, and his love.
My father is still, our provider.
Little Pillar
Little boy, innocent one,
You’re almost like my son,
Little boy, angel boy,
I guess you never grow up in my eyes.
Little boy? You’re 18 now.
It only seemed like yesterday
When you were born
When you took your first steps.
Little one, our beloved one,
Unlike us, you didn’t enjoy papa’s gifts,
And instead you’re left alone in the empty nest,
Left in his wrath, with tears in your eyes.
Our little one, now taller than the rest,
How can you be so happy
Without the same privileges as our childhood
Oh but little boy, you are the luckiest—
For you were the only one
Who grew up with both a father and a mother
And two elder sisters.
Oh little boy, innocent one,
You’re almost like my son.
Lost Pillar
My brother, my life
How does one light a candle--
When the wick is short
And the wind continues to blow in its direction?
How does one love a lost soul--
Who lies, steals, and cheats
From the only ones left loving him?
He is vulnerable, weak; a misguided soul.
We prayed for him, talked to him, cajoled,
challenged, supported him, berated him.
We gave him jobs, sent him to interviews,
Gave him thousands of money
To learn to fish,
To become a productive member of society.
But his choices erred-
landed him once an overnight stay in jail,
Once again, to be rescued.
How does one rise up after many falls?
When the knee is bruised and the spirit is crushed?
How does one look forward to a day
When everything will be all right,
And the world will see you in a different light?
How does one start again?
My brother, life does not work out the way you see it,
It is full of struggle, full of strife,
But these shape your character,
We work to make our lives better
It does not just happen,
Every day is a chance, a do over.
Little by little, this is how we do it.
My brother, how does one teach
Someone who doesn’t want to learn?
Maybe it is time to let go
Of my brother, my life.
The Normal Pillar
My sister, my only sister
Always just cruising along
With a childhood of normalcy,
She grew up steadfast and strong.
My sister, how I envy my sister
She is the sheep, I’m the tiger
She’s taller, and wiser
She’s leaner, and kinder.
My sister, my wise younger sister
She scrimped like an old woman
Borrowed my clothes but bought new shoes
We had the same dress size, but her feet were a size 8.
My sister is a generous sister
With nary a problem, she saved up
In times of need, she opens up her palm.
Always ready to give what she can.
My sister, how different you and I are
She’s a brand new car in this life
Ready to be taken off the road
To a runway, a life of bliss.
I am happy for her;
She grew up steadfast and strong
My sister, oh how I envy, my only sister.
The Elder Pillar
And so this is how I came to be
The elder sister, the single head of the family
The one who blows hot and cold
The one who loves with a passion.
And so face to face, I look at me
I see my mother, my pillar of strength
She’s the warrior in me-
The resilient, hardworking, give-it-all me.
She is the strong woman in me
The one who never gives up, especially with the ones we love.
She is the fighter in me,
When all the others have given up.
She is the man in me
The provider, the father, the exorbitant shopper
When there’s no one else to take care of us,
She taught me what to do, I take care of me.
Yet I see my reflection in my father’s face
It is the same shape; we have the same mole,
A little bit of his temperament, it sometimes surfaces
Yes, I am my father’s daughter.
That same face, that gargoyled head
Blood to blood, this too, was passed.
For I am intense, and sometimes, rather blunt,
I blow cold, and I blow hot.
That same face, that child-like gaze,
That is my father in me.
We laugh, we dance and we don’t care,
Little kids are quite taken by us.
He is the provider; he does what he can,
He tried his best, and expected more from his clan
There were no words of wisdom, no secret talks
That’s the entire package-take it good, better, worse or worst.
I have learned to accept, and forgive their shortcomings
After all, they tried to make this life better, they believed they could .
It is only in accepting them, I learned, that I can be a better woman.
True wisdom, yes, it too, came from them.
And so this is how it came to be
This is how I came to be me.
Flawed, but surviving,
Reaching out to explore my being,
A twig, out there in the sun, exposed, but thriving.
My pillars of strength,
Our gargoyled head
Our resilient spirit,
Our hope, our faith.
This is how I came to be, this is how I am me.
Epilogue
This is our story, this is our past
A pageful of saga, of journeys never before told
It leaps in my memories, some scenes jutting out in vivid clarity
This journey of creativity has unleashed emotional scars.
This is our story, our typical house
Our house with uneven columns
A resilient mother, a simple father
A broken brother, normal sister
This is our past, this is our history
Our house with uneven columns
Simple or small, or tall and strong
Pillars of strength, we all are to each other.
This is our story, this is our past
Who knows what lies ahead?
A brighter future, a bigger house?
Where one day, all of us together,
Can wake up to a soft dewy morning,
Looking up at a chestnut tree,
In a house on a hill.
Looking up at a chestnut tree,
In a house on a hill.
This is my chestnut dream,
The house of my future,
The house of my dreams.
Whereas
I now sleep in a country house,
I used to come from a simple edifice,
A thatched hut
With uneven columns.
A basic house,
With pillars of strength,
Its foundation can support even a superstructure.
I used to live in a simple edifice
A primitive hut
With a gargoyled spout,
Its grotesquely carved figure
Attached to walls of dried mud,
It’s a simple house that does not stand out
Except when it rears its ugly head.
This is the house of my past, my family,
The house of my stories,
The house of my daydreams,
Where I used to wake up some days to a soft dewy morning
Looking up at a chestnut tree,
In a house on a hill.
Pillar of Strength I
My mama is a martyr
A strong independent woman
Borne out of the bosom of poverty
Embraced by love
Hardened by her trials
Caressed by God.
She is not the soft clay you pound on, hit, wedge or pug,
But the kiln from which formed clay is fired
Molded by years of experience.
Day in and out,
Relentlessly, without abate,
She is tousled, beaten, scoured
Only to come out with character
Well worth the effort that God put her through.
“Where is your brother,” she would wake up after dozing off
in front of the TV, her body spent from working from 5 AM,
toiling away at her canteen, doing the marketing, menu planning,
the PR, the accounting, so she can send us to school.
“What time is it?” startled, at other times she would say
as soon as she opened her eyes,
and closed her open-hanged mouth,
not really demanding an answer
Then she would transfer from the couch to her bed,
sleeping alone, with her languid thoughts,
her worries, about bills,bills, bills
and her special child.
It’s only now that I wonder
What a pillar of strength she is
Forgetting about her own self
She is a mother, a daughter, a friend, a boss, a neighbor,
A guidance counselor, a sister, a servant, a prayer warrior, a healer.
never the wife,until recently.
Bearing the family burden of raising the kids,
Managing the household, keeping a profitable coop.
She must have felt lonely,
With a queen bed all to herself, I realize now,
never the queen, always the servant.
She would feed us, clothe us, entertain us,
Educate us, hug us, kiss us.
She was seldom angry but always busy, always tired.
“When you don’t have anyone else to hold on to,
you learn to talk to God as you would to a friend.
Go ahead, talk to him,”
She told me once when I began to hit some snags.
She prayed at dawn, prayed towards the sun, prayed for everyone.
She worshipped, she danced, she forgave a thousand times,
Then she would be off to work.
But not after fixing our breakfast,
our allowance on the dining table,
our tuition ready.
She is the pillar of our home--
She kept it together
In spite the distance from her husband
Who worked in a foreign land most throughout their marriage.
She never wavered in believing he did not cheat, or lie.
She never succumbed to temptation beguiling at her feet during her 30s, her 40s.
Her husband toiled away, sending money for school
While he waited for his naturalization,
she danced, she bowled, she prayed,
She was busy, she had her life.
She kept us together.
She kept the love alive within her family, within her marriage.
She was a buttress of the cause of love, of the cause of family.
“Mama, how often should we forgive? It’s too hurtful and I’m tired..,”
I told her one night when the cloud of dread swept over our house
like a smoke in a fire.
The smoke started to engulf everyone,
and its smell permeated all the tiny corners of our simple house.
It reeked, it smelled, it destroyed.
It wreaked havoc in its way, and almost robbed us of sanity.
It chipped away at our foundation, shaking us to the core. Even her.
She lost weight and her eyes, they grew sad.
The vibrant young woman I knew, one day turned old.
A warrior in the midst of a battle,
She grew weary but she never gave up.
“We must forgive seventy seven times seven times, “
And with that, almost everyone turned their backs on her,
Including me, for what she was asking was too much.
We are, after all, only human.
She forgave my father for retiring too early,
Leaving all responsibilities to her.
She forgave his outbursts,
his uncontrollable anger, coming in staccatos,
A hurricane in a path of destruction
Leaving the wind knocked out of everyone.
But in one instant she could forgive,
Knowing he was once a baby, left alone in his crib,
Crying his heart out in hunger and loneliness
While his mother eked out a living.
She loved him enough to put up with him,
A simple minded man who had simple dreams and means.
She easily forgave,
and told me, to learn to forget .
She often asked for signs, and she acted out her ways.
No one believed her when she uttered her prayers
“That all my kids will finish college, “ she swore she would, and she did.
Even our brother, who was a drug addict.
Dear God, please don’t take her yet.
I have so much to learn from her.
Let me love her; let me help her, let me serve her.
My mama is a martyr
A strong independent woman
Borne out of the bosom of poverty
Embraced by love
Hardened by her trials
Caressed by God.
Pillar of Strength II
My father, the provider.
He always went away, to the Middle East, to colonized islands,
Chasing after the green dollar, a greener pasture, the American dream.
He was never at any of my graduations, from kinder to college.
But I remember his gifts, he would ask us what we wanted, and he would deliver.
He remembered and he would always send them in giant boxes,
enough for me and my sister to slip into.
He would send bars of chocolates thicker than my arms
A Barbie doll for my sister
A Samsonite attaché case for me
(Which was just what I wanted),
A baby piano for Christmas
A train set with tracks
My father, the provider
I never knew how to kiss him,
Relate to him or respect him.
I never had to.
Until he came home,
Bloated from a fishing incident, and
With rheumatism gnawing at his joints and tips,
My father, the provider
Ceased to be.
I remember the year, it was 1998.
And I overheard him say
“I can’t work anymore, I am sick.”
To this day I recall how it made me feel,
Put a knot in my stomach, was unable to breathe,
Time stopped for a moment, before it hit me.
I am, now, the provider.
For years it took a lot of struggle to accept this.
I was young, I should enjoy life, have boyfriends, be normal.
But I am now, the provider.
It took me years, but the sooner I accepted my fate,
The easier it became.
I worked, I struggled, I enjoyed life, and I traveled.
I provided, but anger did not overcome me- I still loved our home.
Because my father was still the provider.
He cooked hearty meals and no one went hungry, or remained tired for long.
He showed his love and affection through a plateful of pasta,
He batted out I’m sorrys by whipping out adobo even if no one wanted to eat.
He knocked on our doors to call out breakfast, lunch, dinner, merienda.
He banged if you did not open at once.
When I worked in Japan, it was his recipes I asked for, not my mama’s.
And even when I moved to my own place,
He still managed to send his cooking, a package full of his love.
His food was warm, his love, sincere.
My father, a simple guy with simple dreams
His giant heart housed both his anger, and his love.
My father is still, our provider.
Little Pillar
Little boy, innocent one,
You’re almost like my son,
Little boy, angel boy,
I guess you never grow up in my eyes.
Little boy? You’re 18 now.
It only seemed like yesterday
When you were born
When you took your first steps.
Little one, our beloved one,
Unlike us, you didn’t enjoy papa’s gifts,
And instead you’re left alone in the empty nest,
Left in his wrath, with tears in your eyes.
Our little one, now taller than the rest,
How can you be so happy
Without the same privileges as our childhood
Oh but little boy, you are the luckiest—
For you were the only one
Who grew up with both a father and a mother
And two elder sisters.
Oh little boy, innocent one,
You’re almost like my son.
Lost Pillar
My brother, my life
How does one light a candle--
When the wick is short
And the wind continues to blow in its direction?
How does one love a lost soul--
Who lies, steals, and cheats
From the only ones left loving him?
He is vulnerable, weak; a misguided soul.
We prayed for him, talked to him, cajoled,
challenged, supported him, berated him.
We gave him jobs, sent him to interviews,
Gave him thousands of money
To learn to fish,
To become a productive member of society.
But his choices erred-
landed him once an overnight stay in jail,
Once again, to be rescued.
How does one rise up after many falls?
When the knee is bruised and the spirit is crushed?
How does one look forward to a day
When everything will be all right,
And the world will see you in a different light?
How does one start again?
My brother, life does not work out the way you see it,
It is full of struggle, full of strife,
But these shape your character,
We work to make our lives better
It does not just happen,
Every day is a chance, a do over.
Little by little, this is how we do it.
My brother, how does one teach
Someone who doesn’t want to learn?
Maybe it is time to let go
Of my brother, my life.
The Normal Pillar
My sister, my only sister
Always just cruising along
With a childhood of normalcy,
She grew up steadfast and strong.
My sister, how I envy my sister
She is the sheep, I’m the tiger
She’s taller, and wiser
She’s leaner, and kinder.
My sister, my wise younger sister
She scrimped like an old woman
Borrowed my clothes but bought new shoes
We had the same dress size, but her feet were a size 8.
My sister is a generous sister
With nary a problem, she saved up
In times of need, she opens up her palm.
Always ready to give what she can.
My sister, how different you and I are
She’s a brand new car in this life
Ready to be taken off the road
To a runway, a life of bliss.
I am happy for her;
She grew up steadfast and strong
My sister, oh how I envy, my only sister.
The Elder Pillar
And so this is how I came to be
The elder sister, the single head of the family
The one who blows hot and cold
The one who loves with a passion.
And so face to face, I look at me
I see my mother, my pillar of strength
She’s the warrior in me-
The resilient, hardworking, give-it-all me.
She is the strong woman in me
The one who never gives up, especially with the ones we love.
She is the fighter in me,
When all the others have given up.
She is the man in me
The provider, the father, the exorbitant shopper
When there’s no one else to take care of us,
She taught me what to do, I take care of me.
Yet I see my reflection in my father’s face
It is the same shape; we have the same mole,
A little bit of his temperament, it sometimes surfaces
Yes, I am my father’s daughter.
That same face, that gargoyled head
Blood to blood, this too, was passed.
For I am intense, and sometimes, rather blunt,
I blow cold, and I blow hot.
That same face, that child-like gaze,
That is my father in me.
We laugh, we dance and we don’t care,
Little kids are quite taken by us.
He is the provider; he does what he can,
He tried his best, and expected more from his clan
There were no words of wisdom, no secret talks
That’s the entire package-take it good, better, worse or worst.
I have learned to accept, and forgive their shortcomings
After all, they tried to make this life better, they believed they could .
It is only in accepting them, I learned, that I can be a better woman.
True wisdom, yes, it too, came from them.
And so this is how it came to be
This is how I came to be me.
Flawed, but surviving,
Reaching out to explore my being,
A twig, out there in the sun, exposed, but thriving.
My pillars of strength,
Our gargoyled head
Our resilient spirit,
Our hope, our faith.
This is how I came to be, this is how I am me.
Epilogue
This is our story, this is our past
A pageful of saga, of journeys never before told
It leaps in my memories, some scenes jutting out in vivid clarity
This journey of creativity has unleashed emotional scars.
This is our story, our typical house
Our house with uneven columns
A resilient mother, a simple father
A broken brother, normal sister
This is our past, this is our history
Our house with uneven columns
Simple or small, or tall and strong
Pillars of strength, we all are to each other.
This is our story, this is our past
Who knows what lies ahead?
A brighter future, a bigger house?
Where one day, all of us together,
Can wake up to a soft dewy morning,
Looking up at a chestnut tree,
In a house on a hill.
25 and still rockin'
Amidst the downpouring rain, we rocked, swagging to the music of Itchyworms, Sandwich, Barbie, Mojofly and other popular local bands, swigging to the draft beers and tequila shots, walking like the drunken master.
Meanwhile, L takes the stage as a photographer, and surprises Raymond of Sandwich, who is a long-time UP ORG buddy of his back in the days.
I ask Raymond: "Kilala mo ba talaga sya?"
Raymond: " Oo naman, barkada ko si L.."
me: "Talaga? Ang galing nyo ha, good luck, and thank you for being here!"
Later I ask L to regale me of his days with Raymond and Buddy of the famous E-heads, and his mountaineering days. Sometimes I throw him offbeat with followup questions like, "So tell me more about your first time at sunken garden.."
Ha-ha-ha.
*****
I was dragged by FSY, holding me by the hand, leading me backstage where Kevin Yu of Itchyworms is, along with his bandmates from Ateneo. Mr. Yu is a typical Chinese, he is strict, wise, practical but he is very much like a father to me. While he introduces his son Kevin to me, I see a rockstar, with big strong arms, with his posse and a cute chick, to boot. Although Kevin chose a different path from his father, he is quite successful -their band has more popular songs than the other featured bands, and they are Pepsi endorsers, but I can see he is still his father's son. Aside from the strikingly similar features, he is also nice and kind, if not more makulit. Eric and another of his classmate from the Ateneo tells me that James (their classmate, who is reporting to me) is "mabait, hindi nangongopya sa klase, hindi magulo, sobrang bait na pwedeng tumakbong presidente....ng pilipinas.." Oh well..boys will be boys.
I spent the rest of the night, entertaining guests, our Kingspoint boys and gals (psst Buboy did you really get the San Miguel Draft pitcher?), my friends from the industry, and receiving shots from whoever was offering. Winnie, you were so tipsy, chancing na si Rico. Ha-ha-ha!
Meanwhile, L takes the stage as a photographer, and surprises Raymond of Sandwich, who is a long-time UP ORG buddy of his back in the days.
I ask Raymond: "Kilala mo ba talaga sya?"
Raymond: " Oo naman, barkada ko si L.."
me: "Talaga? Ang galing nyo ha, good luck, and thank you for being here!"
Later I ask L to regale me of his days with Raymond and Buddy of the famous E-heads, and his mountaineering days. Sometimes I throw him offbeat with followup questions like, "So tell me more about your first time at sunken garden.."
Ha-ha-ha.
*****
I was dragged by FSY, holding me by the hand, leading me backstage where Kevin Yu of Itchyworms is, along with his bandmates from Ateneo. Mr. Yu is a typical Chinese, he is strict, wise, practical but he is very much like a father to me. While he introduces his son Kevin to me, I see a rockstar, with big strong arms, with his posse and a cute chick, to boot. Although Kevin chose a different path from his father, he is quite successful -their band has more popular songs than the other featured bands, and they are Pepsi endorsers, but I can see he is still his father's son. Aside from the strikingly similar features, he is also nice and kind, if not more makulit. Eric and another of his classmate from the Ateneo tells me that James (their classmate, who is reporting to me) is "mabait, hindi nangongopya sa klase, hindi magulo, sobrang bait na pwedeng tumakbong presidente....ng pilipinas.." Oh well..boys will be boys.
I spent the rest of the night, entertaining guests, our Kingspoint boys and gals (psst Buboy did you really get the San Miguel Draft pitcher?), my friends from the industry, and receiving shots from whoever was offering. Winnie, you were so tipsy, chancing na si Rico. Ha-ha-ha!
Wala Lang
I wake up at 8, buzzed by an alarm clock;wistfully I procrastinate, hoping to put time off, but it can not be stopped. My mind wrestles with each minute, until I realize I have no power over it, and the longer I stay in bed, the faster I have to rush. My goal as of late is no longer to rush, to prevent unnecessary stress. So I finally pull myself up by 8:30 or 9, shower, dress up, retouch my face (uneven skin tone, alas, genetics is not on my side), rouge it up with warm brown tones and add a dash of Burt's Bees mint lip balm. I am done in 30 minutes, and a drive to the office takes 15 minutes, tops. Once I get there I'm swept away, eaten by time, engulfed by a tornado in a frenetic swoosh, rushing off from one meeting to the next, leaving nothing on my desk but a mere sign of temporary inhabitance. Other days it's a razzle dazzle day, where I actually get to use my magical right brain, and say what I want to say. My left brain, the cerebral part, is dragged along, the algorithms and permutations buried underneath the grey matter, the 5 years of engineering subjects, the experience gained from countless oral mathematical exercises swept under the rug, like my operations research textbook, lost in transit. Even for simple additions I now find myself using the calculator, refusing to trigger my brain-I actually wrack it just for the tasks I want, I now realize.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Disconnected
Today I felt guilty about being disconnected with the Philippine society. I RSS Howie Severino and Carlos Celdran's blogposts, also that of Manolo Quezon III, and these are my fill of the news. It is less interruptive, I get it on demand, whenever I want, because these posts talk about our republic state of chaos, politics, pollution and poverty. Carlos Celdran's tours, uplifting the image of Manila and educating local and foreign tourists, sometimes run commentaries that will momentarily jar me from my state of bliss; yesterday I read about his write-up on the suicide of the 11-year old girl because of her poverty, and Carlos is indignant- how dare the bishops blame the entire country for this when the problem of poverty for so many can be minimized with the use of birth control methods.
Today I read Howie Severino's post capturing the silent protest of some Filipinos in Baywalk, backtracked on the death of Rene Saguisag's wife due to reckless driving by trucks in Osmena Highway, and the pro-bono work of Howie's "mother earth's lawyer"-wife, Ipat Luna. She is a lawyer from UP, like my good friend DEP (who's celebrating her birthday today), but unlike many of us, Howie's wife chose to lead an earth-friendly, lake-conserving life, garnering many awards for her work in Taal Lake, and other similar conservation efforts.
I skimmed 3 blogposts: Silent Protest ("sawang-sawa na kami sa gulo sa Pilipinas", so protesters held hands, stretched like the columns of the bay, facing the sunset at Roxas Blvd, saying nothing), Ipat Luna's conservation efforts (preserving forests, lakes, parks), and Dulce Saguisag's death by a reckless truck driver. Howie ends his column about the senseless death of Dulce Saguisag with these lines: "A measure of a government's competence and legitimacy is its ability to protect its citizens. Rather than a Strong Republic, what we have is a failed state. "
How did this statement make me feel? Guilty, as I mentioned, because I am so disconnected with the news that didn't even hear about the bombing at the Sandiganbayan until yesterday (a full day after it happened). (I actually stopped watching the news a year ago). Then it made me think, why did I feel the guilt? This momentary guilt was instantly replaced by anger and indignation. And then I remembered why I chose a life of bliss instead of choosing to dwell on our sorry state of a nation:
1. I chose to stay in this country, even if I have the chance to work and live a better life in another country. It was a conscious decision; I am not proactively applying for a Canada immigration, or chasing an American dream. I chose to live in my home, my country. This is as Filipino as Filipino can get.
2. I am fully immersed in my work, which is also my mission in life: to improve the skills of my people, and increase sales to help our company have more stores, provide more jobs, creating a robust retail industry and contributing to a healthy economy.
3. I am aware that this nation needs discipline; our people can't even drive properly, and they are out there on the streets, with license paid for with cheated exams, driving recklessly, paying corrupt policemen, paying corrupt government agencies or municipalities who ask for money to approve permits and pass regulations; we have fake diplomas, our tourist guides in Pagsanjan Falls regale tourists with their "hindi pa nga ako kumakain, mahirap magsagwan" tales, soliciting more money because of a fixed DOT rate, turning an otherwise uneventful ride of the rapids into a woeful experience, our sidewalk vendors selling crabs pour water over them to make their product weigh more, and so on. I haven't even started about politics, the backstabbing, the funds from school children's chairs and school buildings which have already been spent with the kids crammed in gyms and under the trees. It is as old as a tale, as foul as the stench of the Pasig river. So where is the hope? Why am I here?
It is my home. This is where my family, my friends are. This is where I built and continue to rebuild my dreams. Life can be better. If we finish our schooling, get a job, work hard, excel at our job, we can still get the opportunities. If we think hard enough, and work hard enough, we can own a business, have a home. If we do not aim for material wealth that will buy us a house in Ayala Alabang, or a conglomerate, we can realize our simple dreams. Why am I here? Because I realize I have simple dreams, and my happiness is simple. But I still have goals, and this environment allows me to reach for my goals, challenging myself to aim better. Do I have money problems, sure, but do I believe I can work towards improving my current state? Oh yes. Definitely.
4. While I'm here I realize that in order to thrive, I need to lessen the noise, and focus my energies on doing something that will actually result to something, in order to motivate myself to do better, more.
Disconnected? Not entirely. I remember how I felt when Erap was pardoned swiftly, barely a month after his indictment. We cheered at his indictment;we were at the airport, and we were thinking- there is justice after all, there is hope for our country, after all. And then that chesire cat smile of GMA, granting Erap presidential pardon so quickly. I remember how I wanted a sticker of Erap's face stuck on my toilet bowl, so I can flush him every time I "dropped off some friends at the pool."
Today I read Howie Severino's post capturing the silent protest of some Filipinos in Baywalk, backtracked on the death of Rene Saguisag's wife due to reckless driving by trucks in Osmena Highway, and the pro-bono work of Howie's "mother earth's lawyer"-wife, Ipat Luna. She is a lawyer from UP, like my good friend DEP (who's celebrating her birthday today), but unlike many of us, Howie's wife chose to lead an earth-friendly, lake-conserving life, garnering many awards for her work in Taal Lake, and other similar conservation efforts.
I skimmed 3 blogposts: Silent Protest ("sawang-sawa na kami sa gulo sa Pilipinas", so protesters held hands, stretched like the columns of the bay, facing the sunset at Roxas Blvd, saying nothing), Ipat Luna's conservation efforts (preserving forests, lakes, parks), and Dulce Saguisag's death by a reckless truck driver. Howie ends his column about the senseless death of Dulce Saguisag with these lines: "A measure of a government's competence and legitimacy is its ability to protect its citizens. Rather than a Strong Republic, what we have is a failed state. "
How did this statement make me feel? Guilty, as I mentioned, because I am so disconnected with the news that didn't even hear about the bombing at the Sandiganbayan until yesterday (a full day after it happened). (I actually stopped watching the news a year ago). Then it made me think, why did I feel the guilt? This momentary guilt was instantly replaced by anger and indignation. And then I remembered why I chose a life of bliss instead of choosing to dwell on our sorry state of a nation:
1. I chose to stay in this country, even if I have the chance to work and live a better life in another country. It was a conscious decision; I am not proactively applying for a Canada immigration, or chasing an American dream. I chose to live in my home, my country. This is as Filipino as Filipino can get.
2. I am fully immersed in my work, which is also my mission in life: to improve the skills of my people, and increase sales to help our company have more stores, provide more jobs, creating a robust retail industry and contributing to a healthy economy.
3. I am aware that this nation needs discipline; our people can't even drive properly, and they are out there on the streets, with license paid for with cheated exams, driving recklessly, paying corrupt policemen, paying corrupt government agencies or municipalities who ask for money to approve permits and pass regulations; we have fake diplomas, our tourist guides in Pagsanjan Falls regale tourists with their "hindi pa nga ako kumakain, mahirap magsagwan" tales, soliciting more money because of a fixed DOT rate, turning an otherwise uneventful ride of the rapids into a woeful experience, our sidewalk vendors selling crabs pour water over them to make their product weigh more, and so on. I haven't even started about politics, the backstabbing, the funds from school children's chairs and school buildings which have already been spent with the kids crammed in gyms and under the trees. It is as old as a tale, as foul as the stench of the Pasig river. So where is the hope? Why am I here?
It is my home. This is where my family, my friends are. This is where I built and continue to rebuild my dreams. Life can be better. If we finish our schooling, get a job, work hard, excel at our job, we can still get the opportunities. If we think hard enough, and work hard enough, we can own a business, have a home. If we do not aim for material wealth that will buy us a house in Ayala Alabang, or a conglomerate, we can realize our simple dreams. Why am I here? Because I realize I have simple dreams, and my happiness is simple. But I still have goals, and this environment allows me to reach for my goals, challenging myself to aim better. Do I have money problems, sure, but do I believe I can work towards improving my current state? Oh yes. Definitely.
4. While I'm here I realize that in order to thrive, I need to lessen the noise, and focus my energies on doing something that will actually result to something, in order to motivate myself to do better, more.
Disconnected? Not entirely. I remember how I felt when Erap was pardoned swiftly, barely a month after his indictment. We cheered at his indictment;we were at the airport, and we were thinking- there is justice after all, there is hope for our country, after all. And then that chesire cat smile of GMA, granting Erap presidential pardon so quickly. I remember how I wanted a sticker of Erap's face stuck on my toilet bowl, so I can flush him every time I "dropped off some friends at the pool."
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Moot and Soot
Let me share with you one of my stupidest moments. It was only recently, this year, when I started using aromatherapy oils for my home. I was instantly addicted when I tried Body Shop's green tea home oil fragrance. In Singapore, L's roomie was into this Bel Air Paris networking thing, and I remember the whiff of the green tea scent, which really made my sleep a lot less anxious than in its normal nature. I loved it. It was no surprise then that green tea would be the best selling scent of The Body Shop, too, given its relaxing effect, thus fulfilling the need of consumers who wanted a relaxing scent at home.
So there I was, enjoying the scent, pouring in more than 8 drops each time on my aromatherapy set from Cagayan de Oro, and my room would be a haven, a real sanctuary for those who seek peace, silence and comfort. I was using it so frequently that my tea light candles, a set of 12 ran out fast. Tempted to use some generic white candles, free samples from the office, I didn't mind that the wax would spill over the floor. They could spill, but I could always crack it from under and not leave a mark on the floor. So I did. Days passed, I was ok except for the cleaning up of the soot which would gather thickly on the surface of the aromatherapy set and my fingers would get dirty. Sometimes the black substance would stick to the floor and I can only remove it with Ariel.
One time, thinking about this inconvenience, I put tissue paper below the aromatherapy set. I didn't want my floor dirtied! And moreover, I didn't want to clean the floor with soot! I totally forgot about the wax spillover. When only the wick was left standing, L told me what did I do, why was there tissue paper on the floor? Afraid of being thought of as stupid, I proceeded to blow off the flame. Lo and behold, the flame from the candle spilled over the tissue paper, and guess what happens to paper when touched by flame? Fire!
I still wasn't about to be thought of as stupid, I used the water on the aromatherapy set to quench the fire. Of course I forgot that the water has the oil drops from the home fragrance. So boom. How does one add fuel to the fire? Add oil!
Can you imagine how big the flame got? I can't tell you how stupid I felt or how my knees felt weak, thinking about the fire, my furniture, my floor. All of these in less than sixty seconds. Good thing, my tempo is quick even if my mind was a little dull, I had enough sense to get my fire extinguisher, which has not been used before, and L had enough alertness to know how to use it. It was over. My floor was dusty from the powder, my couch safe from damage, a little soot and wax on my floor, but my stupidity was unbelievable.
I ended up cleaning more soot than ever before.
Oh, and my aromatherapy set? It's happily ensconced in its new home, the restroom with poutpourri. It's going to take time before I have the courage to bring it into the room again. Maybe when I have enough common sense.
So there I was, enjoying the scent, pouring in more than 8 drops each time on my aromatherapy set from Cagayan de Oro, and my room would be a haven, a real sanctuary for those who seek peace, silence and comfort. I was using it so frequently that my tea light candles, a set of 12 ran out fast. Tempted to use some generic white candles, free samples from the office, I didn't mind that the wax would spill over the floor. They could spill, but I could always crack it from under and not leave a mark on the floor. So I did. Days passed, I was ok except for the cleaning up of the soot which would gather thickly on the surface of the aromatherapy set and my fingers would get dirty. Sometimes the black substance would stick to the floor and I can only remove it with Ariel.
One time, thinking about this inconvenience, I put tissue paper below the aromatherapy set. I didn't want my floor dirtied! And moreover, I didn't want to clean the floor with soot! I totally forgot about the wax spillover. When only the wick was left standing, L told me what did I do, why was there tissue paper on the floor? Afraid of being thought of as stupid, I proceeded to blow off the flame. Lo and behold, the flame from the candle spilled over the tissue paper, and guess what happens to paper when touched by flame? Fire!
I still wasn't about to be thought of as stupid, I used the water on the aromatherapy set to quench the fire. Of course I forgot that the water has the oil drops from the home fragrance. So boom. How does one add fuel to the fire? Add oil!
Can you imagine how big the flame got? I can't tell you how stupid I felt or how my knees felt weak, thinking about the fire, my furniture, my floor. All of these in less than sixty seconds. Good thing, my tempo is quick even if my mind was a little dull, I had enough sense to get my fire extinguisher, which has not been used before, and L had enough alertness to know how to use it. It was over. My floor was dusty from the powder, my couch safe from damage, a little soot and wax on my floor, but my stupidity was unbelievable.
I ended up cleaning more soot than ever before.
Oh, and my aromatherapy set? It's happily ensconced in its new home, the restroom with poutpourri. It's going to take time before I have the courage to bring it into the room again. Maybe when I have enough common sense.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Weekend Drifter
In a galaxy far far away, I was clueless and once, went out on a date watching an Air Supply concert. Looking back, I don't know what's worse
a. that I actually went to an Air Supply concert
b. that I went out with a guy who listens to Air Supply
c. that my date had his uncle drive us to Ultra
d. that I didn't know it was a date.
Like I said, it was in a different lifetime, in a galaxy far, far away. Worst things can happen.
The point is, these are the thoughts of a weekend drifter.
***
I graduated last Saturday with my Joy of Writing classmates- a doctor who's a member of the Medical Board, an advertising guy who wrote the lyrics for the Dawn's hit song Salamat (plus other hit commercials), a teacher, an ex-theatre and TV personality, an 18-year old boy, and a 24-year old writer for the Manila Standard. The long wooden table which was where our journey began became the sole witness to this passage of rite.
Tweetums brought out her ceramic bowls and we had chips with almond and jalapeno, feta cheese and dips, cheese and cold cut platter with grapes, and wine (red and white). We read our graduation piece over low lights, and with this feast upon our table. There were family secrets revealed, there were tears, quavering voices, and insights. There was the usual pagtitimpi from Twee from our 18-year old buy, and the argumentative doctor; there were sharing of stories, and tsismis about Twee's inclusion in the 7 Showbiz Secrets circulating on email (she tells us that mostly it's true), and reveals more about her men and her life. There was laughter, there was sharing, there was communion.
This class, it is not just about writing. It is a revelation of our true selves, naked for each one of us to see. It is coming to terms with who we are, with some of us forced to come face to face with our past only now. The men in particular, were so moved by the writing since they chose to forget, to close the book, to not talk about their past. Bonnie, was visibly moved by my writing, and the feeling is mutual. They clapped at my writing, and Twee tells them it is a beautiful piece. I think theirs, were beautiful too. It is their truth.
More new friends made! We have a yahoo group to be put up soon, with Twee enlisting as a member.
a. that I actually went to an Air Supply concert
b. that I went out with a guy who listens to Air Supply
c. that my date had his uncle drive us to Ultra
d. that I didn't know it was a date.
Like I said, it was in a different lifetime, in a galaxy far, far away. Worst things can happen.
The point is, these are the thoughts of a weekend drifter.
***
I graduated last Saturday with my Joy of Writing classmates- a doctor who's a member of the Medical Board, an advertising guy who wrote the lyrics for the Dawn's hit song Salamat (plus other hit commercials), a teacher, an ex-theatre and TV personality, an 18-year old boy, and a 24-year old writer for the Manila Standard. The long wooden table which was where our journey began became the sole witness to this passage of rite.
Tweetums brought out her ceramic bowls and we had chips with almond and jalapeno, feta cheese and dips, cheese and cold cut platter with grapes, and wine (red and white). We read our graduation piece over low lights, and with this feast upon our table. There were family secrets revealed, there were tears, quavering voices, and insights. There was the usual pagtitimpi from Twee from our 18-year old buy, and the argumentative doctor; there were sharing of stories, and tsismis about Twee's inclusion in the 7 Showbiz Secrets circulating on email (she tells us that mostly it's true), and reveals more about her men and her life. There was laughter, there was sharing, there was communion.
This class, it is not just about writing. It is a revelation of our true selves, naked for each one of us to see. It is coming to terms with who we are, with some of us forced to come face to face with our past only now. The men in particular, were so moved by the writing since they chose to forget, to close the book, to not talk about their past. Bonnie, was visibly moved by my writing, and the feeling is mutual. They clapped at my writing, and Twee tells them it is a beautiful piece. I think theirs, were beautiful too. It is their truth.
More new friends made! We have a yahoo group to be put up soon, with Twee enlisting as a member.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Fan Mail
"Barbara C. Gonzalez" wrote:
Armi, this is an excellent piece. Your errors are uniform — verb tenses and how you mix them up in a paragraph. Anyway, just read my footnotes. Those are my edits.
A wonderful piece! Did I teach you to write that? How did it help you?
Tweee
From: "Armi" <@yahoo.com>
Subject: Re: my graduation piece
Hahaha. You just made me laugh- "same error to the bitter end." It's not your fault, I really am lousy at tenses and grammar, and that's not part of your class, I'm afraid. I'll take this now as part of the class learnings, I will be conscious.
I also finished your book last night, your writing makes my right brain swirl, with so much creativity, and so much fun. The sessions spent with you made me see a glimpse of that person- someone with just the right sweetness, bitchiness and taray. Ok, I'm a fan, I know, I know!
Seriously, yes, you taught me a lot of things. I had difficulty with the metaphors, but you write them like they are stored in every nook and cranny of your belly, not just your brain, and now I have a real appreciation of metaphors. They are great! You are so right about clustering, I think that really is the key. It really made tapping to my creative side possible. I reached out and there were some sparks, and I just made those sparks write themselves down on paper.
Thank you so much! Please keep writing!
Love,
Armi
Armi, this is an excellent piece. Your errors are uniform — verb tenses and how you mix them up in a paragraph. Anyway, just read my footnotes. Those are my edits.
A wonderful piece! Did I teach you to write that? How did it help you?
Tweee
From: "Armi" <@yahoo.com>
Subject: Re: my graduation piece
Hahaha. You just made me laugh- "same error to the bitter end." It's not your fault, I really am lousy at tenses and grammar, and that's not part of your class, I'm afraid. I'll take this now as part of the class learnings, I will be conscious.
I also finished your book last night, your writing makes my right brain swirl, with so much creativity, and so much fun. The sessions spent with you made me see a glimpse of that person- someone with just the right sweetness, bitchiness and taray. Ok, I'm a fan, I know, I know!
Seriously, yes, you taught me a lot of things. I had difficulty with the metaphors, but you write them like they are stored in every nook and cranny of your belly, not just your brain, and now I have a real appreciation of metaphors. They are great! You are so right about clustering, I think that really is the key. It really made tapping to my creative side possible. I reached out and there were some sparks, and I just made those sparks write themselves down on paper.
Thank you so much! Please keep writing!
Love,
Armi
Thursday, November 08, 2007
My Graduation Piece
In case you're wondering why there is a little backlog on my post, I've been writing my graduation piece for my writing class. It's an emotional journey, and intellectually taxing as well, requiring focus and concentration, especially when you are asked to write about your family, about each and every member of your family. There is a lot of material for one to write about their family, and writing a 2500 word article is a perfect inauguration in the religion of creativity.
It is a difficult class. I mean,you really have to exert effort to improve your writing, to write in the prescribed way, the creative way, using metaphors, dialogues, recurrences, images, wholeness and creative tensions. It is not a class where you just have to show up, and that's it, like my Docent Training Program, this one I've to write at night, review my drafts, rewrite if I have to, and I have to be satisfied with my output because I have to read it in class.
I sent in my final piece yesterday, short of 100 or so words, sending it in poetry format, yes, with all the metaphors I could muster. I winged it a bit, just writing whatever poured out of my clustering, and in my spontaneous writing. I'm not sure I can make it in a different tonality if I had to redo it, so I just used whatever came out of my writing (3 nights writing, 1 day editing), and edited it for grammar and style and am awaiting judgment.
So there, I'm drained. The stuff that came out is too personal to be posted in this blog, but some of you who know me know my story, and that's what I wrote there. The truths, as prescribed.
It is a difficult class. I mean,you really have to exert effort to improve your writing, to write in the prescribed way, the creative way, using metaphors, dialogues, recurrences, images, wholeness and creative tensions. It is not a class where you just have to show up, and that's it, like my Docent Training Program, this one I've to write at night, review my drafts, rewrite if I have to, and I have to be satisfied with my output because I have to read it in class.
I sent in my final piece yesterday, short of 100 or so words, sending it in poetry format, yes, with all the metaphors I could muster. I winged it a bit, just writing whatever poured out of my clustering, and in my spontaneous writing. I'm not sure I can make it in a different tonality if I had to redo it, so I just used whatever came out of my writing (3 nights writing, 1 day editing), and edited it for grammar and style and am awaiting judgment.
So there, I'm drained. The stuff that came out is too personal to be posted in this blog, but some of you who know me know my story, and that's what I wrote there. The truths, as prescribed.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Poker Nights
Spent the long weekend playing cards: tong-its for girls and poker for the guys. Also learned the red dog, and in-between card games. Actually went to sleep sunday at 3 AM with clubs, diamonds, aces, spades and hearts in my mind.
And that is how time fritters away. No longer lost in languid thoughts, but instead, spent in the company of friends, after a good 3-hour game of badminton, a hearty bilao of pansit malabon and sumpia, a bbq dinner and san mig light, plus Uncle Pards' sashimi from lapu lapu and tuna in Mindanao, and some obscure music playing in the background.
I wish life is a series of long vacation. Sigh. Back to the grind.
And that is how time fritters away. No longer lost in languid thoughts, but instead, spent in the company of friends, after a good 3-hour game of badminton, a hearty bilao of pansit malabon and sumpia, a bbq dinner and san mig light, plus Uncle Pards' sashimi from lapu lapu and tuna in Mindanao, and some obscure music playing in the background.
I wish life is a series of long vacation. Sigh. Back to the grind.
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