chasing summer

winning bangketa shot

2009-07-16T19:16:00.000+08:00

'm so happy about this cover story. I've been working (and stressing) on this for the past couple of weeks just so we could get the cover. I supervised the shoot and interview, researched, and got to meet wonderful and funny people in the process. Since this is my first cover pitch to get approved, it's double the pressure.
Aside from the people I worked with, Joel Calderon himself is inspiring. In his quiet and unassuming ways, he is the embodiment of passionate perseverance. Just what makes him extraordinary? Read his story in Starweek's July 12 issue.
Another job perk? A society columnist asked for his contact details. I don't know why, but hopefully for more publicity, which of course, equals to more sponsorships. Charity just makes you feel so damn good, doesn't it? Especially when I'm actually doing it as part of my job. I'm so happy for him, I hope he wins more races. Next, Tour de France?

And yeah, the chosen cover photo was based on my peg- the bangketa shot. LOL.

Update
Online version now up: http://www.philstar.com/Article.aspx?articleId=485868&publicationSubCategoryId=90

2009-07-16T17:26:00.000+08:00

I would like to say welcome to my home, but that's just me needing a good bonk on the head or perhaps a straight IV shot of espresso to wake me up.
I read about this piece of heaven and I've been wanting to live here, or at least spend a week- heck, a month, please! Isn't this place gorgeous? The concept is wonderful, catered to such beach-bum-geeks like myself. Damn! Can I live here? While I hold close to my heart old Spanish/Filipiniana baroque, The Library's
design and architecture really works in its simplicty- some parts very Ikea, which I adore. (I remember leafing through those brochures when I was a kid.) Most notable perhaps is their unique red-tiled pool; they liberally use red as accents to an otherwise monochromatic palette.

One of the best bits about this place? Named The Library, it can't get any heavenly as this.

Check out their website(never mind the funny-cute English.) Their opening line: Real happiness is not complicated at all. Lahvet! ;)

(That and photo cred: http://www.thelibrary.name)
(This is in Thailand, by the way :P)

2009-07-16T17:14:00.001+08:00

Very simple, discrete but powerful. I love ads that tell stories.
(I think you need to click on the photo to read the copy. I scanned this Vespa ad from a broadsheet. Yes, I loved it that much.)
----
Edit: Ok, I think clicking on the photo doesn't work. Here's the text. Now, this is a love story.

"She was behind me when I started the band.
Behind me when won my first fight.
Behind me when I aced my exams.
Behind me when I turned down college.
Behind me when I got our record deal.
Behind me when I chose not to fight.
Behind me when I quit the band.
Behind me when I took the job.
Behind me when her parents weren't.
Behind me when I wanted a small wedding.
Behind me when I wanted a big party.
Behind me when I wanted a 52" screen.
Behind me when I mortgaged a house.
Behind me when I started the company.
Behind me when my father died.
Behind me when my partners split.
Behind me when I nearly quit.
Behind me when I restored the business.
Behind me when I reformed the band.
Behind me when I overtook the bus."

Unfolding: An Account of Standing my Ground Amidst a Slippery Slope

2009-07-16T13:40:00.000+08:00

Oh, but I've heard lies like those
You may speak your truth, but all I hear are lies,
rotten versions of your truth.

I would have believed in anything and everything.
In something good. I heard your voice, what you were saying.
Even things you couldn't say.
In the expectation of something that may just be right.
But I need to stand my ground.
How easy it is to go down that slippery slope.

For a time you were all I needed to get by.
In the great grand scheme of things, you were the constant.
I would have fallen to pieces for you, and maybe the walls did tumble.
I wanted to be there but you wouldn't let me.

Between the things that you said and did,
that last act of betrayal took the cake.
Erasing all the good that happened
and was bound to happen, had I stayed.
I've never fancied myself a sadist,
and yet there I was stoically bearing every unkind act you have played.

It's even harder to breathe now.
Honestly and strangely, with you I felt something I hadn't in a while.
I may have mistaken it at one time or another for something akin to what?
Infatuation? Falling? I am beyond labeling it now.
It is done.

For a long time, I had so many questions.
Now, I don’t even need to know the answers.
I need to unfold.

(photo cred: www.cherrybam.com)

meet the speechwriter

2009-02-11T08:12:00.000+08:00

how hot is this guy?
(obviously, I haven't finished my drafts and instead
opt to post more eye candy. kapoy to think.)

Obama's Speechwriter (search MSN)

Five years out of college, Jon Favreau, Obama's chief speechwriter, is an undeniable talent.

His résumé is impressive: from valedictorian to deputy speechwriter for John Kerry's presidential run. Soon after that wrapped up, he went to work for the then-freshmen senator from Illinois, Mr. Barack Obama.

As the chief speechwriter for the Obama campaign, Favreau has had a hand in nearly every speech Obama has given, including the inaugural address. Today, he's the director of speechwriting for the administration.

what a first post...

2009-01-20T06:10:00.000+08:00

Melai "introduced" me to this gorgeous creature. Something to look forward to this year- Daniel Henney, playing Agent Zero in X-Men Origin, out sometime this May.

I heart him :D To think, am not a fan of Koreanovelas. I found out he's the guy in My Name is Kim Sam Soon, and that he's British-Korean-American.

How can a man look this good?!

Anyhoo. Lots of drafts to finish and blog backlog. Been tying loose ends, getting really sick, blah blah blah...

Be back blogging pretty soon.

finally!

2008-12-19T15:26:00.000+08:00

on a late friday night, first draft = final. what music to my ears :) lahvet.

happy thoughts to send me on my way.

next post, from cebu.

happy madcap christmas, everyone.

finally!

2008-12-19T14:55:00.000+08:00

working class

2008-12-08T12:22:00.000+08:00

My work is getting me all-schizo, in a good way. Fun. I have to always keep in mind “voices” when I write. I am forced to actually put discipline in writing. My constant source of insecurity is the fact that I didn’t go to school (training) for this, but since this is something that I am passionate about, I am willing to go to great lengths to learn as much as I can. Oh, the things I do for this love of writing- I took a pay cut, I now commute in the smoggy metro and contend with a lot of rude people during rush hour. I know this won’t be the end of it, this constant adjustment, stretching of myself. I don different thinking hats- one minute, its party girl covering a fabulous event, and the next, serious news fit for front page. Work may not be perfect and ideal, but it’s reliable. It isn’t about feeling the love everyday- it is about sustenance, for even when after the glow of falling has waned, I will stick it out and I will choose to stay. That is something I cannot say about a job that I’m not in love with. I was interviewed in several multinational companies; a couple with posts that were connected to my training and HR background. In one, I did the initial interview, exam and the departmental interview all on the same day. I knew if I really wanted to, I would have gotten the job. Except, when I was talking to my potential boss about projects that I had done, I noticed I was telling her my story by rote. In a weird out-of-body kind way, I saw myself talking to her, all prim and proper in my suit, hands clasped on my lap. Just enough of a warm smile, slight nodding of the head. No sparks, no chemistry. Much like a blind date that bombed.Then, the exams. Logical, abstract reasoning and mathematical ability. Number series that required you of what came next after 8, 9, 12. How the hell should I know? I hate those exams, and I hate it even more when numbers and shapes start swimming on the test booklets. Good thing the proctors didn’t see my scratch sheets, or else they’d have seen my doodles. Still a lot like a blind date who insists on bringing you home. Prolonging the agony.In contrast, my interviews for the current job was full of laughter, some retelling of stories and I didn’t even have to take an exam. On the very day of my first and final interview, I got the job and a take home assignment. Now, here I am. Of course, I cannot write about clients here, one thing I promised myself. Common sense, even if I did have to sign a confidentiality agreement. I’m having fun learning. Being continents out of my comfort zone isn’t all that peachy fun, but there are moments. In events, I get all glammed up and prettified, then you’d see us scarfing down fishbols on the sidewalk, right before schmoozing with guests. Sarap.I will not complain about demanding clients; it doesn’t take a genius to realize they’re the reason we have the business. It will only give me more insight on human nature, and hey, more fodder for my future-book material. I will not whine about having to read and scan newspapers and magazines for client monitoring, I already love to read them anyway. It will just mean I will have extended my reading menu. A downside is the abuse I’ve been inflicting on my eyes, having to stare at the computer screen for hours and noticing a need to have my eyes checked. That, and pushing myself to turn out better articles, faster, so my editor will be happier. I don’t mind though. That silly smile I have plastered on my face after seeing my words on major dailies is more than enough. For now. I still want my byline.

commuting casualty

2008-12-08T10:48:00.000+08:00

“Give a woman a great pair of shoes and she can conquer the world” (Bette Midler) Unfortunately, not even Carrie and the rest of the SATC girls can account for the fact that walking in heels on concrete is a version of hell on earth. I may have to go back to basics, and I don’t think I’ve ever been a basics kind of girl. Wearing clothes my own way, I didn’t need to previously consider the logistical considerations of outfits. (Yeah, so socially relevant.) I’ve never had to commute this far and if I did, I was always able to get rides. Getting on the MRT was a once in a while treat; almost five years in my stay in Manila, it’s still somewhat of a novelty. Not anymore. In my previous post, I mentioned about tugging hemlines and lowered necklines. I’ve never been one to wear something so attention-grabbing, but I do love to have my own way of dressing up. After years of having school uniforms, fashion was something that I relish. Aside from clothes considerations, my promising love affair with shoes is getting nipped in the bud. I still love my stilettos, but I have also recently learned to be friends with flats, something that I have never imagined doing. I’m sure girls can relate to the power of wearing high heels and I need not go over again the high (literally and figuratively) that women get when in heels. Sure, we walk differently, hips consciously swaying in tune with the staccato beats our walking creates. Try that for, oh, let’s say three blocks, and you’ll be crying for your mommy. Someone, please invent heels we can actually commute in comfortably. Is a confidence-boosting device in the guise of footwear too much to ask of Santa this Christmas? Conquer the world in flats and the height you were destined, in my case, puny? So much for world domination. Forget it. (Oh wait…a certain lady president who stays firmly in place? Sheldon Plankton in SpongeBob? Hmm. There might be hope yet.) Thankfully, the weather has been great. It’s actually cold out, and the MRT’s air-condition is even sometimes freezing. Come summer, it’s going to be another story.

here's another.

2008-12-08T05:49:00.000+08:00

procrastinating efficiently. Here's another linked article, this time by F. Sionil Jose (because I can certainly relate, and because I still haven't finished Viajero)

Should our writers globalize?
HINDSIGHT By F Sionil Jose Updated December 08, 2008 12:00 AM

A hundred writers and literature teachers from Mindanao and the Visayas met at the University of the Philippines in Tacloban last Monday. This is what I told them:

Prof. Merle Alunan asked me to comment on “Literature in the Environment of Globalism.” For those of us who write in English, since English has become the lengua franca of the world, our literature will have a global reach even without our intending it. And such megaton words like globalism, globalization, what could they possibly mean to a farmer in storm-lashed Samar, who had slaved to send his children to this university in Tacloban? What can such words mean to us, knowing that the world has shrunk so much with the laptop and television, and of course, with our thousands upon thousands of relatives strewn at random all over the world. Truly, we have become a cosmopolitan people although our roots are embedded deep in the provincial soil of this unhappy country.

We now see our workers here and abroad losing their jobs because of the rapacity of capitalists, and at home, the myopia of those Makati moneybags. These are the sordid realities of the present, the ugly face of globalism staring at us.

We cannot demand of writers, to portray a particular theme, a particular view, although, of course, it was common for Popes and Kings to patronize writers who pandered to them affirming their greatness. But maybe, just maybe, from this impending catastrophe — “Only the event will teach us in its hour…” and, so it must be — from the great conundrums in history have sprung equally great writers. From the Spanish Inquisition emerged Miguel de Cervantes and the world’s greatest novel, “Don Quixote dela Mancha.” Bad times create good if not excellent literature — in living memory, the Great Depression in America in the ’30s brought forth the brightest of American writers, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, William Faulkner.

Stalinist repression from the Thirties to the Seventies did not extinguish the creativity of Russia’s authors; from those horrendous decades of imprisonment, torture and death sprang Alexander Solzhenitsyn and Boris Paternak, poets like Osip Mandelstam who died in prison and my favorite poet, Anna Akhmatova whose poem, permit me now to recite, is a tribute to those who stayed behind and braved the lash:

I am not one of those who left the land

to the mercy of its enemies.

Their flattery leaves me cold,

my songs are not for them to praise.

But I pity the exile’s lot.

Like a felon, like a man half-dead,

dark is your path, wanderer;

wormwood infects your foreign bread.

But here in the murk of conflagration

when scarcely a friend is left to know,

we, the survivors, do not flinch

from anything, not from a single blow.

Surely, the reckoning will be made

after the passing of this cloud.

We are the people without tears,

straighter than you, more proud.

In the last hundred years — think back, momentous watersheds — in our history; the revolution of 1896, the Japanese Occupation in 1942 and the dictatorship of Marcos in 1972; these tested us, and we were found wanting, but at least, the twilight of Spanish colonialism brought us the Noli Me Tangere and the El Filibusterismo — the two great novels that have loomed brightest in this tumultuous past to remind us the necessity for writers to be contextual, if our writing is to survive and prevail. For in the end, although we cannot wait that long, time is the ultimate — and the best critic.

Let me digress and be personal.

In a couple of days, I will be 84 — a very old man. I have earned the privilege of saying what I please because now, I know so much — and yet, I also know so little. Indeed the whole of living is a learning experience. I have seen how this nation has decayed, how our leaders betrayed the Filipino dream. I think I can also question now without quibbling what Ninoy Aquino said, that the Filipino is worth dying for.

With my background, then I hope I can impart to you some thoughts about writing — shortcuts, perhaps, in the craft which will spare you some trouble.

Early enough answer some basic questions which all writers should ask of themselves, like, what is literature? Why do I write? What will I write about? And who is my audience?

Before doing so, let me salute those of you who are teachers or who plan to teach bearing in mind that teaching, like writing, is a vocation.

I owe so much to my teachers, my mother most of all who taught me patience and industry, and my grade school teacher Soledad Oriel who introduced me to literature, to the novels of Rizal, Miguel de Cervantes and Willa Cather and thereby opened a vast new world for me. And Paz Latorena in college who defined for me the difference between telling a story and writing one. And the Dominican, Juan Labrador who taught me clarity.

First, what is literature? So many of us and even teachers at that do not realize how valuable literature is, not just as entertainment or history, but as a shaper of culture and of ethics for as I have so often stated, it is only literature which can teach us ethics.

And this very personal question, why do you write?

Globalism? Forget it — we will infuse our literature with what we are, our gonads, the odors of our bodies and the verdure of our land. We will write as Filipinos, free from the influences of our colonizers, from the canons they imposed on us. In this way, we will not be swept under by the dulcet enticements of McDonald’s, Toyota and Harry Potter. It is the Filipinoness, this particularity which will identify us, from which the universal begins.

And for whom are we writing? This is such a simple question which demands a simple answer but if we think a little bit more, then we realize that our answer will embrace so much.

We are writing for ourselves and for our own people.

What then should we write about and what do we tell our people? We will entertain them, that’s for sure but writers are also teachers so we will teach them our history, about ourselves. We will do this bearing in mind that we can dig into the rich lode of our folk traditions, the mud at our feet if need be. We must remember that we are creatures of geography, of our colonized history which shaped us not as Asians but as Westerners, Latinos, perhaps, people given to flamboyance, to hyperbole, to rococo excesses — all of these which we must refine and infuse with more depth for this is also a fact about us — we are shallow, without the philosophical profundity of Buddhism and Hinduism — the two great religions of Asia that did not touch us. We are Christians, most of us, without a profound knowledge of Christianity itself and its roots in the Greco-Judaic past. Depth, and more depth, that is what we need in our arts, in our literature — not just the purely visceral which characterizes our response to the arts.

To acquire that depth requires of our writers more knowledge, a keener understanding of the social process, and of art itself.

A priest who is an excellent writer of both fiction and non-fiction, not too long ago, confessed that he was no longer as prolific as he was in his younger days and that now, he found difficulty in creative writing. I asked if it was his vocation — the priesthood that was inhibiting him. For a while, he seemed in deep thought, then he said quietly, it was, indeed the priesthood that was in the way.

Indeed, art is very demanding — and it is difficult if not impossible for any man to serve two masters. Think about this dilemma, too.

A writer’s life is harsh. First there is the very tedious struggle to put down on paper the fires that burn in our bellies, the honing of craft into art, the total immersion into what we are writing, the shutting off the outside world so that we enter the new world of the imagination with clarity and anxiety.

And then, there are the iron demands of the other world wherein we actually live, the need to provide three meals a day for family, a roof that does not leak, and hopefully, a future that is free from drought and storm.

And we know that the stuff we produce does not earn us money, and that integrity cannot really be translated into milk for the children. What then?

All of us know only too well these grim realities not as masochists who thrive on suffering, but as reminders of the risks to limb and to the spirit most of all which we must take.

Let this sign be before every writer’s desk: write at your own peril.

What can an old man tell young Filipino writers, their eyes ablaze with purpose, their hearts bursting with conviction? Why should someone grow old writing when there is no reward to it? I have seen so many of my contemporaries, many of them more gifted that I with the magic of words and creativity, go into more lucrative enterprises. Why then must we continue writing?

The world demands that we go global, that our vision should extend beyond the confines of our national frontiers.

Yes, but in the end, if we are to prevail, we have to have that passion to do so. Call it commitment, or just plain doggedness or stubbornness of which we have a lot.

But to sustain it means only one thing, that we are rooted tenaciously and affectionately in the native soil — that though our minds may soar to the ether, our feet are on solid ground, this earth we call Filipinas.

Sure, there is going to be Elysium, and Nirvana, and Utopia where justice exists and happiness is all around for everyone to share.

But even when that moment comes, the artist in us will still be, seeking, not just perfectibility, but the eternal essence of art, that which transcends our puny selves, that which will exist for always, and which sustains us and drives us to act, although we with our infantile minds cannot quite define or grasp.

We are a very young nation; we don’t have the august megalithic monuments that adorn our neighbors’ lands, edifices which remind them of their noble traditions. How difficult it would be for us as creative writers if there was a Confucious looking over our shoulders, or for that matter since we are in a sense Westerners, illustrious writers like Homer, Cervantes or Shakespeare.

In the beginning of this presentation, I had sounded apocalyptic by citing the coming depression that has already afflicted the industrialized countries. It has already started to batter our very shores, and vaulting difficulties await us in the coming year and even beyond 2009. Our leaders say we can weather this economic tsunami and they are partly right because subsistence economics such as ours can take a lot of punishment. There is also a saying in the army that you cannot demote a buck private any lower because he is already there.

But even without this disaster brought about by greed and capitalism gone wild—we would still have troublous times ahead. Just remember this — we are now ninety million; some 10 year ago, more than half of our grade school children stopped schooling at grade 5 — we now have millions of young adults illiterate and ill trained for any job which modern industry demands. Our natural resources are depleted and they are not renewable. It is not just physical poverty which condemns us to penury — it is poverty of the spirit, the endemic corruption, the gross and obscene irresponsibility of our elites which will bring about the implosion that will destroy this nation — not the ongoing communist rebellion or the Moro separatist impulse.

Before this terrible challenge, what can the individual do, least of all those of us who write?

Let us hearken to those hoary panegyrics that he who stands alone is the strongest, that the pen is mightier than the sword.

Brave words, but meaningless, and even foolish. Can a poem, a beautiful essay, or even an epic novel stem this creeping rot, or like some magic drug, stop the metastasis?

Though our futile craft and intention will humble or even humiliate us, we also know that we have to plod on, to write as best as we can, to build that one brick, lay it down with our sweat and blood and shape that noble foundation on which this nation will stand and, hopefully, endure.

And to do this, we know that we have to transcend our puny selves, shatter the towering egos that prop us, and seek beyond ourselves the sublime meaning of what we do, to make this life more meaningful as well.

We will write in spite of our knowledge that we can do only so much and we do this as duty if we are to accept that duty as did our most heroic writer, that exemplar Jose Rizal, in whose shadow we work. The salvific resonance of his work and life affirms us for Rizal redeemed us.

We may now pause and ask ourselves — are we worth redeeming at all?

typing without a clue (linked article)

2008-12-08T05:23:00.000+08:00

taray, di ba. but this is so true. i wonder who's gonna read that crap. Typing Without a Clue Anyone who abuses the English language on such a regular basis should not be paid to put words in print.'); } function getShareKeywords() { return encodeURIComponent('Writing and Writers,Books and Literature,English Language'); } function getShareSection() { return encodeURIComponent('opinion'); } function getShareSectionDisplay() { return encodeURIComponent('Guest Columnist'); } function getShareSubSection() { return encodeURIComponent(''); } function getShareByline() { return encodeURIComponent('By TIMOTHY EGAN'); } function getSharePubdate() { return encodeURIComponent('December 7, 2008'); }

By TIMOTHY EGAN

Published: December 6, 2008

The unlicensed pipe fitter known as Joe the Plumber is out with a book this month, just as the last seconds on his 15 minutes are slipping away. I have a question for Joe: Do you want me to fix your leaky toilet.

I didn’t think so. And I don’t want you writing books. Not when too many good novelists remain unpublished. Not when too many extraordinary histories remain unread. Not when too many riveting memoirs are kicked back at authors after 10 years of toil. Not when voices in Iran, North Korea or China struggle to get past a censor’s gate.

Joe, a k a Samuel J. Wurzelbacher, was no good as a citizen, having failed to pay his full share of taxes, no good as a plumber, not being fully credentialed, and not even any good as a faux American icon. Who could forget poor John McCain at his most befuddled, calling out for his working-class surrogate on a day when Joe stiffed him.

With a résumé full of failure, he now thinks he can join the profession of Mark Twain, George Orwell and Joan Didion.

Next up may be Sarah Palin, who is said to be worth nearly $7 million if she can place her thoughts between covers. Publishers: with all the grim news of layoffs and staff cuts at the venerable houses of American letters, can we set some ground rules for these hard times? Anyone who abuses the English language on such a regular basis should not be paid to put words in print.

Here’s Palin’s response, after Matt Lauer asked her when she knew the election was lost:

“I had great faith that, you know, perhaps when that voter entered that voting booth and closed that curtain that what would kick in for them was, perhaps, a bold step that would have to be taken in casting a vote for us, but having to put a lot of faith in that commitment we tried to articulate that we were the true change agent that would progress this nation.”

I have no idea what she said in that thicket of words.

Most of the writers I know work every day, in obscurity and close to poverty, trying to say one thing well and true. Day in, day out, they labor to find their voice, to learn their trade, to understand nuance and pace. And then, facing a sea of rejections, they hear about something like Barbara Bush’s dog getting a book deal.

Writing is hard, even for the best wordsmiths. Ernest Hemingway said the most frightening thing he ever encountered was “a blank sheet of paper.” And Winston Churchill called the act of writing a book “a horrible, exhaustive struggle, like a long bout of painful illness.”

When I heard J.T.P. had a book, I thought of that Chris Farley skit from “Saturday Night Live.” He’s a motivational counselor, trying to keep some slacker youths from living in a van down by the river, just like him. One kid tells him he wants to write.

“La-di-frickin’-da!” Farley says. “We got ourselves a writer here!”

If Joe really wants to write, he should keep his day job and spend his evenings reading Rick Reilly’s sports columns, Peggy Noonan’s speeches, or Jess Walter’s fiction. He should open Dostoevsky or Norman Maclean — for osmosis, if nothing else. He should study Frank McCourt on teaching or Annie Dillard on writing.

The idea that someone who stumbled into a sound bite can be published, and charge $24.95 for said words, makes so many real writers think the world is unfair.

Our next president is a writer, which may do something to elevate standards in the book industry. The last time a true writer occupied the White House was a hundred years ago, with Teddy Roosevelt, who wrote 13 books before his 40th birthday.

Barack Obama’s first book, the memoir of a mixed-race man, is terrific. Outside of a few speeches, he will probably not write anything memorable until he’s out office, but I look forward to that presidential memoir.

For the others — you friends of celebrities penning cookbooks, you train wrecks just out of rehab, you politicians with an agent but no talent — stop soaking up precious advance money.

I know: publishers say they print garbage so that real literature, which seldom makes any money, can find its way into print. True, to a point. But some of them print garbage so they can buy more garbage.

There was a time when I wanted to be like Sting, the singer, belting out, “Roxanne ...” I guess that’s why we have karaoke, for fantasy night. If only there was such a thing for failed plumbers, politicians or celebrities who think they can write.

about face

2008-12-05T06:01:00.000+08:00

When you're capable of speaking softly and being kinder, do so. The world needs more thinking people and charity. It's not easy, but it does make things less complicated. People being the way they are, we are intent on seeking our own uniqueness and fixated on leaving our heavily stamped footprint on the pavement. We are absorbed in our obsessive excesses, in feeding the ego that we shut out all our inner voices. Sadly, it is these voices that we need to listen to. The softest caress of an ego stroked makes us purr like cats. When the need is left unrecognized, it turns us into growling bitches with hurtful words to spare. Such is the dilemma of an imperfect human. Left alone we retreat into oblivion and yet seek out addictions to balm our soul. Strength is terrifying, but I fear courage even more. Because audacity teaches me to recognize faults and yet be able to sing about it. Because I learn to walk alone and be unafraid, to draw the line and be able to say that I am happy. Because I can walk away, or towards something, and know that everything is predesigned. Because even if the cold is blasting from all sides, there is a fire in the pit of my stomach that says I am right. I just have to sit. And stay.

cute alert!

2008-12-04T12:47:00.000+08:00

this is too cute-

check out the link to msn news. make sure you read the cartoon strip with his excerpts :)

(thought aside: sheesh. a 9-year old already had his book published?! aarrgh.)

Little ladies man pens dating primer

9-year-old Alec Greven advises boys of all ages how to get the right girl

bookbound

2008-12-02T12:15:00.000+08:00

My inner geekydorkdom is stoked with my recent book buys. I had a crappy Friday night and I went over to Powerbooks, stories being the perfect salve for my soul. (That, and great music, which I luckily had a fill of when I later decided to go to a friend's gig.) I know, I promised myself I wouldn't be buying new books, until '09, and until I finished the few unfinished ones I had. I think I was possessed and promptly bought two. Never, never leave me alone in a bookstore- or at least grab hold of my purse when my eyes start to get that glazed over expression.

Last Saturday's room makeover, I had to rearrange my shelves to make room for all my magazines and books...until it looked more like a library than a bedroom. I wanted a library in my future home, NOT live in one- though that wouldn't be such a bad thing. :P

But WAIT there's mooore. I used to pass by Bound Bookshop a lot, but haven't really had the time to go in. I just found their site, and oh, be still my heart.

So, how IS thees?! I can't wait to go and shop. I was going to be a holiday miser because I'm broke, but hey, with these prices? Never mind the stuffed shelves and my broken promise to myself. :D I'll be the girl on her knees scavenging for great titles.

(linked below their website)

Black Christmas update- Get Wolfgang's new Villain

2008-12-02T04:26:00.000+08:00

Yay, am getting my own copy of Villains, the new Wolfgang album, delivered right at my office.
How?
Email : jeepneyrockstop@gmail.com
You may pay through Paypal, Gcash, Banco de Oro/ Unionbank deposit.

Courier Deliveries will be sent out on Dec. 10 - 11, 2008.

You can also claim reserved CDs at the gigs: Eastwood- Dec. 10 and Cebu City - Dec. 11.

Those who reserved copies and pay on time (on or before Dec 5) will receive a special Wolfgang sticker and a card with 2 stamps. Freebies!

And-- if you didn't notice text above- they're playing in Eastwood Dec 10 AND in Cebu Dec 11. (Too bad I can't go to both shows, boohoo.)

sex and the convent girl

2008-12-01T13:56:00.000+08:00

Currently reading Behind the Walls: Life of Convent Girls, a collection of stories from various colegialas. I was intrigued enough to buy the book and so far, it's been really entertaining. It made me think of all the stories when I was in school, though I've never realized I was actually a "convent girl" -I was in all-girls' school all of my high school and college years. It was just the way it was, and the rules we had were part of everyday life. (Well, more on convent girl lessons in another post).
One line made me really laugh- for colegialas, with all their restrictions, one alumna said: just add sex and mix. Then, I came across this article, and I though this tied it all pretty well:

Sex tips, from the year 1894
- by Erin Flaherty, Shine staff
on Tue Nov 11, 2008 3:01pm PST

Imagine a time when sex was seen as "at best revolting and at worst rather painful." According to *The Sun* (and well, anyone who's ever taken rudimentary history lessons), the
Victorians, not exactly known for their raunchy bedroom antics, perceived a woman's um, "wifely duties" as something to abhor. *Sex Tips for Husbands and Wives* was penned by Ruth Smythers, a vicar's wife, in 1894. Some amazing gems:

- The wise bride will permit a maximum of two brief sexual experiences
weekly — and as time goes by she should make every effort to reduce this
frequency.
- A selfish and sensual husband can easily take advantage of his wife.
One cardinal rule of marriage should never be forgotten: Give little, give
seldom and above all give grudgingly. Otherwise what could have been a
proper marriage could become an orgy of sexual lust.
- A wise wife will make it her goal never to allow her husband to see her
unclothed body, and never allow him to display his unclothed body to her.
- Once in bed, the wife should turn off all the lights and make no sound
to guide her husband in her direction, lest he take this as a sign of
encouragement.
- When he finds her, she should lie as still as possible. Bodily motion
could be interpreted as sexual excitement by the optimistic husband. Sex,
when it cannot be prevented, should be practised only in total darkness.
- Clever wives are ever on the alert for new and better methods of
denying and discouraging the amorous overtures of the husband. Arguments,
nagging, scolding and bickering prove very effective if used in the late
evening about an hour before the husband would normally commence his
seduction.
- By their tenth anniversary many wives have managed to complete their
child-bearing and have achieved the ultimate goal of terminating all sexual
contacts with the husband.

Compare that to the lessons offered by Holly Hollenbeck, author of the 2008 book, *Sex Lives of Wives*:
- Exude tremendous enthusiasm for sex and have it as often as possible.
Try never to say no and do not start thinking or talking about other chores
or problems during it.
- Create variety — make love as a "lady" then next time, play it nasty as
a "tramp". Alternate the pace — sometimes fast and frantic, sometimes slow
and romantic, using different sound effects, including sexy compliments
breathlessly uttered, pleasurable moans and sighs and nasty encouragements.
- Be assertive about what you want, taking care that any ideas do not
come across as criticism. Try incorporating what you would like him to do by
working the suggestions into the details of a story. Describe how hot such
action would make you or your character in the story feel.
- Tune in to what he loves and share it with him — if he likes watching
sexy movies, suggest watching one together. Visit a bookshop and choose some
erotic stories you can read to each other, surf the web with him and share
"chats".
- Venture outside the bedroom and seek unusual locations for sex. Have a
mental fixation on the sensation — focus only on his and your pleasure.
- Know what turns you on — your desire will heighten his. Good things for
women to try include having an ear sucked, a foot rub, leaning on a
vibrating washing machine during the spin cycle and feeling the spray of a
pulsating showerhead.

Damn, looks like you really have come a long way baby.

new year, new look?

2008-12-01T13:34:00.000+08:00

Part of the excitement of another year is to experiment with yet another look. I've never been in the habit of dressing up for anyone but myself, but these days, I needed to pare it down. I remember one compliment (?) I got from a senior consultant who once said he always looked forward to what I would wear, since not one day is ever the same. Chalk it up to mood-dressing. Hey, that's why fashion is fun. :)
Since starting my new job, I've been commuting and walking a lot, so I'd had to learn how to dress more comfortably, with clothes I can move fast in. Meaning, no self-conscious tugging at hemlines or necklines. But, I cannot afford not to look good before I go out for the day because it's part of the job, and besides, looking iffy and lousy spells a bad day for me. Fine, maybe it's vanity, but it's my only sin. Not. Haha.
Anyhoo, scouring the Internet for new look inspirations has been fun. Check out little Suri Cruise, my new and youngest fashion icon. Isn't she just adorable? Ballet flats made for walking, check. Effortlessly chic in black, check-and yet she looked so comfortable and ready to run around. Notice the little painted fingernails too. Too cute! (Today's tots are definitely more kikay. Shoti's niece, Yanni, has little sparkling toenails, which she says she covers with shoes, because "teacher doesn't allow it." She's 4 years old.)

Then, I've been thinking about chopping off my hair short because, well, I'm bored. And as soon as I've decided, I've had great hair days for the past couple of weeks! Now, maybe I'll stick to the long wavy/curly hair. I've waited ages for it to grow this length, maybe now's not the time to cut it. This was, literally, a wash-and-wear look on a Saturday night and it was humid out. Miracles, no hair frizzies!

I'm gonna overhaul my closet and try to revamp a whole lot of stuff. Project! Ahlavet.

bags baggerie

2008-12-01T13:07:00.000+08:00

I'm so crushing on the man bag, and I must admit, on the guy who can
carry off well, carrying a man-bag.
First, because I've been on the market for a new work bag and two, ever
since I saw that picture of Obama holding his bag, I've been noticing random
guys on the street with their own totes. There is a certain kind of panache and confidence to a guy who dresses really well in their business casuals and
their leather satchels. Very dignified, yet young and stylish.
Of course, I prefer my guys to have the more subdued browns and blacks, than this
screaming lime one. Then again, if it's Robert Downey, Jr., he can carry pink for all I care, he'd be gorgeous anyways.

still on thanksgiving: gross national happiness

2008-11-28T08:24:00.000+08:00

A great read, and since it's Thanksgiving, really makes you think too.
------------------------
gross national happiness
DRUMROLL, PLEASE By Gena Valerie Chua Updated November 28, 2008 12:00 AM

The stock market has been so depressing lately — especially if, like mine, your livelihood depends on its ups and downs. Unless you’ve been hibernating underground with seasonal bears, you have to know the world is no longer what it was a year ago or even what it was during the last financial crisis. Yet here we are, my beloved countrymen, happy as ever. Not to generalize, of course; surely someone somewhere is pulling his hair out from the rising cost of pandesal. But the majority of us continue to defy expectations. In Nielsen’s recent consumer confidence survey where the global average was 84 confidence points, Filipinos scored 102. The survey appendix notes that although we’re generally aware of a looming recession, this just isn’t enough reason for us to stop spending.

Last September, local car sales surged from the previous month. This as car dealerships abroad close down. As TV Patrol reports the fate of sinking international markets, bystanders on our streets flail their arms at the camera, grinning proudly in their one-second fame. Our malls are jam-packed with shoppers at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday — and we’re having the worst financial crisis in history? I once asked a Korean tourist guide why his people seem to be flocking our country. He said that in contrast to career-driven Koreans (who by the way scored lowest in consumer confidence globally with 36 measly points), Filipinos constantly manage to prove that life doesn’t really have to be so hard. Apparently, they find our happiness infectious.

Yup, we are a happy bunch in this country, all 90 million of us. And so will be the 2.5 Filipino babies being born every minute, the 12th most populous country in the world and certainly one of the least able to afford it. In 1972, Bhutan’s King Jigme Singye Wangchuck decided that his kingdom’s progress would be measured not only by the classic Gross Domestic Product (GDP) indicator but by something he called Gross National Happiness. Wangchuck said focusing only on economic growth eventually led to deep-seated problems in society. Maybe Wangchuck’s proposal wasn’t entirely outrageous. Rich nations do have a knack for developing all sorts of psychiatric conditions: when high school kids start shooting their classmates, you have a serious problem. Imagine, though, if happiness were really used to measure economic progress: how rich our little archipelago would be.

Yet we are not rich, not in the way that allows us to live comfortably and to assure our children of a shining future. Is it conceivable then that we score too high on the happiness index, and too low on everything else? Could it be that our disproportionate amount of Gross National Happiness is precisely what has caused our GDP to crawl like a snail stuck in its shell — and, vice versa, would a higher GDP take away the happiness that comes so easy to us as a nation? Horrifyingly, has our ability to withstand the bare minimum cost us the desire for something more, for something better?

We’re not lazy people — only citizens with a stable social security system and fallback pension fund can afford to sit on their golden arses all day. What we are, really, is complacent. It’s a vicious cycle that feeds on itself. We’re so easily contented with what we have, so grateful for the little crumbs sprinkled on our palms that we don’t feel the need to strive any harder. We’re so used to it being bad that we’ve come to stop expecting any good. It’s the opposite of being spoiled, which is what rich countries have inevitably become — and why we can’t understand what they’re making such a hullabaloo over. We shrug it off like dandruff. Nothing shocks us anymore; we’ve grown accustomed to a dumbing down of the sensibilities. How could we not? Just watch local television.

Economists have their theories. Our tropical climate is so conducive to growing food that we’ve never had to suffer a cropless winter. The Japanese, in comparison, have scarce seafood resources (thus the overflowing rice in donburi meals). This means the Japanese have to work harder so they can compensate for nature’s stinginess, making them some of the most determined, ambitious people on earth. Historians, on the other hand, believe that we continue to suffer the aftermath following centuries of colonization. We’re so used to being downbeaten and being told what to do that we’ve learned to manage our expectations out of life. Either theory may be correct or both could be wrong, but does it really matter? Do we really need to keep making excuses for our poverty?

While having churros on a sunny Florida day in Disneyland, I realized how most children back home will never know this experience. Our children have resorted to finding their own happiness, even while swimming in leptospirosis-infested floodwater. I could imagine the look on their faces as they bite on Mickey-shaped caramelized apples and watch the parade fireworks at night. Maybe it’s true that what they don’t know won’t hurt them — but how could you not want for them a piece of Disneyland, the happiest place on earth?

We are survivors, but that is precisely it: we are content with just surviving. Until when will it be enough? Because until we say it isn’t, that it shouldn’t be, this floodwater happiness is all we’ll ever have. Despite our countless talents, we will remain what we have been for too long: grossly happy and perpetually poor. We are forgiving to a fault (just look at our political record), tolerant of pains (malayo pa yan sa bituka), and work eight hours a day for minimum wage without complaint. And maybe that’s why we are unable and unwilling to fight for ourselves. We have too much strength and too little courage. We wake up very early each morning and go home to watch a little television in the neighbor’s house before sleeping at night. This is enough to make us happy. A celebrity sighting would make our whole week, our whole year. We snuggle into wooden folding beds, contentedly wrapping a holey mosquito net around our bare bodies. We have given up the one thing that remains free in this inflation-ridden world: our capacity to dream.

I’m not sure how long we can stay this way, so content with meager survival that we even have a name for: isang kahig, isang tuka. Maybe, hopefully, one day we’ll get tired of being the perpetual underdog we cheer for endlessly. Some part of me will be sad to see it go, this innocence and arguably shallow happiness that seems embedded in our cultural make-up. But a bigger part of me — the part that believes we are meant to do greater things as a nation — wouldn’t mind scoring just a little bit less on happiness and a little more on the future we build for our children.

Every condition of Darwin’s theory of natural selection says the Filipinos will eventually be selected against by nature. The laws of science indicate that we will be extinguished from the face of this planet as soon as the stronger races decide to run us off. But we are not a weak people; on the contrary we continue to surprise everyone with how much fight we have in us. With everything we’ve been through, we will probably survive a nuclear holocaust. I just wish we could dare want a little more for ourselves, because that is what we deserve — even when every fiber of our culture has made us believe we don’t.

Why not work harder then, why not breathe in and keep walking forward instead of staying stuck in our happy little rut? No matter how much we complain about government inefficiencies and the harshness of poverty, the truth is we do not want to change those things enough to do something about them. We’ve grown to be contented with what little we have, afraid to be given what we’ve never had because we wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. We’ve evolved into a people hardened by time and rusted by history. And while the rest of the world argue about evaporating stock markets and credit crunches, we crawl into the old shells they leave behind, smiling contentedly, grateful — always, always, simply grateful.

happy thanksgiving and have a Black Christmas

2008-11-28T05:13:00.000+08:00

Obviously, this was lifted from this site: http://philmusic.com/main/content/view/198/7/
And yes, they're on Facebook as well. I've just asked where to reserve for a copy of their new album.
Read on:

Wolfgang's "Black Christmas"
Concert: Dec 10, 2008

By Official Concert PR

Sunday, 23 November 2008

They’ve been sleeping for 6 years, but now iconic rock band Wolfgang returns with ‘The Black Christmas Project’ concert at the Eastwood City Central Plaza, Libis (near Ortigas Avenue) on Wednesday, December 10th, at 7 p.m.

The highly anticipated awakening by the band -- widely regarded as the Philippines’ definitive ‘rock gods’ -- is presented by No Fear, LevelUp, and Eastwood City, which is expected to reverberate with Wolfgang’s signature onslaught of thick ferocious sound.

Precision riffs, emphatic beats, power-drenched vocals, colourful licks, driving ostinatos, occasionally jazz-styled basslines and imaginative breaks merge with razor-sharp interplay in Wolfgang's unique style of American-influenced hard rock, heavy metal, grunge and blues-rock.

Basti Artadi, Manuel Legarda, Mon Legaspi are joined by Francis Aquino at the year’s ultimate year-ender.

The band's ability to infuse everything they do – be it power ballads, progressive rock songs, bluesy tunes or their harder-hitting material – with strong melodic hooks has made it the only Filipino rock act to be released in both the USA and Japan. Wolfgang is also the only Filipino heavy metal act to breach platinum records on home ground and receive more than 20 group and individual awards for creative virtuosity, cementing their reputations as stalwarts of the Philippines’ rock Valhalla.

What can fans expect? Says frontman Basti Artadi, “Expect lots of singing, dancing, drinking and all-around head-banging because it's gonna be a hell of a party!” (Tickets are now on sale at Ticketnet (dial 911-555) or place reservations at ticketnet.com.ph.)

I heart Basti and the boys.

notes to self

2008-11-22T12:55:00.000+08:00

I got this as a forwarded email awhile back, but I don't know who wrote it,

so sorry I can't give credit. Anyone out there who might know, please drop a
message. Really long, but so worth the read. Enjoy :)

--------------------------------------

Note to self: Don't listen to Robbie Williams' "Sexed Up" while getting over someone. It might encourage anger or maybe even hostile tendencies. Don't listen to any Lenny Kravitz or "Heaven Help" or "It Ain't Over Till It's Over" or Regine Velasquez or MYMP or just any crapshit for that matter. These might encourage hopes of a reconciliation which could be detrimental to the recovery process. It might even cause delusions.

Note to self: Stay away from the cookie jar. In moments of absentmindedness you pluck at cookies as though they were popcorn and before you know it, all you've gained are pounds no figure-forgiving fabric can hide and fat by the ounces and then you'll be unloved, heartbroken and- to top it all off!- hideously overweight, thus jeopardizing any hopes of future trysts with anyone.

Note to self: Stop trying to convince yourself that it's your fault and you deserve to be rejected. No one, no matter how they've screwed up in the past, deserves to be rejected. Jason Mraz already rhymed about it- It's our God-forsaken right to be loved, love, love, love, loved. You just got the luck of the draw and struck out but things'll get better soon. Don't beat yourself up and stop crying over spilled milk. What's done is done. Blaming is not gonna make things better, just a little bit more bitter.

Note to self: Don't cling on to hope- or anything else or anyone else for that matter. In times of heartbreak and utter sadness, the only person who is strong enough and able to help you is you. Hold on to yourself. You've survived this savage world so far. You'll get through this hump fine, bumps and bruises and scarred heart notwithstanding. You'll be a little damaged and maybe even cynical but you'll be stronger, wiser, and thinner after all
the moping.

Note to self: When the pain comes over you, succumb to it – SERIOUSLY. Pain is good. It means you're coping, accepting and very well could be on the road to healing. The angels could be singing the Ode To Joy faster than you can say "recovered". The pain, thankfully, only lasts a fortnight. Maybe sometimes longer or shorter than a fortnight but it goes away just as quickly as it comes. You let out one big bellow of anguish and in one fell swoop you're healed! Just don't wait for the big bang. It does build up and explode but it's not an orgasm.

Note to self: Stop going over every detail of the two of you and stop trying to analyze. That's just what it is – two halves coming undone – a breakup. You both screwed up somewhere and the damage has been deemed irreparable so there's no other option but separation. That's all. No need for long speeches or gut-wrenching goodbyes to the world and yaddah…yaddah…yaddah. It's no one's fault. You can come up with all the clichés in the world but you'll never be able to make more sense out of it other than – things happen for a reason and the two that once became one has now gone back to just being two.

Note to self: Eat – but in moderation. You need to sustain yourself. Crying is tiring. It should be considered a workout for this reason – like jogging or sex. Worrying takes its toll too. Thrashing your room and flailing your arms in defiance and defeat and beating the floor with your fists are all considered predictable actions when getting over someone and they all
require strength. You need stamina for this. You owe it to yourself to at least be physically prepared for the rigors of heartbreak. You're too young to keel over out of exhaustion just because you broke up with someone.

Note to self: Say NO to self-pity. It doesn't matter who broke up with who. If you're not together anymore, it just means you're way too good for each other. I know it's a screwed up theory but take it for what it is and you can thank me later. It works for me. It still is true in this cosmic loony bin we're in. You're too good for each other so you had to part. Someday when all this is over, another loony will find you and thank their lucky stars for you and the two of you will live loony ever after.

Note to self: Do not even consider getting up on any type of vice – smoking, drinking, drugs, overeating, shopping, playmate-hunting and Lord knows what else. You already made the mistake of falling for the wrong person before. You don't have to top that by screwing yourself over intentionally this time. Think of a more docile vice – like praying or reading the Bible or maybe even going to church. Most people forget that God still exists despite all of this. Maybe it's time you got back to that.

Note to self: Be thankful. Really. Some people live and die without feeling real love at all and nothing's gotta be more tragic than that right? You fell in love and things didn't work out and you broke up and now you have to pick yourself up and dust yourself off. But at least you loved. If you're broken and all screwed up inside because you loved someone deeply enough, count yourself blessed. Love, despite all its unfairness and craziness, is still this life's most incomparable glory. If you've loved truly, madly and deeply even once in this life, I daresay you've lived a full life.

post halloween post

2008-11-22T12:30:00.000+08:00

My new office building is old-school, with dark wood panels and mirrors in the hallways. It is reminiscent of the '70s and I half expect to see Christopher de Leon in the driveway, clad in a pale blue polyester shiny suit with wide shoulders and wider bottoms. Getting down from a BMW 3.3 Li Sports Limousine circa '77, opening the door for Rio Locsin in perhaps a Christian Espiritu and hair teased into her famous waves. See what early mornings do to me?

fear. Monday last week, a foreigner was found dead in one of the residential units. In our floor. According to the grapevine, he died of a heart attack that Sunday. What a Halloween/All Souls' weekend. The girls were scaring themselves with stories of meeting the dead man in the elevator. *Salamat ha.* This led me to imagining creepy scenarios when, one day, on a candy run across the building, I got in the elevator with a huge foreign man, about the same age as the deceased. Great. He must have seen how startled I was when he asked, *did I scare you?* Momeee.

halloweening. I was all prepped for a Friday night scary-movie marathon with the girls, and we had a modern Twilight Zone series (forgot the title) that bordered on B- gruesome, bloody and plain stupid. Then we moved on to The Strangers, starring Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman- gorgeous Scott, great for a couple of screams, but overall still stupid. I miss super-scary movies- how come there aren't any good ones being made now?

chupets. On to more juvenile pursuits. I woke up on my first weekend free to a cold Saturday morning and I rolled out of bed in my lovely, wonder-smell new orange hoodie. After a bit of breakfast, we went out to nearby National at Crossings, me still unkempt with an-out-of-bed look. I loved the fact that after a week of being all dressed up for work, I impulsively went out with nothing but my housekeys in my pocket, shades on, uncombed hair tied in a bun and a lollipop in my mouth. We spent the afternoon in a blissfully empty bookstore and I finished "browsing" a couple of books. Teehee. The geek in me loved all the paper products and the bargain bins. And I was a good girl; I didn't buy a new notebook, even if I desperately wanted to. I'm having paper-guilt, I still have several unfinished ones I cannot part with because of sentimental value.

In the afternoon, I was persuaded to go with some friends to Star City. Of all places. It's so hard to be perky when you're not really feeling well, but it didn't stop me from going on the bumper cars, alternately running and gingerly tip-toeing in the horror tunnel and the Mummy ruins, the standard (vs. the more complicated) roller coaster which led me to conclude that
damn, I am so getting old because I actually got scared, and my favorite- the pretty, pretty carousel ride. What's an amusement park trip without corndogs and ice cream, which we had our fill of. Luckily, I think more calories were spent walking and playing around, so that absolved the guilt from the food trip. The truly scary part though, was when the car wouldn't start on the way home and we had to wait awhile since it was raining.The tune of 200 bucks was more than enough for "kind strangers" to help us out by supercharging the batteries. Sheesh.

I miss more idyllic days of childhood Halloween games of Jason vs. Freddy, a
morbid game I played with grade school friends and with one named Jason
who was, because of his name, perennially It. So chupets and fun.

hello, universe?

2008-11-18T10:32:00.000+08:00

I was browsing through old entries, trying to tidy up my blog when I came across my
Nov. 30 entry, brain candy fluff, a random survey I answered.

Item # 15: By this time next year: I will be working in publishing, making good my promise to be relatively on my way to succeed in writing/PR. And, oh, I will have taken that SE Asian backpacking trip, with or without him.

Well, here I am, finally writing and in the PR industry, almost a year after I answered that survey. Creepy, in a good way- I started Oct. 27.
If only the universe would serve us up everything our heart desires, no? Yet, I believe that somehow, everything we want, if it is meant to happen, will definitely happen. I know, the difficult part is believing and remembering to hold on to our dreams. Which is why am careful about them (my dreams). I have this feeling that not everyone would understand it, and it's ok. I just don't want anyone trampling on them just because people don't believe enough. This, after someone told me not to be so ...serious, was the word.(Me, the silly-giggly girl, serious?!) Hmm that made me think though. If I can't be serious about my life plans, then I wonder with what else? True, setbacks abound, but I don't worry about it. I just want to be at peace knowing what I want, what makes me happy and everything will work itself out.

Well, I didn't get to go backpacking through SouthEast Asia- yet. :)

Cute Kid in the City

2008-11-18T08:30:00.000+08:00

How cute is this?

12-Year-Old’s a Food Critic, and the Chef Loves It

Full article here.

Photo: Michael Appleton for The New York Times

.

2008-11-17T12:44:00.000+08:00

These words I read today broke my heart a little bit:

“i have a fire escape with a greenhouse, a cat, a red couch, a brisket in a crockpot timed to finish at five, and you ... you have my best wishes.”

Read the whole story here.

i like making lists

2008-11-07T10:40:00.000+08:00

and I found this nifty little thing on the internet.
I know, it is going to be one of those social networking sites again, but I don't mind.
Lists are nice. I'm a nerd.

http://www.43things.com

meet mr. worry

2008-11-06T11:56:00.000+08:00

Sometimes I lay awake at night and my thoughts just run amok. I worry about these decisions I make- and do not make. I worry about the standstill, about running too fast, and not getting anywhere.

I worry about the leavings, the partings and the staying. I worry about not doing enough, about doing too much.

Most of all, I worry about the rightness of this.

I'm not used to this helplessness, to this not knowing. I've been taught to always do something about things, to look for solutions, to seek out answers to "what are you doing about it?"

Alas, there are some things you just have to let go. Especially if you can't put a finger to what it is.

Damn this existential nattering. Must be the weather.

*picture from a children's book on, appropriately enough, OCD. By Albert Whitman, 2004.

the audacity of hope pays off

2008-11-06T08:09:00.000+08:00

lovely man, lovey pictures.
i'm so happy he won. check out
callie shell's photos of him at
digitaljournalists.org.
most of these photos were taken
with a leica m8.

i wants

2008-10-28T09:58:00.000+08:00

...a new work bag, something to take me from day to night. any of these, plus a clutch. nooneenoo...be still my heart...

itsy bitsy part deux

2008-10-24T12:09:00.000+08:00

this time, fun nonsense stuff. this is also known as narcissism.
in celebration of my new job

maybe my grandfather would look like this, had he lived long enough, no?
i look kinda creepy though...
this one i would love to have in my future home.
something to scare future great-grandkids with, too!
wouldn't this look great on a birthday party event?
theme: self-love haha kinda like a VC Andrews paperback cover.

Go try out some vain fun :) --> http://www.photofunia.com (and try saying "photofunia" fast 5x!)

itsy bitsy part un

2008-10-24T11:57:00.000+08:00

§ Not to be such a dork about it, but am excited to get a new notebook for the new job. But… I already feel a bit guilty because I have several unfinished ones lying around, and now isn’t the time to be spending on frivolous things… still, it would be nice to have a neat new little one, especially since I’m such a note-taking nerd. Plus, am thinking of a new set of colored pens and Post-Its, oh joy. Then…

--------

Here’s a pretty little thing I absolutely had to have because I had an unfortunate Mentos moment (ok, I snapped my heel off.) Good thing I was already in a mall, but I really had to make the purchase as cheap as possible since it was an unexpected buy (yeah, right, anything to get to buy shoes.) Scouring around for about an hour in Landmark, I found these neat little babies… I call these my Alice in Wonderland shoes; literally little- it’s so hard to find my shoe size- pieces of just-right blue patent heaven. I love them so much, I wanted it right by my bedside. You can’t believe how inexpensive these were, so although I was disappointed with my broken heel (a more expensive brand, by the way, and the pair hasn’t been worn that much,) getting this new blue pair made for a very happy pop of color in my day. I didn’t understand the stereotype of women’s obsessions with shoes, up until about three years ago. Hard to believe, but I was quite okay with having a few. Not that having a lot is ok, too- that’s another obsession and I believe in moderation. I just can’t believe I used to be that same person. Hmm…psychoanalysis by shoes. Friends who come over notice that my shoeboxes lined up are taller than I am , and I always reason out that hey, I’m not tall, so its not a lot…and then as I’m writing this, I am thinking of that pale turquoise wedge that I left behind…hay, soon little one, I just might come back for you.
The blue shoes, as mentioned, are from Landmark, a Korean brand to be found somewhere at the front area of the shoe department. Go be shoe-hounds!

----

pictures+stories=love

2008-10-23T13:50:00.000+08:00

Catch this article on Inquirer online:

http://showbizandstyle.inquirer.net/you/2bu/view/20080804-152588/A-modern-day-Flickr-fairy-tale

Lovely, sappy story ;)

enchanté

2008-10-22T16:14:00.000+08:00

they say you meet people for a reason.

well, i just met my new employer today and everything feels right.

thank you, universe, for always steering me to the right direction, and thank you heart for being strong enough to stand by your passions.

true to form, i am still hesitant to be all-out jubilant, but i have a feeling this could be the first day of the rest of my fabulous life. (not that the "before" was too shabby either, but you get what i mean.)
so...cross your fingers, cross your eyes :P

sun at sargasso sea

2008-10-20T17:58:00.000+08:00

That tinge of gray laced in lavender, indigo
A background for dark leaves, as if hiding something
But really, just placed there to be what it should be
Coffee cup kisses sweetened by time
Wafts of cinnamon and comforts of vanilla
In time
When indigo skies at sunset
Begins to mean more than
The setting of the sun
The ending of a day
It forces you to never stop looking.

Catching light, fast as you can
Grabbing hold of those in-between moments
Between daylight and darkness

I am the words to your pictures
We are the stories that we weave
In images and thoughts
Of old souls and new beginnings

You look and wait
But you don’t know what you’re
Waiting
Or looking for

All of life is storytelling
Tragedy, comedy or by a Savior’s grace
The convergence of seemingly strange, strangers
Passing by everyday flurry of routines, rituals
Until its time when your story be told
When convergence- such a powerful word-
To meet, to unite
A powerful word to describe the meeting
Of otherwise strangers in this big world
When two strangers meet and feel that
Butterfly in the pit in the stomach
At the same time,

The same thing, at the same time
That is magic.

Or should love blossom as it should?
be as sudden, fitful as a dump truck
Roaring down the highway hitting you head on
Should it be as violent as nine-meter waves crashing on your head
Or as gentle swells softly lapping, tickling your toes
In effervescent bubbles
The purity of the moment

These thoughts waltzing through your head
Later, you will see that your heart
has not steered you wrong.

little coco

2008-10-20T17:55:00.000+08:00

Quaint finds, sloppy joe Sundays

Pop tarts, caramel macchiato in steaming hand-heart warming mugs

Needing high chairs because I can’t reach the tabletop comfortably

I nevertheless find a quiet nook for myself where I can be ignored;

Plush comfort for my bottom, slouching while I pound on the keys

It’s so lovely I almost sleep

Of pretty warm plates and people passing by

If there were places you just want to hug, this would be it.

blue man's heartache

2008-10-20T17:54:00.000+08:00

blue man, lined face

he sits there in his corner, puffing on that stick

absentmindedly sipping his coffee

weather-beaten, yet clad in what seems to be his sunday best

He stares out on the street. randomly sipping

sighing with every drag

he watches the sun go down

face devoid of expression yet his eyes betray his thoughts running for miles

ambling, he walks away, undecided where he might go

there is a destination, yes, but he seems unable to imagine where

like a babe on his first tentative step. he manages to reach a different place

and then he comes back.

staring, sipping, waiting,

knowing she won’t come.

life is short. so am i.

2008-10-20T17:51:00.000+08:00

Don’t Wait Too Long To Be An Entrepreneur. (Conversation Starter, Harvard Business Publishing Online)

Waiting for the “perfect time” to make the jump is usually futile, for there’s no moment that’s truly perfect. It’s never the best time.

Quit dreaming.

Now that’s quite a challenge for a self-proclaimed doodle-stare-into-space daydreamer.

Am I done serving my corporate sentence?

I currently go to work in board shorts, a tank top, tsinelas, and when I feel like it, a bandanna to keep my hair off my face. I take my lunch whenever I want; put on whatever music suits me. I can take naps in between (oh joy, reminiscent of kindergarten years!), watch TV when I need to space out and clear my head. The lack of “officemates” i.e. human interaction, I thoroughly enjoy- imagine, no mean looks, no bitchy divas, no weirdos lurking in the coffee corner. It also means I sometimes get starved for real people interaction, thus the occasional mass-text to friends, just so I’d have an excuse to get dressed and put on that new pair of heels. Yes, I miss dressing up, too.

I have a pretty tin can with vintage Wonder Woman (who looks suspiciously a drag queen) print. Its supposed to be my stash-keeper for my profits. I can still close it easily as I can open it. It’s not supposed to do that. Maybe I should start my Christmas carol drive; the coins do make for nice-sounding clanging.

When you’re employed, you work day in and day out and although one has to very careful and thorough in the way you do your work, there is more room for learning, coaching and the occasional bungle up, provided you don’t trigger corporate catastrophe.

It may be that I tend to be harder on myself, but running a business means a more personal stamp on things and for a perfectionist, that’s not very easy. I’ve learned the art of letting go several times over- I have no choice, I’m the boss, I can’t tear my hair out. Can I?

On the other end of the spectrum, in the corporate world, no matter what or how you do, you are assured of a salary every X number of days. Very comforting security blanket. Running a business, you learn that finer point of budgeting. I have a current love-hate relationship with Cash Flow.

Since I came from an HR background, I am at least familiar with the area. Marketing, too, since I’ve been trying to compensate by reading a lot on the topic, and thankfully, a natural inclination. But what about finance and accounting? I cannot just as easily refer to a “department” as I could in my previous offices. There IS no other department but us. We just had our business cards printed, pretty little ones with the impressive title: Managing Partner under our own names. Our job descriptions? Everything from picking up stocks, going through every single inventory, cleaning up our messes, writing our strategies, going on field, meeting prospective clients, getting lunch, putting up the website, doing research and development, among many, many others. Essentially, since we cannot afford staff –heck, even pay ourselves yet- these Managing Partners mean do-it-all-by-ourselves. Fun. (Errant thought: this is my standard-and very true- reply to every relative/acquaintance who asks me why I don’t have a boyfriend - I don’t need a boyfriend, I need an assistant. In between doing my laundry, chores & errands, still job-hunting, running a business and keeping my soul alive, an assistant would be heaven-sent. Notice the term, acquaintance. I’d like to think closer friends know me better.) So you see, as inspiration for why I’m writing this post, a reaction from the same article:

Don’t Wait Too Long To Be An Entrepreneur. (Conversation Starter, Harvard Business Publishing Online)

“Well today is my birthday, 40. And I am just finishing year 1 of my own venture. I have professional investment backing. A product in its infancy. Two large clients and a dozen smaller ones and a lot in the pipe.

So that means I have that CEO title, and I was sweeping floor this morning. Its 3:30AM and I am still at work, for the 2 all nigher (sic) this week. I don't have enough people, time or energy to deal with all the daily problems - like making a Costco run to get more printer paper. Yes the hours are arduous, my customers more demanding than the most incompetent boss I have ever had. My pay is paltry and I sometime need give it back. The work environment is less desirable than my college dorm room. But, the second half of my career looks so good from here! - Posted by Wellman; September 12, 2008 5:31 AM”

Why do we do this to ourselves then? Maybe, as I would like to think, all things great and worth doing are worth doing well. So please don’t get that misguided notion that being an entrepreneur is all glamour and freedom. It is so not, contrary to the “wow, big time” comments that I get. Yes, it may be glamorous- someday, when we’re reaping our rewards; someday, when I actually have the means to hire that assistant; someday, when we’re about to open our very first store on the beach. Yes, I actually feel great bits of freedom because I don’t have (yet) fixed hours- but not when you wake up on a rainy morning and you know you just need to get your butt off that lovely cold/warm bed and out under the blankets; not when inspiration strikes at 3am and it becomes a battle of sleep vs. strategies; not when you twiddle your thumbs in the afternoon because you wait for that inspiration to strike but somehow it finds its way niggling at your brain, yes, around 3ish in the morning; not when you need the discipline to get things done and actually accomplish something worthwhile.

So, everything’s new, everything’s freak-out-worthy-new and well, I’ll always, always be a work-in-progress.

I want to be able to wipe the slate clean and be unafraid to get it all muddied up again. I want to be surprised, and to surprise myself.

Reassembling myself, I’ve knocked off all the blocks and have started rebuilding.

supergirl shoes

2008-10-20T17:49:00.000+08:00

Well-meaning text messages, forwarded snippets of wisdom and thoughts conveying strength and support.

Nice.

It’s the thought that counts, or at least that’s what they say. But personally, when you’re on the verge of/delicately-dipped your toes-testing the waters of taking that full-on plunge to freak-outdom, I’d rather they save the crappy-caring thoughts until I am actually able to feel it. Because now they just bounce from this metal cast-plate on my chest, like Superman facing a bullet.

Plunk.

The sound it makes falling to the ground.

supergirl shoes

2008-10-20T17:46:00.000+08:00

coffee with henry

2008-10-20T17:39:00.000+08:00

Thoughts from Henry Miller:

A writer shouldn’t think much.

Nothing freezes the imagination and creativity than the thought of censorship.

And in a Paris Review interview, he says of “cadenzas”-

The passages I refer to are tumultuous, the words fall over one another. I could go on indefinitely. Of course I think that is the way one should write all the time. You see here the whole difference, the great difference, between Western and Eastern thinking and behavior and discipline. If, say, a Zen artist is going to do something, he’s had a long preparation of discipline and meditation, deep quiet thought about it and then no thought, silence, emptiness and so on—it might be for months, it might be for years. Then, when he begins, it’s like lightning, just what he wants – it’s perfect. Well, this is the way all art should be done. But who does it? We all lead lives that are contrary to our profession.

Just how many lives have I missed out on? If within ourselves is a space as infinite as the universe, as Zen teachings tell us, then have I only just begun to chip at my layers?

I call myself a writer but of late, I’m beginning to feel like such a poser. My work hasn’t been published, I don’t write for a living. Labeling myself as one seems so pretentious. I cannot even bring myself to think of it.

Sometimes I would think I had a lot to say, but the pages are still empty. Or they’d be littered, peppered with strings of words that do not make sense.

As I sat there, waiting for inspiration to strike- I had a sense that once I touched the keyboards, my fingers would, it seem, know their way around, as if they have found their way home. As a child, I had wanted to learn how to play the piano. My parents wanted me to learn violin- I thought then it was way too baduy, a childhood judgment of cool which I regret now. So there was no compromise, and I am left with no musical talent to speak of. Back to the flitting of my fingers on the keyboards. There is a sense of accomplishment every time a word finds its way to the page, every time a sentence is formed, every errant thought that somehow makes sense when put together. Write with the heart, edit with the mind. Best damn piece of advice I have ever gotten.

This much I know. I may not make a living of writing, but I believe that I live to write. It is my peace, my therapy. That act of stringing words together, of “words falling over one another” makes me feel deliciously alive. It brings me to my truths, painful and yet necessary. It forces me to confront, and sometimes, to consort with my demons, as Erica Jong mentions in her autobiography.

So at times, I do everything except actually sitting down and start. It is so difficult to just start. There are so many things and yet nothing.

Ah, so there it is then. “We all lead lives that are contrary to our profession.” I am a corporate whore (to borrow the term from a friend), a struggling entrepreneur. But in my heart, I will allow that I am a writer, and that keeps me alive. It defines me; it is my essence.

rambling brought to you by lady thiang

2008-10-20T17:37:00.000+08:00

Lady Thiang, The King and I: He may not always say/what you would have him say/But now and then he’ll say/something wonderful!

What’s a little dreaming?

Setting expectations appropriately.

I am ready to be convinced otherwise.

Will you fall back into me?...Heard of it, you know, the song?

Thought bubble: Yessh. Borderline cheesy.

You’re a writer? Well, I try, I replied. It’s my passion, for sure.

You’re too pretty to be a writer.

Hah. Thanks, I guess. And that means?

Well, writers are supposed to be full of angst. And angst is never that beautiful.

It is all about the dialogue. I have had countless perfect settings, “costumes”, the right song playing (yes, it happens!), but never all at the same time with the perfect dialogue. True, no one expects perfect everything, but I’ll take crappy songs with the perfect script. Oh wait, I did. Not something I want to remember, but I did. Well, yeah, fine, so nothing is perfect, but that one time, now and then, he’ll say something wonderful, indeed. And it was well worth the imperfect setting and song. Let’s see how this game plays out, shall we.

mrs. darcy

2008-10-20T17:34:00.000+08:00

Sometimes I wonder about that stranger. Is he merely passing by life, driven by a temporary need to connect? Or will he forever leave imprints in my life? Who decides such things, really. All I can do is, if I allow it to, let people in, let them stay if they will or open the door. (Parang open house? Ganoon?)

Yes, I don’t like you, in fact, I may just hate you. But if I had a rubber band on my arm to snap every time I think of you, both my arms would be full of welts by now.

My pages are stained with cheap wine and cheaper tears. For Mr. Darcy, that dark, brooding, mysterious drug called man.

pain points

2008-10-20T17:30:00.000+08:00

I am all up for improvement, but when do we actually start believing that we’ve done a good job? I know that it is dangerous to be complacent. In the tough corporate world, once you start thinking that you are in any way good at what you do, that’s when the trouble starts. But can’t we at least just give ourselves that pat on the back? Everyone needs validation, once in a while. I have minimal requirements; I do not need hand-holding. You only need to leave me alone, too. I do not need veiled sarcasm and comments guised as feedback. I do not need, especially, the ego-tripping. If there’s a kind of person that I loathe, its intellectual snobs who think they know everything.

Just because I don’t bow down to your self-claimed greatness doesn’t mean that I don’t respect you. But then your constant self-important declarations just show that your mirror may have just come from the funny house. All fluff. The cupidity of power and influence can be quite heady. They say it’s a dog-eat-dog world and that it’s a constant rat race. I never did want to become a rat. And some dogs can be smelly. Worse, slobbering and rabid.

Moral authority- that’s one of my favorite phrases lately. For what authority do you have to say bad things about and demoralize a person, when you are not perfect yourself?

Ego, we meet again. My, how you have grown.

The character of a person is seen in the way one deals with difficult situations. As always, class and grace cannot be bought. Lesson learned: always be careful of what you say, how you say it and who you say it to. Target audience. Sadly, people always hear what they want to hear.

looking for the spark

2008-09-12T15:36:00.000+08:00

In between nerd-heaven (writing a business plan & researching), trying not to freak out and hit the panic button, here's an article from Harvard Business Publishing's weekly hotlist. Helped me - a bit haha :)

Four Steps to Beat Back the Pressure and Spark Your Renewal

Posted by Annie McKee on September 3, 2008 1:54 PM

Anyone watching Jenn Stuczynski pole vault at the Olympics had to be amazed. She had only been competing for 4 years yet brought home a silver medal. So it came as a shock to hear her coach, Rick Suhr, berating her for failing to win the gold against Yelena Isinbayeva (arguably, the best pole vaulter in Olympic history, who went on to finish the competition by twice beating the world record).

"I guess you just didn't want it bad enough," was the tone. After listing her shortcomings, he simply turned and went back to his cell phone. What on earth was he doing? Was this meant to inspire her? Challenge her? Humiliate her?

Most likely it wasn't about her, or her performance, at all. Rick Suhr's behavior could have been 100% about him.

What happened? A steroid rage? A sore loser? There's another explanation--seemingly more benign but in fact just as deadly. Leaders who live with power stress -- chronic, intense pressure resulting from responsibilities, crises and demands -- can easily slip into what is known as "the sacrifice syndrome." Simply put, we burn up, burn out, and lose our effectiveness.

We know from neuroscience and psychology that when people experience chronic stress, cognitive functioning is diminished and we get sick more often. We lose sight of the big picture and make bad decisions. Our self awareness dwindles, empathy is in short supply, and self management is compromised. We lose the emotional and social competencies that enable us to be successful leaders.

Paradoxically, the best leaders are most susceptible to the sacrifice syndrome. Why? Because we take our responsibilities seriously. We care. We strive. We try harder. What about you? Are you, like Rick Suhr, a bit on the edge, ready to slip into behaviors you know won't work?

There is plenty that you can do about it. But first, you have to get over the fantasy that a nice summer vacation is going to fix everything. It isn't. You are walking back into the 24/7 environment. The same pressures are there. They're not going away.

Next: admit it. You aren't a superhero and you never will be. Sure, you're strong, resilient and clever. Good. Capitalize on these gifts. But you need to do more. You need to interrupt the sacrifice syndrome with real renewal. You have to build regular practices into daily life that spark psychological and physical renewal. It's as important as eating, sleeping and breathing. Here's how to start:

1. Listen to life's quiet wake-up calls. Perhaps your wake-up calls aren't as dramatic as some I've seen--the broken marriages, plateaued careers. But maybe you don't laugh as much as you used to, you've quit going to the gym or don't do things you enjoy most. Listen! Make course adjustments now.

2. Practice mindfulness. Pay attention to your mind, body, heart and spirit. This doesn't happen by accident. Most of us need to develop and then practice the art of reflection. Try finding a few minutes of quiet time alone each day, even if it's just five minutes before getting up in the morning, walking from the train to work, or a quiet moment in the park.

3. Find hope. Hope is a powerful force. On a neurological level, it actually helps us to counter the negative effects of life's pressures and burdens. Hope--an image of a positive and feasible future--inspires us to dig deep down, to find the strength to move in the direction of our dreams. So imagine your life in ten years: what will you be doing? Who's sharing your life? What will capture your passion?

4. Practice Compassion. Focus on the needs and desires of the people around you. Act on what you see--do something to support others achieving their goals. Make someone's day better. Like hope, compassion engages positive emotions, which in turn engage renewal.

Change starts with you. And when linked to a meaningful outcome-- like a resonant life --change can be exciting and fun. Start small. Start today. But start. It will be worth it.

Annie McKee is co-founder of Teleos Leadership Institute and was named by Business Week as "The High Priestess of Executive Coaching" in their 2005 Top 100 Leaders issue. Her latest book is Becoming a Resonant Leader, which she co-wrote with Richard Boyatzis and Fran Johnston.

read na meh

2008-09-12T15:04:00.000+08:00

Ok, txt koh poh kau mag malapet na me.

Papunta npoh kme. Saan koh poh bah mllpit?

Ok poh tnX ah!

I’m sure you’ve read, received, or even heard (gasp!) variations of this certain kind of text-speak. I’m most of the time patient, but when you get messages like these in the course of business dealings, I can’t help but get so irritated. I mean, if you were in such a hurry to text, why all the extra Hs? Do you mean to be cute, in the way that you think having lisps when talking is cute? I am even more irritated when I see that Smart commercial that says- Me na Me. Sheesh. Ok fine, maybe I’m not the target market but it doesn’t stop me from seeing them everywhere. And I still don’t get it- is it like, so Me na Me? Waaah. Sorry, I may not text/speak/write perfect English, but cahmon! Pwede naman mag-Tagalog or Cebuano. Spare people the headache and text like you speak. Or. Unless you actually speak with all those extra Hs? Don’t text me nalang, deadma na u.

Still on SMS ranting. I just discovered a nifty trick on my phone. There’s such a thing as Screened Messages, for well, storing texts from people you would rather not hear from. Or from people who actually think that sending a dozen (read: 12!) forwarded messages in a span of 15 minutes would warrant a text back, or think that (here we go again) it’s cute. It is not. It’s called spam, if its email. (So, what do you call spam texting?) I guess if you’ve sent about 58 forwarded messages (who’s counting?) and still you don’t get a reply, maybe you kind of need to ask yourself why? Might be because a) the texts don’t warrant a reply, b) you text at inopportune hours (hours of my whacked-out days one can never guess which times are bad) or c) I just don’t really feel like texting back at all! So yeah, thanks to message screening, I don’t have to read everything you send. Hah. Unfortunately, there’s no option for other anti-ick messages.

back from the undead

2008-09-12T14:55:00.000+08:00

For a semi-bum, my social life unexpectedly got a healthy jolt, thanks to Gracie’s dinner with the old crowd, Soundproof’s last gig at Newsdesk and best of all, tickets to watch The West Side Story at Meralco Theater.

Gracie’s overdue birthday celebration brought together the usual suspects after a very long time (for me, at least). Glad to see some things never change, good or bad. And hey, two words got me there in a snap: Amici’s gelato. And yes, it seems that it is going to be after 48 years again before we can finally go on that fabled out of town trip that has been planned, scrapped and planned again so many times that we might actually already have a template for the trip’s logistics.

Soundproof’s last gig at Newsdesk turned out to be packed and everyone had a good time so much so that towards the end, it looked like our party. I can only say one thing about that night: I so missed drinking ice-cold beer! Especially because it was a particularly hot and humid night. Hmm, I think I might hang out more at Newsdesk. I like the vibes, love the décor, plus there’s free Wifi. ;) Reminds me of Cebu’s Outpost. It’s actually an old house transformed into a bar/gallery/tambayan for artsy-fartsy types- their tagline bears the more intimidating “The working journalist’s bar” (or something to that effect.)

Saturday, I got to watch The West Side Story, and while we were hoping to catch Joanna Ampil as Maria, getting to watch a play again was just enough for me. The set design was gorgeous, with fast and seamless transitions, and great use of light effects. Their costumes were cute, some I would have wanted to tweak to better represent the era, but over all, it didn’t matter, what with the frenzied and fabulous jazz numbers. The live orchestra (Gerard Salonga as musical director) held me in rapture, so much so that it sometimes distracted me from Tony (Christian Bautista) and Maria (Karylle)- well, maybe it was also because I thought they lacked certain oomph and passion. In the end, Riff (played by Gian Magdangal) really surprised me because he sometimes overshadowed the main characters- that’s how good he was. I saw him perform about a year ago in a corporate event, and I didn’t think he’d be actually good. (What I would give to be in theater again, pwede bang kahit taga-tulak lang ng set? No?) I hope I can still make good on my promise to myself, to watch more plays. And who can forget the heart-wrenching songs of The West Side Story? Some of my favorites:

A Boy Like That/I Have A Love (Anita/Maria duet)

I have a love, and it's all that I have.
Right or wrong, what else can I do?
I love him; I'm his,
And everything he is
I am, too.
I have a love, and it's all that I need,
Right or wrong, and he needs me, too.
I love him, we're one;
There's nothing to be done,
Not a thing I can do
But hold him, hold him forever,
Be with him now, tomorrow
And all of my life!

When love comes so strong,
There is no right or wrong,
Your love is your life.

And the more popular:

Somewhere

There's a place for us,
Somewhere a place for us.
Peace and quiet and open air
Wait for us
Somewhere.

There's a time for us,
Some day a time for us,
Time together with time spare,
Time to learn, time to care,
Some day!

Somewhere.
We'll find a new way of living,
We'll find a way of forgiving
Somewhere . . .

There's a place for us,
A time and place for us.
Hold my hand and we're halfway there.
Hold my hand and I'll take you there
Somehow,
Some day,
Somewhere!

I sometimes wish the world were literally a stage- where everyone performed at his best, dressed nice, and where people sang and danced their way to life. Fun! :D

chupets the reunion

2008-09-03T15:35:00.000+08:00

Strange how high school seemed like yesterday, and how a wedding felt like only a debut. Woohoo, we are getting old!
I miss these girls, enough to make me want to move back to Cebu.

playtime with kukung

2008-09-03T15:30:00.000+08:00

Being Chloe's best friend and playmate for a couple of weekends in Cebu. I would sometimes wonder who was the 3-year old here.Imitating my make-up sessions while I was getting ready to go to a friend's wedding.
Seeing all my make-up strewn across the bed, she quips: Unsa man na, cge man ka'g pang-arte! Then proceeds to ask about each and every lipgloss, mascara and blush.
Starting her early! Hehe.
Playtime with my pamana Barbie dolls and my presents to her- a Little Mermaid doll, among others. On perpetual rewind on DVD was Little Mermaid and her favorite, Mr. Bean. I sometimes worry what kind of influence Mr. Bean the cartoon would be.
If her silly antics are any indication...

Our favorite nonsense, goofing around. As she repeats after me, Rock and Roll!...
Until she asks, Unsa man na, Tita? Sheesh. How do you explain that? Haha.

tangos nose

2008-09-03T14:48:00.000+08:00

I’ll be seeing you in every lovely summer’s day

In everything that’s light and gay

I’ll always think of you that way

I’ll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new

I’ll be looking at the moon but I’ll be seeing you

-Billie Holiday

They have the greatest of love stories. Nothing like Romeo and Juliet’s or any star-crossed lovers that legends are made of. It was special in its simplicity and timelessness. Boy meets girl. Boy dreams of big things. Girl, a dreamer herself, finds herself falling and they make a life filled with love, faith and generosity that has touched countless.

Theirs was the kind of marriage I someday want to have, a true partnership where differences only caused more reason to love one another, being a true family meant being happy just by being together.

Tita Perla, a nurse, gave up her career and created a loving home for her family; Tito Benny finished his residency in the States and it was abroad where they had their two kids, a boy and a girl. One of the Sunday lunch stories I remember clearly was when he was telling me how he worked hard in the States so he could give his family a good life. I cannot forget that particular picture in my mind: a new family struggling to make it, all the while both of them working at it like only two people in love can. Eventually, they moved back to the Philippines where he established his practice and went on to become a famous and accomplished anesthesiologist. Tita Perla, meanwhile, continued to help build their home as the quintessential wife- supporting him every step of the way, always the heart of their home. Conventions and seminars he had to go to- they were together. Hosting parties for colleagues- she made it happen in the most stylish and successful manner.

Tito Benny was the first (and by far, the only) ultimate sartorialist that I have ever known. He always looked dapper and forever the gentleman. He loved beautiful things and everything was an art to him. Dressing up, eating, painting even old liquor bottles, all those wooden carvings from Paete, and yes, his photography. Everything beautiful had a place in his home. Always, he would appreciate people when they looked good, when they took the time to dress nicely. He loved it when Tita Perla had on her classic accessories, some of which she designed herself. When I was young, he would always remind me that my morena skin was gorgeous, and that I had nothing to feel bad about, especially when in the company of more fair-skinned relatives. He also put his foot down when I was about a year old, and it came for me to stop thumb-sucking and drinking milk from feeding bottles. When I was 22 and in the hospital for major surgery in Cebu, he was on the phone with my doctors, guiding them-yes, pestering them- every step of the way. I don’t want my pamangkin to feel any pain. Have her on epidural and anesthesia for two weeks, instead of the usual three days. And to my Mom, O, she’s going to have visitors soon, make sure she powders her nose and has lipstick on. You can also shampoo her hair with a basin, so she still looks beautiful. So, yes, I was comfortably numb, bandaged and drugged. With fresh hair and all prettied up, never mind if my insides felt and looked like a cast member of the Thirteen Ghosts.

In grade school, I remember spending several summers in their home. My prize for doing well in school was to spend it in Manila, the highlight of which was playing at Virra Mall’s McDonalds playground, an idyllic time when they still had strawberry milkshakes. I always stayed at the Muslim room, named for the room theme as a tribute to our Davaoeño roots. I would always, however, find my way to the library, and there I discovered Vogue magazines. I can still remember the smell of the pages, the scratch-and-sniff ads for perfumes, the patterns for the modista to follow. When I got tired of running my fingers on the glossy pages, I turned to Readers’ Digests, National Geographic, and all those books that made me feel grown-up. How can I forget the huge Japanese garden with the koi fishpond? Almost all of the apos have, at one time or another, fallen into that pond. The apos also have another collective memory of him- tangos nose, his habit of gently pulling on the bridge of the nose so, you guessed it- we would have tangos nose. It was his secondary greeting after kissing him hello. (I think the tangos nose worked too well for me because in grade school, classmates would nickname me witch, and not because of any ill temperament.)

Eating was another art form for him. He enjoyed good food, and even better company. Meal times were always classic and comforting, the primness of which I hated for a while back. (My rebellion, wanting to break away from tradition. But I digress. More on that, later.) We would sit at the dining table and start with prayers, usually done adorably by the little ones. I used to be one of those, by the way, adorable or not. Each meal we had the proper setting, with elegant cutlery, silverware. We always used proper table napkins, not tissue. I remember he would want his viand one at time on his plate, not the mash-up two or more ulams most of us have. There was always Cebu lechon on special occasions and on Thanksgiving, turkey, our traditional eggnog, potato salad made pink by beets. Always, there would be dessert and with meals, Coke. I remember doing groceries with Manang Inday at nearby Unimart; we would buy Coke (litro)- by the crate! (Come to think of it, the rest of my family are such soft drink and dessert addicts.)

I was brought up prim and proper, partly from traditional parents, grandparents and some by Tito Benny and Tita Perla’s influence. It was always about behaving properly, whether at the dining table or in parties; doing good in school; knowing what to wear. I used to resent that part of my upbringing; I abhorred being the good girl, being the role model for everyone, (as the eldest grandchild from both sides.) I felt suffocated by all these expectations so that yes, I learned to roll my eyes at even these classic gestures at mealtimes. Enter this girl who as much as possible, tried to get away from who she is by asserting as much independence and self-reliance as she could muster, being as far away as possible from the noise, and doing things the way she wants. Maybe I’ve grown up, or maybe I’ve come back full circle, but I have accepted that part of me and thankfully, I learned to look in the mirror and have come to love what I’ve become- most of the time. Hey, I’m a work in progress.

Tito Benny died last June and I could barely write and think about him without crying. I feel sad for Tita Perla, I feel her pain for losing her great love, something which most of us can only hope to have. After almost 50 years of marriage, Tita Perla can no longer serve her “ex-boyfriend and housemate’s” dinner plate. (Yes, they still called each other that, prompting fake-swooning looks from Melai and myself.) In her eulogy to him, she narrated how, in the last few years of Tito Benny’s sickness, he would always apologize to her, and thank her. Inday, I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you, I’m sorry. And always, Thank you, for every little thing that she did for him. Their home, which he has built for her in a span of a decade, continues to be my dream home to this day. It’s not only the artistic décor, the classic furnishing, and the koi pond that I love, but the fact that this was home to them and it meant family.

I don’t believe in regret, but this is as close as I get. There were reasons- there still are- why I didn’t exert too much effort. Or why I deliberately stayed away. While there may be reasons, they may now seem flimsy excuses, and even I can’t understand what these are. Maybe it was the pressure of having to live up to his expectations. He never did impose in any way; you just felt it and experienced it in the way he lived his life. It was also quite a disappointment to me that none of the guys I met would have been able to stand an introduction to Tito Benny. He didn’t know it, but he was to be my definitive benchmark. A man I could introduce to him and have him approve would have been, for me, The One. Oh I could imagine the scrutiny he’d have to stand up to, but since Tito Benny was as close to me as an ideal man, he’d have to live up to it. The depth and variety of conversations they’d have, the diverse passions they’d share tips on those Sunday lunches, the pieces of advice he’d dispense. Their blessing would have meant a lot to me. (Incidentally, there were some who got close, but thankfully, I don’t make the same mistake twice.)

I mourn for the new events and people in the family he will not get to meet; Chloe who I know he’ll have a great time teasing and teaching since she looks like Tita Perla and a lot like a Nuñez; having him guest in my future book launching, witnessing my brother’s success in graphic arts, or simply taking time to catching up over coffee and his current favorite cake. I cry for the loss of a mentor, a granduncle, an old-fashioned ideal. I am very thankful that I have gotten to know him, as much as I could. I am only one of the few blessed to have known him; his wake was filled with stories of how he has fully lived and made a difference. Hundreds of stories woven into a tapestry of love that comforted the family and made him bigger than life. I am comforted by the knowledge that somehow, Tito Benny and my Lolo are together somewhere. I pray that they be my angels, these two men who have generously lived and continue to live in me through the dreams they inspired in me.

In the meantime, Tito B, I’ll always have that lipstick on, and I’ll be seeing you.

here's what's up, top three

2008-07-30T14:09:00.000+08:00

1- the sweet smell of the beach and the melanoma-induced caramel color of sun kiss on my skin. as opposed to office paste-y white.

2- the witching hour, in a cutesy way.

3- new beginnings. oh i love, love new beginnings. they're right up there with the sweet fuzzy warmth under the blankie in a rainy day with a side of signature hot choco.

wonton + beer = running on headlights

2008-07-30T13:33:00.000+08:00

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings. --Anais Nin

This is the thing with passion, the all out giving of oneself, the giving of every fiber of your being. It starts innocently enough. Little inconsequential things like maybe your time, your thoughts, your voice on certain things like the best place to get your paper stash. Then, you wake up one day and you realize that those wonton-and-beer dinners turned into scenes ripe for life-changing discussions, opening your soul up, in a way that you can never afford to do now. Belatedly, always too late, you think that you shouldn’t have free-fallen, that you shouldn’t have allowed that spilling over onto territories that you can never define. As if defining things make it clearer in daylight.

Then you wake up one day and you realize that there is nothing left of you. All because you wanted to give, more and more each day. But what for, you might now ask? Why do you give of yourself and then run on empty? When left alone, you get the sense of being run over by a truck. Strange, you saw those headlights coming, had time to even read the plates and yet, you didn’t run away.

This is the bitch with loving. Or with thinking you do, anyway. You give yourself unconditionally, joyfully and expect nothing in return. And yet even when the smallest of kindness is denied, the pain of not knowing what you had is magnified a thousand times.

You don’t know her, because she didn’t want you to. His memory taints your present happiness. So much so that even if your dreams are coming true, you can’t help but still feel in sharp stabs for those moments. For what, one cannot be sure. It is when old wounds still hurt and you can’t find it in yourself to put on that game face.

She has since stopped asking why. Asking might give her the answers that she needs, but now, those answers don’t matter anymore.

i'm so having a dog.

2008-07-19T14:51:00.000+08:00

An article post, because 1- I have too many drafts floating around that I am, promise, finishing this weekend, and 2- this is an interesting take and reflection on my current state of...erm, affairs.

Everybody’s Business

Lessons in Love, by Way of Economics

By BEN STEIN

Published: July 13, 2008

AS my fine professor of economics at Columbia, C. Lowell Harriss (who just celebrated his 96th birthday) used to tell us, economics is the study of the allocation of scarce goods and services. What could be scarcer or more precious than love? It is rare, hard to come by and often fragile.

Philip Anderson

My primary life study has been about love. Second comes economics, so here, in the form of a few rules, is a little amalgam of the two fields: the economics of love. (I last wrote about this subject 20 years or so ago, and it’s time to update it.)

•In general, and with rare exceptions, the returns in love situations are roughly proportional to the amount of time and devotion invested. The amount of love you get from an investment in love is correlated, if only roughly, to the amount of yourself you invest in the relationship.

If you invest caring, patience and unselfishness, you get those things back. (This assumes, of course, that you are having a relationship with someone who loves you, and not a one-sided love affair with someone who isn’t interested.)

•High-quality bonds consistently yield more return than junk, and so it is with high-quality love. As for the returns on bonds, I know that my comment will come as a surprise to people who have been brainwashed into thinking that junk bonds are free money. They aren’t. The data from the maven of bond research, W. Braddock Hickman, shows that junk debt outperforms high quality only in rare situations, because of the default risk.

In love, the data is even clearer. Stay with high-quality human beings. And once you find that you are in a junk relationship, sell immediately. Junk situations can look appealing and seductive, but junk is junk. Be wary of it unless you control the market.

(Or, as I like to tell college students, the absolutely surest way to ruin your life is to have a relationship with someone with many serious problems, and to think that you can change this person.)

•Research pays off. The most appealing and seductive (that word again) exterior can hide the most danger and chance of loss. For most of us, diversification in love, at least beyond a very small number, is impossible, so it’s necessary to do a lot of research on the choice you make. It is a rare man or woman who can resist the outward and the surface. But exteriors can hide far too much.

•In every long-term romantic situation, returns are greater when there is a monopoly. If you have to share your love with others, if you have to compete even after a brief while with others, forget the whole thing. You want to have monopoly bonds with your long-term lover. At least most situations work out better this way. ( I am too old to consider short-term romantic events. Those were my life when Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon were in the White House.)

•The returns on your investment should at least equal the cost of the investment. If you are getting less back than you put in over a considerable period of time, back off.

•Long-term investment pays off. The impatient day player will fare poorly without inside information or market-controlling power. He or she will have a few good days but years of agony in the world of love.

To coin a phrase: Fall in love in haste, repent at leisure.

•Realistic expectations are everything. If you have unrealistic expectations, they will rarely be met. If you think that you can go from nowhere to having someone wonderful in love with you, you are probably wrong.

You need expectations that match reality before you can make some progress. There may be exceptions, but they are rare.

•When you have a winner, stick with your winner. Whether in love or in the stock market, winners are to be prized.

•Have a dog or many dogs or cats in your life. These are your anchors to windward and your unfailing source of love.

Ben Franklin summed it up well. In times of stress, the three best things to have are an old dog, an old wife and ready money. How right he was.

THERE is more that could be said about the economics of love, but these thoughts may divert you while you are thinking about your future.

And let me close with another thought. I am far from glib about the economy. It has a lot of pitfalls facing it. As workers and investors, we know that many dangers lurk in our paths.

But so far, these things have always worked themselves out and this one will, too. In the meantime, they say that falling in love is wonderful, and that the best is falling in love with what you have.

Ben Stein is a lawyer, writer, actor and economist. E-mail: ebiz@nytimes.com.

in the mood for chupets

2008-07-16T07:18:00.000+08:00

walang kinalaman ang picture, but i love love this song now. so sunshine-y despite the rain :)

-------------------------------------
Hurry up and wait
So close, but so far away
Everything that you've always dreamed of
Close enough for you to taste
But you just can't touch

You wanna show the world, but no one knows your name yet
Wonder when and where and how you're gonna make it
You know you can if you get the chance
In your face as the door keeps slamming
Now you're feeling more and more frustrated
And you're getting all kind of impatient waiting

We live and we learn to take
One step at a time
There's no need to rush
It's like learning to fly
Or falling in love
It's gonna happen and it's
Supposed to happen that we
Find the reasons why
One step at a time

You believe and you doubt
You're confused, you got it all figured out
Everything that you always wished for
Could be yours, should be yours, would be yours
If they only knew

You wanna show the world, but no one knows your name yet
Wonder when and where and how you're gonna make it
You know you can if you get the chance
In your face as the door keeps slamming
Now you're feeling more and more frustrated
And you're getting all kind of impatient waiting

When you can't wait any longer
But there's no end in sight
when you need to find the strength
It's the faith that makes you stronger
The only way you get there
Is one step at a time

|jordin sparks, one step at a time|

being wordle

2008-07-08T17:25:00.000+08:00

.

2008-07-08T13:58:00.000+08:00

well, i guess i tired of it (the layout) haha. this one's pretty ;)

Can a Night Owl Become a Morning Person? (A Slate experiment.)

2008-06-21T13:29:00.000+08:00

">posting an article I can so relate to, as i've been rewiring myself to be a morning person, to no success so far :P

">-------------------------------------------------------------------

">By Deepa Ranganathan
Posted Friday, (some site I forgot) June 13, 2008, at 4:26 PM ET

------------------------------------------------------------------
">

">When I told my friends I had found a way to transform myself into a morning person, they responded in one of two ways. The night people leaned in as if I were about to reveal the location of a stash of pirate gold. The morning people simply regarded me with pity and wonder. "I just don't understand why it's so hard," said one friend, a Danish medical student. "I can get up anytime I want."

color: rgb(152, 72, 6);
">This sort of smugness is prevalent among morning people, who count among their ranks Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, nearly every American president, and even Jesus. (See Mark 1:35: "And in the morning, rising up a great while before day, he went out, and departed into a solitary place, and there prayed.") Night people are stuck with psychopaths like Adolf Hitler and Juan Arreola, the guy in Pennsylvania who nearly killed his girlfriend's 2-year-old last year, explaining to a judge, "I'm not a morning person."

">I'd always been a night owl, but for years I'd longed to defect to the other side. In my fantasies, I was a Fortune 500-type who threw off the covers at 5 and engineered a hostile takeover by 7. Instead, I generally stayed up until 1:30 in the morning, reading magazines or clicking aimlessly through Wikipedia, waking up grumpy and remorseful at 9:30, if not later. Over the years I'd tried all the usual tactics—multiple alarms, earlier bedtimes, lab-rat levels of caffeine—and nothing had worked.

">When I left my office job and started freelancing, things got worse. One day, after crawling out of bed at 10:30, I decided enough was enough. I needed help. So, I called up a battery of doctors and sleep researchers and put the question to them: color: rgb(152, 72, 6);
">Can a night person rewire herself to fall asleep at a reasonable hour and jump out of bed in the morning like a farmer with chickens to feed?

">They all said it could be done. "I do think there are people for whom genetically this is going to be much harder," said Dr. Gary Richardson, senior research scientist at the Henry Ford Hospital Sleep Disorders Center in Detroit, "but nobody for whom it's impossible."

">Genetics play an important role in making morning people perky. Five years ago, researchers at the University of Surrey ">isolated a gene"> called ">Period 3"> that appears to regulate our preferences for morning or night. But genes aren't the whole story. For as much as 80 percent of the population, the doctors said, what matters most is lifestyle—the people you befriend, the career you choose, how you use your free time. If you like watching Letterman, chances are you'll find a way to stay up for it.

">So, how to counter my natural urges for late-night Scrabulous? First off, the doctors told me, I had to choose a new wake-up time—no more than two hours earlier than usual—and stick to it. No exceptions, including weekends. "You have to be rigid initially," insisted Dr. Donna Arand, clinical director of the Kettering Sleep Disorders Center at Kettering Memorial Hospital in Dayton, Ohio. color: rgb(152, 72, 6);
">"If you're a diehard night owl, you're trying to set a rhythm your body doesn't naturally cling to."

">The next rule was that upon waking, I had to leave the house immediately for a half-hour walk. "Can't I just look out the window?" I asked. The answer was no: I needed bright morning light and lots of it. In your hypothalamus is a clump of cells called the suprachiasmatic nucleus that controls circadian rhythms. When light hits your retina, your SCN tells your body to stop pumping out melatonin, a hormone that makes you drowsy. When the light wanes, the melatonin production resumes, and in a few hours, you're ready for bed. By exposing myself to light earlier in the day, I'd train my SCN to shift the whole operation forward a few hours.

">At night the routine was just the opposite: I had to avoid bright light starting a few hours before bedtime. But with five housemates and nary a dimmer switch, I was pretty sure I couldn't swing this one. A solution came from Timothy Monk, professor of psychiatry and director of the Human Chronobiology Research Program at the University of Pittsburgh. I should wear yellow sunglasses in the evening, he said. The colored lenses would block blue light—the part of the spectrum your internal clock is most responsive to—without making it impossible to see.

">The doctors also suggested that I take an over-the-counter melatonin supplement six or seven hours before my old bedtime each day to help me adjust to the earlier bedtime. And I was supposed to swear off caffeine and alcohol—both of which can interfere with sleep—after 3 p.m. or so. If all went well, I'd make the shift in as little as two weeks. My boyfriend promised to make the transition with me. Which was good, since night owls and morning larks are ">more likely"> to bicker and spend time apart than are couples who share the same sleep habits.

">At 6:30 on a weekday evening, I popped my first melatonin pill. Dr. Richardson had warned me that the pill might make me drowsy as soon as I took it, and sure enough, 15 minutes later my brain was shrouded in a thick fog. It felt like I had taken a teaspoon of Nyquil and I would now drift into a blissful, drugged sleep. Except that bedtime wasn't for another four hours.

">The yellow glasses went on at 8 p.m. I looked like a cross between Bono and Henry Kissinger. At a get-together at a friend's house that evening, I wandered around in a sleepy, self-conscious haze. color: rgb(152, 72, 6);
">I went home at about 10 and picked up a novel to read in bed. A half-hour later, the book was slipping from my lifeless hands. So this is what being a morning person is like, I thought. It's like being 80 years old.

">My alarm went off at 7 the next day. After a panicky wake-up, I realized I wasn't tired at all—I was full of bounce and vim. The melatonin pill had worked a miracle. "Time to get up!" I sang out, pulling up the blinds.

">Outside, sleet fell from a heavy, gray sky. "This is the kind of morning that makes you glad to be alive," my boyfriend grumbled. As we embarked on our inaugural morning walk, I tried to appreciate the quiet streets and the small stores I had never noticed before. They were all closed. We were the only ones dumb enough to be outside at this hour.

">The allure of being up first thing in the morning wasn't immediately apparent. By the third morning, however, the weather had cleared, and we were discovering that 7 a.m. was our new favorite time of day. The pale sun glinted off the rooftops as we stepped outside. The world was especially beautiful at this hour, and we were under doctor's orders to stroll around and enjoy it. We found a playground nearby and went down the tandem slide together. We explored unknown side streets. We discovered a park that was full of signs with interesting facts about our town. "The Edsel was manufactured here!"

">Unfortunately, staying up late hadn't lost its appeal. One night early in my experiment, I was drifting off to sleep around 11 when my roommate came in. "We haven't caught up in a while," she said. By the time we finished chatting, it was midnight. Another evening a friend coaxed me out to a Brazilian dance club, and I didn't get to sleep until 1.

">As the experiment wore on, waking up became more painful, not less, and not just on mornings after I'd stayed up late. When people asked me how I was doing, I invariably said, "Tired." By Day 9, there were dark bags under my eyes. That afternoon I gave in and took a two-hour nap at my desk.

">I realized I'd made a tactical error. I'd budgeted for eight hours of sleep a night, but I was discovering I truly needed eight and a half, and the debt was accruing quickly. My boyfriend and I discussed shifting our bedtime back to 10:30—which seemed positively geriatric—or our wake-up time forward to 7:30—which seemed like a cop-out.

">We liked our new schedule the way it was. It had given us a newfound sense of control over our lives. We started each morning with an act of will that set the tone for the day. We went to work early and finished early. And if the evenings were a bit less fun than before—even a lot less fun—color: rgb(152, 72, 6);
">we also remembered how we often stayed up late into the night, zombified, both of us staring silently into our laptops. Our new routine seemed like a commitment to live a more virtuous life.

">Still, I was so tired I was losing the will to live at all. By Day 11, I had developed two distinct personalities: "Mel," my melatonin-induced alter ego, who walked briskly around the block as the sun was rising, and "Deepa," who emerged three hours later, cranky and easily provoked.

">On Day 13, I ended the experiment one day early. The decision was easy. The alarm went off, and I stayed put. No more melatonin, no more glasses, no more mandatory walks. But in the days that followed, I still got sleepy around 10:30 and ended up going to bed about an hour later. My wake-up time crept forward, but settled at a still-respectable 8 a.m., where it has remained since. According to the doctors, the key is incremental change—so if I were to push for 7 a.m. now, I might find it easier than I did the first time.

">But I probably won't try. Being a morning person has its drawbacks. Morning people get sleepy just when all the fun begins. What I really wanted when I started this experiment, I now realize, was to be one of those crazies who functions well on just five hours of sleep. That's never going to happen.

">And hey, I'm not not a morning person. Recently, I took the bold step of signing up for a 7 a.m. gym class that meets twice a week. The woman at the reception desk was a little concerned. "You know what time it starts, right? That's OK with you?"

">"Yep," I said.

">"Good," she said, shaking her head and smiling. "Because I couldn't do it."

">For a split second, I wanted to give her a condescending smile and say, "I just don't understand why it's so hard." That smugness! That total lack of compassion! I kept my mouth shut, but I knew I had arrived.

yipeee...

2008-06-19T15:01:00.000+08:00

Finally! Figured out (somewhat) how to use this header I made.

Not too perfect yet, I really don't want it plastered all over as background but it'll do for now, I guess, until I figure out how to make it the header. Nooneenoo...

i heart strawberry shortcake

2008-06-19T11:48:00.000+08:00

(Parang ang arte na ng makeover-ed version). Saw this article, and I remember having coloring books and stickers of her. Hmm asan na kaya un. And I wonder if I could still get them now.
Well, more cartoon characters are now being revamped- read on.

LOS ANGELES — Strawberry Shortcake was having an identity crisis. The “it” doll and cartoon star of the 1980s was just not connecting with modern girls. Too candy-obsessed. Too ditzy. Too fond of wearing bloomers.
So her owner, American Greetings Properties, worked for a year on what it calls a “fruit-forward” makeover. Strawberry Shortcake, part of a line of scented dolls, now prefers fresh fruit to gumdrops, appears to wear just a dab of lipstick (but no rouge), and spends her time chatting on a cellphone instead of brushing her calico cat, Custard. Her new look was unveiled Tuesday, along with plans for a new line of toys from Hasbro.

Full article here.

silly-ness is happy-ness

2008-06-19T09:47:00.000+08:00

Laugh at yourself first before anyone else can.
(Elsa Maxwell)

Games of Magic

2008-06-19T09:29:00.000+08:00

Kevin Roberts, June '08/Madrid, Spain

Kevin Roberts is Worldwide CEO of Saatchi & Saatchi, The Lovemarks Company. His regular presentations to audiences around the globe highlight the relevance of Lovemarks to various sectors and offer up the latest in Lovemarks thinking.

In today's economy, it’s not about giving people what they want. It’s about giving them what they never dreamed possible. Kevin Roberts, CEO Worldwide of Saatchi & Saatchi, shared his ideas on how to win in the Attraction Economy at ExpoManagement, Madrid. Download an Adobe PDF version.

I won’t be talking about marketing. It’s dead. The weapons of mass distraction have been disarmed, thanks to choice, competition and technology. Power to the people!! The people revolution has dissolved the production and persuasion business model. People can say what they want, watch what they want, where they want, on the device they want.

Targeting is history. Customization is tablestakes. The playing field is flat, every playbook is open, and consumers turn the pages. Welcome to Ground Hero, cosmic chaos, where anyone can play – but only the courageous win.

Quite the challenge.

It’s not about giving people what they want. It’s about giving them what they never dreamed possible. You can’t seize people’s attention in a cluttered and fragmented marketplace. No more selling by yelling. No more interruption and distraction. From Information Economy, Knowledge Economy, Experience Economy, Attention Economy to the ATTRACTION ECONOMY.

ATTENTION ECONOMY / ATTRACTION ECONOMY

Interrupt / Engage

Directors / Connectors

One-to-Many / Many-to-One

Reactive / Interactive

Return on Investment / Return on Involvement

Marketing at / Connecting with

Consumers / People

FIVE WAYS TO WIN IN THE ATTRACTION ECONOMY

IDEA 1: START WITH IDEAS

Capitalism used to be about means of production. Now it’s about powers of creation. And most institutions educate people out of their creativity!

1. Ideas are the currency of the future.

2. Ideas can come from anywhere.

3. Ideas offer differentiation in a world of parity.

We need ideas with stopping power, talking power, and staying power, ideas simple, big and brave enough to live in any and many media.

Example 1: Santiago Calatrava’s fantastic City of Arts and Sciences in his native Valencia was a big idea – pumping life into a formless area. His current projects include: The World Trade Center Transport Hub in New York, the Atlanta Symphony Center, and El Cuarto Puente sobre el Canal Grande in Venice.

Example 2: Buying the great Zinedine Zidane in 2001 at a super premium was a big idea; in 2002 Zizou scored in the Champions League Final with probably the greatest goal ever in that competition; though clustering “Galácticos” didn’t work for Real...

Example 3: El Bulli (molecular gastronomy with a sensorial big bang - 8,000 diners a season, out of 800,000 requests) – and don’t forget Rafa!

The winning formula is to connect a great idea with real opportunities across different media at multiple scales. It took McDonald’s 24 years to make its first billion dollars. Google, another simple idea, did it in six. The best ideas are obvious in hindsight. They make you think: Why didn’t I think of that?

IDEA 2: THINK WITH YOUR HEART

Emotion is powerful because it is close to immeasurable. To win today, brands need to drip with emotion. The iPod is the only MP3 player people lick. Emotion makes our biggest life decisions – house, car, husband, wife. People are driven by how they feel. Emotion makes up about 80% of how we think; reason, 20%.

We’re not marketers anymore. We’re in the emotion business. Neurologist Donald Calne: “Reason leads to conclusions. Emotion leads to action.”

IDEA 3: PURSUE THE TRUTH

Formal research, like marketing, is dead.

If you want to understand how a lion hunts, don’t go to the zoo...go to the jungle. Saatchi & Saatchi’s Xploring takes on the big challenge: to uncover the difference between how business thinks about consumers, and how real people feel about themselves.

Traditional research asks questions. Xploring opens conversations. Emotion is at the heart of Xploring. Truthful, Real, Simple, Actionable. We uncover the truth of people’s experience. We get personally involved. Xploring for insight to get to creative foresight.

IDEA 4: LET GO AND SHARE

The more control you give up, the faster you win. The music labels discovered this the hard way. Apple connects around 70% of all people online with what they want most: music. Connect musicians and music lovers – and to hell with the music industry!

Steve Jobs was right: “Creativity is just connecting things.” To get share, let go. Apple’s share price has risen 2,300% over the past five years. The new business model is “people”. People want to share, hang out, have fun and also to save. Open source, piracy, and remix culture thrive on this reality.

People use:

* YouTube to share video.

* Facebook to share their lives.

* Neopets to share their love.

* Second Life to share their fantasies.

* Wikipedia to share their knowledge.

* eBay to share their belongings!

Word of Mouth was always the strongest touchpoint. Now it travels at warp speed. Who do you believe? Brad Pitt or your best friend? No contest.

We need a rallying cry – for brand managers, creatives, account directors, designers, media gurus, interactives. Stop interrupting viewers and start connecting, creating, engaging, rewarding people – especially the Inspirational Consumer-Connectors.

IDEA 5: BELIEVE IN LOVE

In the Attraction Economy “like” is not enough. Whether you’re selling a product, a service, a nation, you have to be loved. At Saatchi & Saatchi we call this Lovemarks. Not “Likemarks”, not “Trustmarks” but Lovemarks.

* Brands are built on Respect. Lovemarks are created out of Love and Respect.

* Brands create loyalty for a reason. Lovemarks create Loyalty Beyond Reason.

* Brands are owned by managers, marketers and shareholders. Lovemarks are owned by the people who love them.

* Great brands are Irreplaceable. Lovemarks are Irresistible.

The truth of Love is simple and intuitive.

Low Respect. Low Love. Commodities without differentiation. US Airlines are here.

High Love. Low Respect. Fads, infatuations and fizzers. Paris Hilton to Sustainability 1.0.

High Respect. Low Love. “e-r” words: faster, bigger, cheaper.

High Love. High Respect. Lovemarks – authentic, true, sustainable – and loved.

FIVE WAYS TO CREATE LOVEMARKS

IDEA 1: START WITH THE DREAM

Martin Luther King didn’t say: ”I have a mission statement.” Nor should any company or brand. Saatchi & Saatchi’s dream: “To be revered as the hot-house for world-changing ideas that create sustainable growth for our clients.” The bigger the dream, the higher you fly and the longer your range. People want to be part of something bigger than themselves.

Only through daring to believe in a dream, do we open the possibility for magnificent success.

We all need a dream.

IDEA 2: USE THE THREE SECRETS

Brands invest in Trust, Performance and Reputation. Lovemarks involve with Mystery, Sensuality and Intimacy.

Mystery: The power of the unknown. Dreams, stories and icons unfolding through past, present and future. It’s what we don’t know that draws us in.

Sensuality: Sight, sound, smell, touch and taste are portals to the emotions. Apple sold its original iMac with tangerine taste. Yum! Starbucks was built on sensuality – and became the fastest-growing retail story of all time.

Intimacy: It’s the small touch, the perfect gesture that takes loyalty beyond reason. Today’s website is yesterdays packaging disaster, the very opposite of intimate. Intimacy is empathy, commitment and passion.

IDEA 3: DO IT WITH SISOMO

The digital revolution is transforming marketing, entertainment, communications, technology. And they all play out on screens – computers, mobile phones, TV.

There is an obsession over what makes media different. What matters is what makes media the same. People don’t care whether something is digital or not. They just care about what’s on the screen. Their big, bright, beautiful TV screen or the intimate screen they take everywhere.

We call this SISOMO: Sight, Sound and Motion on screen. I even wrote the book on it.

Sisomo puts us in the right space. It’s not about tools and technologies. It’s about bringing together people and emotion, ideas and creativity. TV is both the past and the future of sisomo. Why? Because TV is an idea, not a box.The new TV industry will be with us in a decade as digital, High Def, DVR, mobile, Wi-Fi, addressable kick in. The new TV viewer is with us now. People want TV with emotion, pace and interactivity, and live programming.

To win, get smart about the elements of your story that matter most and let them loose where they connect best. Ten seconds or 10 minutes, only one question matters: Do you want to watch it again?

IDEA 4: BUILD A THEATRE OF DREAMS

Around the world the store experience is a nightmare.

* More than 70% of purchase decisions are made in store.

* Only 1 in 4 shoppers is loyal to their retailer.

* Almost 50% of shoppers find in-store shopping stressful.

The store is the biggest creative opportunity out there, and the First Moment of Truth. We set up Saatchi & Saatchi X to infuse Lovemarks through the entire shopper experience. To create real emotion and motivation. To turn shoppers into buyers.

The retail challenge is holistic; to engage with the whole shopper cycle of planning, searching and selecting. Marketing in store is not about working the data. It’s about creating what we call Dream States. We have to turn stores into stories.

IDEA 5: MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE FOR EVERYONE

The role of business is to make the world a better place for everyone. Business is on the front lines of the long journey to a sustainable planet. How we move people to our cause has never mattered more. No one connects with the world like we do – in stores, offices, homes.

The real opportunity is how billions of everyday choices scale up. We need a solution the size of the sustainability problem, not just new light bulbs.

We set up Saatchi & Saatchi S to address this. We believe:

1. In moving from limits to possibilities.

2. In the power of consumers to change the world.

3. Sustainability is a catalyst for business growth.

4. No sustainability, no Lovemark.

This seismic shift is GREEN to BLUE:

* Green is about the environment. Blue fuses environment, economy, society and culture.

* Green is about fear. Blue is about radical optimism.

* Green is about obligations. Blue is about opportunity.

* Green is about consumption. Blue is about people. Who wants to be called a "consumer”?

* Green is about problems. Blue is about passions, people saying: “I want to sustain this Blue Planet, and I can do something.”

Welcome to the forever revolution. Be part of it.

Found at: http://www.lovemarks.com/?pageID=20022&_fr_collectionid=8&_fr_collection1id=196

.

2008-06-16T11:28:00.000+08:00

Dinner for two at Paseo Uno.

Nice.

And how am I going to pay for the sins of food-tripping

(plus those damn chocolate almonds and late nights)?

Oatmeal galore.

Thank god there’s coffee is still part of my major food groups.

.

2008-06-14T06:55:00.000+08:00

down the rabbit hole

2008-06-14T06:40:00.000+08:00

In a very highly connected world we live in now, I am finding it increasingly a challenge to keep still and just be my Zen-self. Work and personal cell phones blaring and ringing, each requiring a response NOW. As if phones are glued to our thumbs, or hard-wired to our brains and messages are sent as soon as they are thought. Still, I am a slave to technology and strive to be (connected), if only for fulfilling the responsibility hat. Send-receiving 5 emails, out of 455 and counting. Phone inquiries and faxed meeting requests. Text messages and cell phone calls. YM/IM popping up, all work-related. In a day, I just realized that I am inundated by almost ten modes of technological communication. Quick, skip and a hop- I have to be fast or I get really swamped if I let up for a tiny bit. My office staff/seatmate laughs at me; I do a little jig and a clap every time I cross something off my list. And I’ve had to constantly remind myself that it’s only the 13^th, not the 23^rd.

Does it seem so glamorous? Sometimes, I have to admit, yes. (I’ll get to the “glamour-fun” part later.) But there are times that I am on the nth version of editing materials and I cannot change it to my liking- its not creative, fun writing after all. It’s WORK writing. Grammar. Precision and critical thinking. Sheesh. Hello, real world. No wonder sometimes I just want to turn off my brain. When I said I wanted to write for a living, I didn’t realize that everything I said would be plucked out from my mouth and taken literally by the universe. So maybe I have to do some more fine-tuning with what I put out there.

Anyhoo. Rambling on. Plus point is that I love how I am stretched to my limits, how my perspective(s) have changed dramatically. I don’t know yet to what influence I can credit this to. I really appreciate though how the past months’ uber-stressful shifts have taught me to hang on for a bit more. I don’t know if I am truly meant to be where I am but let’s just say, I can’t find a reason (yet) not to be. (As a product of my over-thinking-mini-retreat, I am undecided as to what my next steps will be. So unsure that I am now taking steps towards Plan A, B and C, just for good measure. Ha. Talk about ambivalent. (Or maybe this is the entrepreneurial me thinking? -never putting my eggs in one basket, so to speak.) Knowing myself –me, the 5-year-planner and lists-lover- this is very unsettling as being of two (or three) minds means letting go of control. Very liberating. And freaky, in that growing-up kind of way.

Ok, still rambling. On to the “glamour-fun” part. Being in hotels venues a lot, getting all dressed up and meeting a lot of people. I don’t get impressed easily, so I can’t really tell if work’s glamorous. Sure is fun at times though. Still a long ways to go and I can’t help but have this sneaking suspicion that I have my work cut out for me.

So can I get any more random than this? To hell with sentence construction. :)

is this it?

2008-06-10T06:13:00.000+08:00

Just when I was over-thinking-over-the-weekend and yet still unable to arrive at answers my instinct was comfortable in, I got this forwarded email from my boss. Hmm. How apt.

___________________________________________________________

Bill Gates recently gave a speech at a High School about 11 things they did not and will not learn in school. He talks about how feel-good, politically correct teachings created a generation of kids with no concept of reality and how this concept set them up for failure in the real world.

Rule 1 : Life is not fair - get used to it!

Rule 2: The world won't care about your self-esteem. The world will expect you to accomplish something BEFORE you feel good about yourself.

Rule 3: You will NOT make $60,000 a year right out of high school. You won't be a vice-president with a car phone until you earn both.

Rule 4: If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss.

Rule 5: Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your Grandparents had a different word for burger flipping: they called it opportunity.

Rule 6: If you mess up, it's not your parents' fault, so don't whine about your mistakes, learn from them.

Rule 7: Before you were born, your parents weren't as boring as they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes and listening to you talk about how cool you thought you were. So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of your parent's generation, try delousing the closet in your own room.

Rule 8: Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life HAS NOT. In some schools, they have abolished failing grades and they'll give you as MANY TIMES as you want to get the right answer. This doesn't bear the slightest resemblance to ANYTHING in real life.

Rule 9: Life is not divided into semesters. You don't get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you FIND YOURSELF. Do that on your own time.

Rule 10: Television is NOT real life. In real life people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to jobs.

Rule 11: Be nice to nerds. Chances are you'll end up working for one.

clumsily yours

2008-06-04T14:05:00.000+08:00

2 bruises, one on the arm and the other on the leg

a lacerated left hand, courtesy of the gate

a stubbed toe, thanks to the gulong of the office chair

a bumped right knee, right on the edge of the steel. table.

an elbow connecting to the table, sending shivers down my spine. NOT the good kind.

universe, what are you trying to say?

***and my latest, semi-decent blog entry wiped out because of the crappy connection.

she's so right, its scary.

2008-05-31T13:58:00.000+08:00

“|Creativity is the result of habit, hard work, and constantly pursuing new challenges. If you never fail, you’ll stagnate.

Don’t choose people who will hold your hand- choose mentors who can teach you.

Do you feel you’ve had to pay a price for your commitment to your art?

In the end, everybody pays a price for whatever choice he or she makes. I work all the time; that’s what I do. I don’t celebrate my successes; I rehearse. I haven’t taken a vacation in a long time. I engage in very few interpersonal relationships except for those I can learn from.

Everyone can be creative – but you have to prepare for it with routine. |

“

Twyla Sharp |MacArthur Fellowship, a Tony Awards, 2 Emmys. Choreographer. (Hair, Amadeus)|

tricking the tongue

2008-05-31T13:46:00.000+08:00

she has always disliked labels. and convention.

Its not as if one could freeze time by merely closing your eyes.

When time is as short as your memory. Declaring all and yet baring none.

Still, a beautiful, honest tableau, as if wrought in colors of earth and water

Or so she says.

.

2008-05-26T07:02:00.000+08:00

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet) i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

project Barbie

2008-05-04T11:41:00.000+08:00

My little love's birthday wish are for the color orange and a Barbie doll. What does a 3-year old know about Barbies? I think I was about 6 or 7 when I started enjoying dolls. Is it me, or kids' taste for toys now mature early? And what's up with orange? Or maybe I just have no idea at all when it comes to kids? Haha.
Anyhoo.
More recent snaps of her. But some not so nice ones dahil ang likot! She doesn't want to stand or sit still to pose and when forced to, she does this "rolling of eyes" pose, as if to say, you are wasting my time (see pics with my Mom- 1 decent snapshot na sapilitan and ready to go na agad).
Photos courtesy of Tito Gingoy who's very patient with taking stolen pictures

define: (customer) relationships

2008-05-04T08:28:00.000+08:00

Attended a CRM class at AIM and of all the nice things I learned, this pretty much sums it all up. Now, tell me, isn't everything about love? *cue Classic Alice singing what the world...needs now...is love, lala* *Video from YouTube, campaign from Microsoft.

The 5 Roadblocks to Developing your Charisma

2008-05-03T10:17:00.000+08:00

by John Maxwell

Are people drawn to you?

Most people think of charisma as something mystical, almost undefinable. They think it's a quality that comes at birth or not at all. But charisma is the ability to draw people to you. And like other character traits, it can be developed.

How do you rate when it comes to charisma? Are other people naturally attracted to you? If not, it could be because you possess one of these roadblocks to charisma:

Pride - nobody wants to follow a leader who thinks he is better than everyone else.

Insecurity - if you are uncomfortable with you are, others will be too.

Moodiness - if people never know what to expect from you, they stop expecting anything.

Perfectionism - people respect the desire for excellence, but dread unrealistic expectations.

Cynicism - people don't want to be rained on by someone who sees a cloud around every silver lining.

If you can stay away from those 5 roadblocks, you can cultivate charisma.

***An excerpt from The 21 Indispensable Qualities of a Leader by John Maxwell who authored the best-selling Developing the Leader Within You, The 360 Degree Leader, The 21 Irrefutable Laws of Leadership and The Winning Attitude (along with more than 12 other best-sellers which have sold more than 14 million copies worldwide.)

define creepiness

2008-05-03T07:42:00.000+08:00

This man locked up his own daughter for 24 years in a basement dungeon and fathered seven children.

Very VC Andrews-Flowers-in-the-Attic. Very creepy.

Current Randomness

2008-05-02T11:59:00.000+08:00

1- I met a Kwan that lives in France but speaks good Pinoy.

2- I ate froglegs. Eeeew. But- surprisingly, tastes like chicken. Still. Ulk. Wasn’t looking while eating.

3- Foie gras: The brutal slaying of a poor little duck (or goose) through force-feeding just to get that delicacy. Que horror! More than enough for me to go vegetarian. There is such a thing though, as humane foie gras, or ethically-prepared foie gras. Kaya lang, don’t forget the E, says C- Eeeep. You would think we’d have more refined conversations, considering the menu.

And then came the wine…

4- Found new artsy-fartsy joints and places to eat in. Hmm… should start reviewing food places more.

5- Discovered Limewire!!! Yeah, I know, I’ve been living under a rock… When my baby iPod died on me (in the wee hours of my last birthday pa!), I freaked out and cried.

Then Limewire, and everything’s alright with my world again.

6- But still procrastinating and delaying enrollment to driving school. Still a scaredy – cat. Haay.

awards night

2008-04-24T16:14:00.000+08:00

in a word, exhausting. ohwel. it also just proved i am so much in my element when doing events.

me and my girls. and a boy.

with lolo ned

magazine ba daw ito? haha

kukung chronicles

2008-04-24T10:13:00.000+08:00

naughty little girl, she's grown so big na. she seems so tall, and yet she's only turning 3 this may!
hmm... i bet sa akin nag-mana 'to. mwahaha

~

2008-04-24T07:13:00.000+08:00

April 8. Bruised Knees and A Full Heart.

2008-04-24T06:39:00.000+08:00

Isaac.

I went to an improv theater workshop for a couple of days. Two days of seemingly fun and games but in reality, a whole lot of heart and hard work. It is hard work to forget all your pre-conceived notions of shame, self-consciousness and self-doubt. I call him Issac. Because he looks like Isaac Mizrahi.

Faaaah.bulousss, dahlings!

We started the day barefoot- then progressed to sitting, rolling and doing what we may, right on the floor. Then on to jumping, hopping then miming our way to abandon because word for the day was –IMPULSE.

It’s a wonder, really. I have been forever the PLANNER- digital, in psychology parlance. I once took a personality test that showed my strengths to be in the areas of organizing and planning. I do a lot of lists- I even list my outfits for a trip or a busy week, OC freak that I am. Ah, lists. I have lots and you’d be amused with the things I list down.

So that day, me with my lists, my 2/5 year plan, all corporate-y and at times too formal and uptight self, let go and acted out everything that got into her real, crazy head. I wanted to jump, so I did. I wanted to dance, so I did. I wanted to hop, sing, skip and run around, so I did what I damn well pleased. And it felt great.

Isaac, the flamboyantly fabulous program director, taught us to let go and act on our impulses. More importantly, I realized that everyday, we reject people all the time- their selves, thoughts, ideas. We reject notions, gut feel and creativity. In fact, almost every second, we reject-- and the funny-ironic thing is that WE don’t like rejection.

ACCEPT! (read as: aaahck-sept!)

We keep to our safe selves in our little corners because we are constantly afraid of rejection. And in turn, we always do our part to reject others. Learn to say NO- but have we turned our backs to the things that we should be saying YES to? What are the things in our lives that need our YESES? That we need to embrace, accept with bare hands? Similarly, how can we expect to ACCEPT blessings when we still have our hands full?

LET GO. Surrender.

Letting go of old thoughts, negative pre-conceived notions, mindsets do little to help us. When did we learn to get so scared of rejection? Letting go of fears enable us to dream bigger and better.

If someone rejects you- so what? Strangely enough, the more one practices ACCEPTANCE, LETTING GO- the more you grow, the more you are able to give of yourself to others. Similarly, one has to let go of control and be able to ACCEPT HELP. And then the FAAAAHBULOUS cycle of helping and making everything all around great, living in great vibes goes on and on.

Simplistic? Maybe.
But it works for me. As I always say, life is complicated enough; the genius is in the simple things.

So then, from Isaac, I learned to--

Surrender/Let Go

of self-doubt

of misconceptions

of all store-bought thoughts

of fears

Accept

Everything and everyone.

As they are. Seriously.

Honor my IMPULSE

Jump. Dance. Sing.

Laugh.

Why the hell not.

After all, we are just bodies. While we take care of it and nurture it, these are after all mere shells of what counts the most- our souls.

froglegs

2008-04-24T06:35:00.000+08:00

We are all meant to move on. That gives me a measure of peace, in such a way that all things that are happening- and not happening, by the way- are meant to be. There is a kind of calmness that washes over you when you just accept- things, people, and situations as they are.

I miss the time when I could explicitly believe in what you say, when I could trust you. Now that I’ve been proven otherwise, it just amazes me how free I feel. Strange, no? Ironic how liberating it feels, that I no longer have to hang on to your every word, that I no longer need to have your approval, that I don’t have to wait for you, wait on you.

Let’s just call this story, lesson learned.

Then again, aren’t we possibly always brought to a place we thought we’re meant to be in, only to discover ourselves riding another wave, and crashing down to another place yet destined for us? Aren’t we always travelling around in cycles until we find that stop sign that says home? It shouldn’t really matter how long or short a time you stay. Oftentimes, we stay too long in a place because we’re comfortable- or too damn scared to move lest you’re wrong. At times, we move too fast and leave behind things. Places. Ourselves? (What else, I don’t know). We leave behind things we thought we knew, only to find that we yet again- search for the very things we have left behind.

I’ve kissed more than enough frogs. Some frogs worse than pond scum. And yet we invariable turn to them, again and again, like a bad habit hard to break. Ranting to a friend, he laughingly reminded me, But of course you cannot expect frogs to turn to princes. They’re ugly, for one. And they’re full of warts.

Sheesh. O nga naman.

what my YOUniverse looks like

2008-04-21T19:30:00.000+08:00

found this neat little quiz thingamajig on the 'net. fun stuff.

my quiz says...

About Warm And Fuzzy

The Warm and Fuzzy is someone who's very down-to-earth when it comes to love. They tend to be pretty realistic about what makes a lifelong partnership work. They understand the value of forging a love based on friendship, respect and shared values. In fact, often their relationships develop out of friendships and their lover tends to be their best friend. Marriage and children are probably central to their life. As far as they're concerned, a true relationship is one that matures with time and work. But they need to work at keeping that spark of passion alive.

How to love a warm and fuzzy type

Bust out the cashmere blanket. You two are peas in a very cozy pod. If you want a loyal committed life-long love, then this one's for you.. In fact you might as well start building a porch for your rocking chairs.

Love Notes

- Blow up a copy of their favorite photo and have it specially framed and delivered to them at work.
- Go for a long walk in the park; you know the vibe: flowers in your hair in summer, kicking leaves in autumn...
- Brainstorm baby names and check out estate agents' windows

wanted: holiday

2008-04-21T19:07:00.000+08:00

It’s been a succession of bad days all around- when everything I do and touch seems to have the opposite effect of Midas touch. Everything I touch instead crumbles and I mess up, all the damn time. Or is it because I am so hard on myself? In any case, I don’t accept excuses, least of all, from myself- so I just go on and on and on, at break-neck speed, not stopping for anything, or anyone.

I just realized though that lately too it’s been easier for me to let go of things I cannot control and not take anything personally- even in the face of (upfront) arrogance, rudeness and conceit. And because of that, I also find it a lot easier to admit to my mistakes- yes, the ones that I actually do and not those blamed on me. Even then, it doesn’t matter because I am able to see it in the most objective of manners. And I no longer have that nagging voice-over that constantly says “I need to be/I should be *fill in the blank*”. Is this borne out of maturity? Is this borne out of the fact that I have grown (a little bit)- no longer insecure (most of the time) in who I am? Then there are bad days, there are worse days, but I am able to bounce back a lot more quickly than before. I figured everybody has those kinds of days. Then I figured out some more that I won’t allow myself such bad days- a bad half-hour, maybe, or a bad couple of hours, at the most. But I won’t allow my whole day to be ruined- I hope its not blind Pollyanna-Positivism schtick. I’d rather focus on getting better, all the time. Just have to keep my eye on the prize- which is mine, all mine, for the picking! Haha. Seriously, it’s important not to lose sight of the whys and hows of things. I figured-yet again, that though NOT perfect and blameless, trying makes the world go ‘round- and makes it all worthwhile. Then the acceptance that I am not perfect, but I try to be my own version (of perfect).

(P.S. I have to remember to make sure that those bad hours do not extend to full-on bad days. Lately it’s been so stressful that my first instinct is to run! As in, get on the treadmill! It’s been such an escape. OR smoke. Sheesh. BUT. I am proud to say, that I haven’t touched a stick since January. J )

finding the balut man

2008-04-21T18:41:00.000+08:00

It started with street food. Or maybe it started when they both smiled at each other for the first time, under the guise of serious work. Somehow, even if they were strangers, nothing felt strange, at all.

The day went on as if nothing extraordinary happened, as if two souls who were very much alike and fated to meet, did not actually fulfill their destiny, all just by being at the right place, at the right time.

Strange. Peculiar.

As strangers go, he was familiar. And his very presence calmed her. His very presence made everything feel right. Did this happen before, or after, they got to talking?

Then the smile progressed to talking, over shared cappuccinos and croissants. Smiling, giving in to shared laughter, over good food and more coffee. Smiling, laughing, talking, more eating. Seemingly innocuous everyday things that lead to magic when…when what, exactly?

What exactly lends that one person the ability to spark magic to these everyday, ordinary things? It seems so powerful, letting just one person have that effect over you. Making one-person matter over all the rest. Appointing a singular, yet all encompassing feeling to just one-person. Who are we to figure out answers to age-old questions?

On to shared food- the ultimate bonding activity. Shared laughter progressing to shared meals.

And looking for the balut man. Seemingly ordinary sentiments, statements- looking for the balut man, weird food stories, work rants and dreams. Playing each others’ tourist. And it’s all thanks to food.

His adorable accent matters more than the fact that my English is better than his. I never thought I’d say this- so what if his grammar is bad? I’ve had worse conversations with better English-speaking people. Who’d have thought I’d be thinking of balut so fondly? The man who screams selling his wares, who I randomly hear out on the streets. The balut man, reminiscent of all good things that I deserve. The story of the balut man who made me remember my dreams, the one who opened doors for me to walk through unafraid again.

Thank God for street-food, Pinoy-style.

(As opposed to living life with low-involvement. No matter if the balut man passes through and does not stay. What matters is that he came, and stayed for awhile.)

wolfpack

2008-04-21T17:50:00.000+08:00

i am sorry for the lost Sundays, hot weekends notwithstanding

passion startling

cut-and-run, fun and rum on the run

a toss up between grace and class

and disappointing crass

marshland

2008-04-21T17:48:00.000+08:00

This is what happens when I ignore once again the why nots, because I’ve chosen not to break against the slippery slope.

But, never mind. I’m tired, yeah, I’ve learned, yet again.

So what, it still leaves me in shambles, unraveled.

And so it goes, another day, another song, another hope.

Maybe it gets better with time, maybe I get better with time.

I am happy it doesn’t matter as much.

And what do you know. A different day, a different story.

Sometimes, things are as simple, and as complicated as that.

street food

2008-04-04T09:39:00.000+08:00

are old dreams coming true?
is this the result of the
stop/wait mode
i was put on
sometime ago?

as all things are,
fate seems to be pushing me
to the right direction.

ah, new stories, coming up!

happyhappyjoyjoy

2008-04-02T18:57:00.000+08:00

theater.improv.

getting bumped, bruises and bum knees

while dancing with eyes closed

and loving every single second of it.

sharing a cappuccino in a green cup

and a pop of choco chip surprise ,

sinfully divine banana butterscotch

after a long day

impulse!

being free. at my own pace.

my own terms.

surrendering.

finding meaning.

knowing.

what i would say

2008-03-31T20:33:00.000+08:00

you kind of

took away my dream

but i have lots

and i kind of

hate you for it

but i won’t

i’m kind of

alright now

yeah, i really am

obama, frankl and me

2008-03-29T13:22:00.001+08:00

I usually don't write/react/care much about politics. In grade school, I used to dream of being a lawyer/senator and my highlight of a grade school trip was entering the senate hall and getting the grand tour. I loved the smell, the aura of greatness and the power I imagined people wielded, to be able to change the country.

Sheesh, I was a naive little girl then.

Well, other things and events have shaped me since then and I’ve been averse to anything political- especially ours.

I blogged about The Audacity of Hope sometime back, in relation to a news item of a child gone mad enough to take her own life. I didn’t realize that the phrase audacity of hope which I just glanced upon in a BusinessWorld headline actually came from a book of the same title by the newest political celebrity, Obama. He’s quite becoming the poster boy for positivism. What I’m glad about though is that his (positivity) is the sort that hinges on action, and not the wide-eyed Pollyanna.

In his speech addressing the Democratic National Convention in 2004, Obama said: “In the end, that's what this election is about. Do we participate in a politics of cynicism or a politics of hope? John Kerry calls on us to hope. John Edwards calls on us to hope. I'm not talking about blind optimism here -- the almost willful ignorance that thinks unemployment will go away if we just don't talk about it, or the health care crisis will solve itself if we just ignore it. No, I'm talking about something more substantial. It's the hope of slaves sitting around a fire singing freedom songs; the hope of immigrants setting out for distant shores; the hope of a young naval lieutenant bravely patrolling the Mekong Delta; the hope of a millworker's son who dares to defy the odds; the hope of a skinny kid with a funny name who believes that America has a place for him, too. Hope in the face of difficulty. Hope in the face of uncertainty. The audacity of hope!” Thank you, wiki.

Well. Mahal ko na siya.

I don’t care that his book (of the same title) is reviewed as more of a political document, highlighting speeches and his platform for campaigns. And I also wish I could say something about Pinoy politics, but damn, it’s so dirty and convoluted, I don’t even want to start. Except that…is there no place for hope-fools like Obama in the Philippines? In a place where most talents opt to leave the country for a better life, can we afford hope?

If hoping is for fools, then I pray we be all fools for clinging on such old-fashioned values such as being strong and honorable. Getting down, sucking it up and getting to work because, by God, we all need to get our acts together, as a nation and what the heck- it’s Earth Hour today, as citizens of the world. Apathy is disgusting. Playing victim is so last season. Doing every bit in looking for solutions is part of that actionable hope. In a word, proactive.

[The word proactive pala, I remember is a term by psychiatrist Victor Frankl in his book Man’s Search for Meaning- a book based on his experience in Nazi concentration camps where he lost his wife, mother, father and family. Kaloka, ka-depress this book, but so rich in life lessons. Proactive was more popularized via Covey’s Seven Habits]

bday by yeats

2008-03-28T06:28:00.000+08:00

On my birthday early this month, a friend asked me what my wish was. I never seriously thought about it because I stopped believing in my birthdays some time ago. But really thinking hard and reading through some of my stuff, I came across this poem:

W.B. Yeats: How many loved your moments of glad grace/and loved your beauty with love false or true/but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you/and loved the sorrows of your changing face.

Happy be-day fellow fishies.

Don’t ever trade magic for trickery.

Know that your heart will not steer you wrong.

middling ground

2008-03-24T09:39:00.001+08:00

Endings are elusive. Middles are nowhere to be found.

But worst of all is to begin, to begin, to begin.

:Donald Barthelme:

I discovered a new word today: middling. A new word to go with new ways of thinking things. How apt, indeed.

Barthelme said it best, that the worst of all is to begin, though I disagree that endings are elusive. While he may be pertaining to writing (fiction), in life, endings are set in their constancy, that one dependable. Sometimes, we look for these endings because we need it. At times, it just happens, even when we don’t want it. Trust me though, when I say that endings happen because they should. As with change, endings are there for the taking, for when things are ripe for the picking, for when lessons are ready to be learned and chances are what we actually take and not what we just panic, over-analyze about.
The worst of all is to begin- to start that change, to think new thinks. To begin, one must start with a clean slate (or is it just me being OC?) Spring cleaning and weeding out all the dust bunnies in your life, people who have horribly taken on that quality of bringing nothing but stress-induced wheeze attacks and ugliness. Metaphorically. Or not.

I love new beginnings. And never mind if new+beginnings is redundant, such as no one has ever had an old beginning. From everyone’s New Year, to the Chinese Kung Hei Fat Choi, to my birthday, to spring/Easter (which usually happens in April, and for this year we’ve had early this March), I relish starting over, again and again. And while I believe in second chances, I believe in being fair, honest and respectful towards myself. Such as, learning to love yourself enough, to say when is actually…enough.

To begin, one must go through a filtering process of hearing the truth and changing your beliefs. Of waiting with bated breath while the universe deals you that one-two-punch in the gut and you just have to suck it up, man. Because no matter how painful, truly, as in the years gone by, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.

I must be a sadist then. Because new beginnings means pulling out the weeds, the process is all too often painful. It forces you to get down on your knees, getting your hands dirty, and opening a whole can of worms. One discovers untruths disguised as concern, one-sided friendships and relationships based on illusions (of adoration, the other party for most part). No, I haven’t gone gardening and good God, I have no green thumb to speak of. But one realizes that after all the weeding and raking of dead leaves, you find that veritable patch of sunshine. And once in awhile, a good bunch of lovely tulips.

That for me is a happy ending, all too often preceded by strange beginnings, all while creating middles grand enough to warrant…another ending.

Ah well, Happy Easter little ones. Don’t eat all the chocolate bunnies.

happy thoughts

2008-03-24T09:17:00.000+08:00

randomly speaking:

Ã Gymrat career. Running is the best.

Ã Rediscovering swimming. Still not particularly great at it, but a vast improvement. I do get to the other side of the pool now! True to my nature, I am most content at the pool after a long day at work.

Ã Bubble wrap. Seriously. When was the last time you popped those cheap wonders?

Ã Peppermint milk tea. Lots of it, my exclusive recipe.

Ã New shoes. 3 ½ inch-stilettos. Quite an achievement, actually. Didn’t think I’d be able to do it, but I survived a 15-hour workday in it. Breaking in new shoes is a lot like test-driving a car.

Ã SeaAir’s Adventure Pass. How great is this? A pass for 45 days to any island destination of your choice (where they have their routes- Boracay, El Nido, Camiguin, etc). Say it with me- I need my vacation days now!

Ã And of vacations. Discover Eskaya, in Bohol. Ok, yeah I know, dude, I need to get to Bohol, shame on me.

Ã M&Ms Dark Chocolate. In purple packaging, with preppy-classic m print and a tiny “dark” script below. Yeah, in case you miss the one emblazoned on the front. Between M&Ms Dark and Snickers Dark, it’s the ms for me; Snickers has a lot going on, what with the nuts and nougat. Rather takes away the dark chocolate experience.

Ã Speaking of. You can never go wrong with a white chocolate martini in rich, dark Belgian chocolate coating. Shaken, not stirred. Guys, forget wining and dining. If you must do a date right, it is this. And juicy olives on an otherwise boring spaghetti. ;)

(I remember Chef Billy King. At a Children’s Hour luncheon sometime in December last year, my colleagues and I were raving over his dessert, and much to our embarrassment, he noticed how we were so enjoying it. He quipped, Enjoying your dessert, ladies? You can never go wrong with strawberries and cream, can you?” All in that lovely accent of his. Hello. Take me to a genteel, gorgeous man who cooks, is well-read, tapos ang usapan. Hmmm. Accents are a plus. Not bisaya ha.)

Nothing wrong with local accents, but I meant to illustrate how sexy European accents are.

life as poetry

2008-03-19T13:45:00.000+08:00

I miss doing a lot of things, and I realized that I haven’t read and written poetry in a long time. When I was in school (a good long time ago), I used to be able to pen down my thoughts in different poetic forms- even if I didn’t consciously go out and do measure, metric, etc. etc. (I hate being boxed in technical constraints). I’d write on edges of my books, tissue paper in cafes, old notebooks, old menu cards.

So I’m going back to one of my first loves and will be featuring here some of my favorite lines and some of my own too, if I can ;-)

Spring

Song, from Act V, Scene 2 of Love’s Labors Lost by William Shakespeare (1598)

When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.