It looked like a new carpet. Pristine white wool. I had it repaired by Triple A after almost two years of careless washing. Actually, it was delivered last November but I did not have the time to get it from my friend's unit until two days ago. The whole time, I was thinking of rolling it out on the floor or not since I will be moving out anyway.
After two years of living in this unit, I have finally decided to look for a bigger place. My shoes are too many already for the shoe rack I have installed when I came here. My dining table became a working desk. And my clothes can barely fit in the closet.
I moved here in haste almost two years ago. For reasons I can't enjoy remembering yet I intend not to forget. I signed the contract that faithful black saturday of 2005. Funny, because I had the place in all white.
Looking back, those two years have been very fruitful. Lots of mess I have created for myself, lots of successes that put me where I am now. Gained friends, maintained some, lost a few.
I have learned that in a lot of times, you have to just take the plunge sometimes and swim your way in when youre already there although there are these few trying times that you have to maintain both feet on sea and on shore. I have learned that while your work improves (or otherwise) you also change as a person. I have learned that the greatest work you can do is actually seeing it done by others who saw you do it. That is the time when you have to move on and move further.
I have learned that friendship can only exist if you view each other as equals. And just like any relationships, it can become a job. It is up to you if you want to work on it or not.
I have learned that one thing good about living is having a choice. The options can be limitless. It is up to us to decide which road to take. Comes with these choices are responsibilities. And as we grow, they tend to multiply too.
I have considered that I am not young anymore. And I have tried to accept that yes, science can help me now.
I'll be moving out soon from this place-- to a bigger place definitely. So far, I have one sure future roommate (Well, my other future roommate still has to decide). I will be bringing a lot of things out with me now. Unlike two years ago, I brought nothing. Yes, including the repaired white wool rug, I think I will still need to sweep the dirt off my feet under it.
p.s.
And yes, I would need a parking space soon...
This is going to be a perfect year!
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The chair is white now, and there is a coffee table infront of the love seat.Thursday, December 14, 2006
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Strange...
A few weeks ago, I got to post that my dad has cancer. A few days after that, my uncle asked his children to have him checked because he was feeling ill also. That was after finding out Tatay's condition.
My uncle past away a day before we went to China. His was fast- lung cancer.
Just this afternoon, my cousin texted me that another uncle is in a critical condition in Iloilo after a bike accident. His left collarbone is broken.
Is this telling our family something?
Strange.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Lost in Translation
It was about seven in the evening when we got out of the theme park. Our tour guide was waiting for us under the lychee trees outside. We were told that there was no parking so we have to be there before the designated time for the coaster to pick us up. Among the group, only two families went inside the park. It was a good experience. My parents enjoyed it a lot, especially my mom. She even rode the camel just to have her picture taken near the pyramids.
Thirty minutes later, we were dropped near a busy market area. Supposedly to eat dinner. Only our family have actually paid for the dinner as part of the tour. The rest decided to eat at a more familiar fast food- Kentuky Fried Chicken. We entered this local (spell C-H-I-N-E-S-E) restaurant that can probably seat the capacity of Rizal Ballroom. There was a table prepared for us. Amidst fifty more tables already filled with people-- apparently who obviously know each other. It was a party.
That very moment when my niece started to cry, throwing her tantrums to everybody except her mom. About five minutes of crying, people started to stare at our table. It was the time when my sister's face turned pale as she was trying to get her daughters temperature. The baby has fever.
We called our tour guide and asked if she could possibly bring us to a pharmacy. And after a ten minute walk, I saw a more familiar store-- Watson's. We went to the counter and asked (with of guide interpreting) for paracetamol drops. We were led to a shelf of over the counter drugs. And yes, not a single box labled in english. Out of desperation, my sister carrying her baby and I browsed through the boxes one after the other trying to look for meds that we can somehow understand. It was after about forty boxes when we got to see -- 125ml acetaminophen. That was the first time I saw my sister smiled that night.
We went back to the restaurant and saw my parents already trying to eat what was served- a total of twelve courses, that includes the fabled abalone and crispy pigeon. I barely touched the food because I was busy explaining to the counter what an ice is. It took them about ten minutes to actually bring us a glass filled with ice.
My sister quickly gave her little girl a cold rub to somehow bring the temperature down. It took her about thirty minutes for the fever to subside. Enough time for the oldies to finish what they started.
I had tea that meal.
We arrived at the hotel with the baby already asleep. After making my parents settle in the room, I asked to be excused for about an hour. I went to the fifth floor restaurant named- Western Restaurant. It was Karen Carpenter singing as I sip my 28-Yuan brewed coffee.
So, this is how it's like when you're not in your country...
Thirty minutes later, we were dropped near a busy market area. Supposedly to eat dinner. Only our family have actually paid for the dinner as part of the tour. The rest decided to eat at a more familiar fast food- Kentuky Fried Chicken. We entered this local (spell C-H-I-N-E-S-E) restaurant that can probably seat the capacity of Rizal Ballroom. There was a table prepared for us. Amidst fifty more tables already filled with people-- apparently who obviously know each other. It was a party.
That very moment when my niece started to cry, throwing her tantrums to everybody except her mom. About five minutes of crying, people started to stare at our table. It was the time when my sister's face turned pale as she was trying to get her daughters temperature. The baby has fever.
We called our tour guide and asked if she could possibly bring us to a pharmacy. And after a ten minute walk, I saw a more familiar store-- Watson's. We went to the counter and asked (with of guide interpreting) for paracetamol drops. We were led to a shelf of over the counter drugs. And yes, not a single box labled in english. Out of desperation, my sister carrying her baby and I browsed through the boxes one after the other trying to look for meds that we can somehow understand. It was after about forty boxes when we got to see -- 125ml acetaminophen. That was the first time I saw my sister smiled that night.
We went back to the restaurant and saw my parents already trying to eat what was served- a total of twelve courses, that includes the fabled abalone and crispy pigeon. I barely touched the food because I was busy explaining to the counter what an ice is. It took them about ten minutes to actually bring us a glass filled with ice.
My sister quickly gave her little girl a cold rub to somehow bring the temperature down. It took her about thirty minutes for the fever to subside. Enough time for the oldies to finish what they started.
I had tea that meal.
We arrived at the hotel with the baby already asleep. After making my parents settle in the room, I asked to be excused for about an hour. I went to the fifth floor restaurant named- Western Restaurant. It was Karen Carpenter singing as I sip my 28-Yuan brewed coffee.
So, this is how it's like when you're not in your country...
Monday, November 27, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
more angst... bog!
Writing the previous entry was not easy for me. Aside from the fact that I am not a writer, I am not really sure if what I am doing is right or wrong. Write and wrong.
In the past weeks, I was plagued with existentialist's questions just like how I was about eight to ten years ago. It was before I got to finally decide to study interior design and shift gears.
It started with this close friend who told me that it will be hard for me to shine onstage as a performer because I am not cut for it. It was the time when I was doing plays for one of those air-conditioned theatre companies. It was a day job for me. We were having shows during weekends and rehearsing for another show weekdays. It was fun. When the current show closed, another opens. It was a mill of plays. For a theatre buff trying to become an actor (who actually studied it in the academic environment), it was a dreamjob. To my parents, it was a joke. To my once-close friend, it's a futile attempt to hone the craft.
It was an attempt to get out of the old system where you were born and trying other venues and see if it is going to work. It did. I did not. I shifted gears.
I decided to study design because I actually came to the conclusion that I should be doing something else aside from being onstage because I was convinced that I can't be the best amongst those who stand within the proscenium walls. As my dad would jokingly say about me-- 'jack of all trades, master of none.'
That same friend told me that I will never graduate on time (or was it never graduate at all?), knowing me very well. Two yeas later, I had my exhibit. In those two years, I have to let go of my 'dayjob' because I can't possibly mix acting ang studying interior design. My assignments and plates killed the actor in me.
As I recall, that was the time we were doing a lot of Shakespeare. And modesty aside, that core group of actors were the only ones who can actually muster iambic pentameter during that time. Sadly, even that priviledge and learned skill, I have to leave behind.
I became a struggling designer. An ideal one at that. After the exhibit, I was unemployed. I barely know how to act anymore. I became a professional job applicant. My afternoons were spent either in Araneta Center sending mails and application forms or at home hunting for work in the internet. This went on until I got accepted by a garment company to do their windows. My first 'job' was to become a visual artist for store displays. My excitement was short lived. I stayed there for two months. For the life of me, I simply can't swallow their system.
Then I met a friend who was my classmate a year before that and she recommended me to design firm where she is working. Luckily I got accepted. It was 'the' firm during that time. And I was introduced to the other side of the world that I was born to know. Keywords were: Sophistication, Extravagance and Discipline. I am not in any one of the three. Painfully, I got to accept that those are not just concepts but are day to day dictums of some people. I lasted there a couple of months. And I became unemployed again.
I tried different things that would actually generate income. Stage management, make-up, costuming, tried acting again. That was a difficult time. then a friend recommended me to take his place in a project that was for a magazine. I took the challenge enveloped in fear.
That was the start why I'm here.
The difference now is that I am not shifting gears. At least not voluntarily. In doing so, changes make you think. Changes stir the status quo. A lot of times, causing anxiety and the far off after effect- pain. Causing stress. I have learned to hate stress because it brings out the worst in me. I have learned to hate stress because I can not live without it either. I have learned to hate stress because, at the same time, it brings out the best in me.
Nursing that anxiety now.
My apologies.
In the past weeks, I was plagued with existentialist's questions just like how I was about eight to ten years ago. It was before I got to finally decide to study interior design and shift gears.
It started with this close friend who told me that it will be hard for me to shine onstage as a performer because I am not cut for it. It was the time when I was doing plays for one of those air-conditioned theatre companies. It was a day job for me. We were having shows during weekends and rehearsing for another show weekdays. It was fun. When the current show closed, another opens. It was a mill of plays. For a theatre buff trying to become an actor (who actually studied it in the academic environment), it was a dreamjob. To my parents, it was a joke. To my once-close friend, it's a futile attempt to hone the craft.
It was an attempt to get out of the old system where you were born and trying other venues and see if it is going to work. It did. I did not. I shifted gears.
I decided to study design because I actually came to the conclusion that I should be doing something else aside from being onstage because I was convinced that I can't be the best amongst those who stand within the proscenium walls. As my dad would jokingly say about me-- 'jack of all trades, master of none.'
That same friend told me that I will never graduate on time (or was it never graduate at all?), knowing me very well. Two yeas later, I had my exhibit. In those two years, I have to let go of my 'dayjob' because I can't possibly mix acting ang studying interior design. My assignments and plates killed the actor in me.
As I recall, that was the time we were doing a lot of Shakespeare. And modesty aside, that core group of actors were the only ones who can actually muster iambic pentameter during that time. Sadly, even that priviledge and learned skill, I have to leave behind.
I became a struggling designer. An ideal one at that. After the exhibit, I was unemployed. I barely know how to act anymore. I became a professional job applicant. My afternoons were spent either in Araneta Center sending mails and application forms or at home hunting for work in the internet. This went on until I got accepted by a garment company to do their windows. My first 'job' was to become a visual artist for store displays. My excitement was short lived. I stayed there for two months. For the life of me, I simply can't swallow their system.
Then I met a friend who was my classmate a year before that and she recommended me to design firm where she is working. Luckily I got accepted. It was 'the' firm during that time. And I was introduced to the other side of the world that I was born to know. Keywords were: Sophistication, Extravagance and Discipline. I am not in any one of the three. Painfully, I got to accept that those are not just concepts but are day to day dictums of some people. I lasted there a couple of months. And I became unemployed again.
I tried different things that would actually generate income. Stage management, make-up, costuming, tried acting again. That was a difficult time. then a friend recommended me to take his place in a project that was for a magazine. I took the challenge enveloped in fear.
That was the start why I'm here.
The difference now is that I am not shifting gears. At least not voluntarily. In doing so, changes make you think. Changes stir the status quo. A lot of times, causing anxiety and the far off after effect- pain. Causing stress. I have learned to hate stress because it brings out the worst in me. I have learned to hate stress because I can not live without it either. I have learned to hate stress because, at the same time, it brings out the best in me.
Nursing that anxiety now.
My apologies.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
of dirtroads and crossroads
photo by Ocs Alvarezshot at the old Summit Studio
I just finished drafting my resignation letter.
My boss told me it is just a formality as I am transferring positions to consultancy (basically almost the same work, different title) yet somehow it has it's effect on me--
Very poignant but very liberating.
I was consultant for a year of the magazine. It happened for obvious reasons which I am not about to discuss. During that time, I never felt I was working on consult. It felt like the burden of the entire magazine was on my back. So I continued to work until I got to miss my thirteenth month pay so I decided to become an employee again. Practically no change of work and yeah, the load is still there. I have to admit, it was not as heavy as before when the new Art Director came in. For the first time, I felt like a Stylist and not as the over-all visualist (in which case was often vetoed anyway).
Now, I am not the one feeling that... being vetoed , I mean.
Uh-hum!!
Uh-hum!!
I started working for the magazine as a contributor. It was a test run to find out if I have the constitution for the job. I can still remember my supposedly first official pre-production meeting with the EIC. It was at Cafe Breizh/Crepe Bretonne at eight in the evening one faithful Black Saturday as scheduled the week before. She begged off thirty minutes before the meeting. They shot two houses in the island that day. My first assignment was styling locks and jalousies. (How can you possibly style a dead bolt?!?) Please, no violent reactions! It was that time that I was this eager beaver trying out everything that I think I want to do under the sun. The second job was styling wine glass tags.
photo by Ocs Alvarez shot at the late Kish
crafts by bel lejano
glasses from rustan's
Then I was given my first house to style. The call was nine-thirty Monday morning. It was raining elephants during that time. Impoverished and eager, I took the bus, braving the rain and went to Galleria to make it to the call time. Then I called the one in charge of the shoot and asked where we can meet, she advised me to enter the mall and go directly to the office. Mall opens at ten. I tried four gates until I eventually told the guard that I am going to McDonalds. I did not go to McDonalds. I don't have that much cash (from my sister) for breakfast. When I got to the office, I found myself arranging the trip going to the venue because the shoot producer was not there yet. We eventually got to the house at about half-hour past ten. The producer arrived quarter past eleven.
After that shoot, I was summoned by the EIC for a meeting and gave me an offer. An offer that I was not able to resist. I was about to enter as an employee middle of the month but was moved to the first day of the following month because I had problems with my medical exams results. I underwent medication and eventually got in as planned.
I fell in love with the job. It was the best thing that happened to me in the third decade of my life. I was warned by some friends about my boss' temperament but eventually I got to prove them wrong. She became my mentor and friend. My eagerness was aptly fed and the whole time, it never felt like work.
Things got to change when she resigned (it was more of 'retired' actually). My buddy transferred to another magazine and I became consultant. It was one year of, admittedly, crisis for me. The thought of leaving yet not having enough good options lingered.
photo by Bahaghari MFI shot at Greenbelt
I once heard that you have three reasons why you are in a theatre production: the play/role, the director, the pay. Stay if you have at least two. It goes the same in an office. I only have one during that time yet I stayed. Somehow, the job became my life. In the same way, I can not imagine myself looking at a product without imagining it on a set-up to be laid out on a page. It became oxygen. Polluted though.
After a year, another change of EICs and I got reinstated as an employee again. Though the set-up this time is very different. When I got to enter, I was the 'youngest' employee. Everybody during that time came-in before me. This time, I became the 'eldest' where everybody came after me. Especially after our Art Director transferred to another magazine, leaving me as the only original staff member.
I became the Style Editor. I have an associate who apparently doesn't report to me (let's talk about office system and hierarchy). There is nothing I can do about it either, my new boss adheres to such practice. The funny part about it is when things fall apart, I am being called to do 'damage control' about something that I am clueless of, primarily because I was not the one who was consulted for such project. Part of the job description I suppose.
This went on until I told my boss enough. Discussed with her the root of the problem and hopefully something can be done about it. Well, something was done about it. Little and pallative. At least there is something being done.
Amidst all these, the love for the job and the magazine never faded. Every month, there is always a new issue and new things to do. Often, I am like a headless chicken running from one home store to another to look for products to feature and to complete my set-ups.
The best thing that happened was when my new boss hired an Editorial Assistant. In the past, before a shoot, I am all-over Metro Manila pulling out things that by the time I'm already setting them up for a shoot, I barely have the energy for it. And as I have observed my work, this had a great effect on the photos. Right now, she takes charge of pulling-out and I'm focused more in styling (now, thats my job description). I have said before that I fell in love with the job, now I can say, "I love my job!"
photo by Ocs Alvarez shot at Porto Gualberto
tulip chair from pablo
I can't really complain about my work. There is nothing to complain about the job.
Yet we do have priorities. Some call it moving on, some call it greener pastures. I honestly don't have those. It's more of choosing one over the other. In both pastures, not much grows. It's not between the devil and the deep blue sea either, let's just say, it's a crossroad- the point where three highways meet.
I just hope the field between the highways is not that vast because I do intend to cross from time to time.
apparently my last photo as a member of the staff since our
supposed staff shoot was cancelled
photo by Ocs Alvarez
supposed staff shoot was cancelled
photo by Ocs Alvarez
shot at Varsity Hills
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Manila SHAME
The first time I went to Manila FAME was about five years ago. A friend of mine who was an exporter invited me to view the trade show. It was one of the most breathtaking experiences I had. The year after that, I got to design one of the booths. It was located somewhere in the middle of the World Trade Center under banners with "Hall of Fame" silk screened on it.
It was when I told myself that someday, I'm going to have a booth here.
The displays were the best the Philippines can offer. For a pathological design fan, it was better than prozac. Breathtaking.
Years passed by, the best the Philippines can offer never got to change. Woven abaca, resin and more resin, Capiz shells dyed in many colors, wires and more indigenous materials. The only thing that changed was the attitude of a lot of the exhibitors. They became more abrasive, more snooty and yes, cargante.
One was even quoted, "Sosyal kami eh!" And I thought I will only hear those words said jokingly. It leaves a bad taste in the mouth when said in full conviction. It can actually make one puke.
I had my first hand taste of bad attitude from one of the exhibitors saying that they can only manufacture locally if the minimum order is $5,000. Funny because their product is customized wire letters. If you intend to order from them with that minimum, how about Anna Karenina? I bet it will not even reach $5,000.00. The most hilarious part is when you look at their card, their shack is located at Aurora Blvd. And I got to check, it's a hole in a wall talyer which poses as a world class manufacturer.
When I was asked by a friend how was the CITEM show--
"the products are frustrating and the exhibitors-- disgusting!"
Well, some were nice... too bad.
p.s.
And yeah, no desires of participating here in the future. I'm sure there will be other venues...
It was when I told myself that someday, I'm going to have a booth here.
The displays were the best the Philippines can offer. For a pathological design fan, it was better than prozac. Breathtaking.
Years passed by, the best the Philippines can offer never got to change. Woven abaca, resin and more resin, Capiz shells dyed in many colors, wires and more indigenous materials. The only thing that changed was the attitude of a lot of the exhibitors. They became more abrasive, more snooty and yes, cargante.
One was even quoted, "Sosyal kami eh!" And I thought I will only hear those words said jokingly. It leaves a bad taste in the mouth when said in full conviction. It can actually make one puke.
I had my first hand taste of bad attitude from one of the exhibitors saying that they can only manufacture locally if the minimum order is $5,000. Funny because their product is customized wire letters. If you intend to order from them with that minimum, how about Anna Karenina? I bet it will not even reach $5,000.00. The most hilarious part is when you look at their card, their shack is located at Aurora Blvd. And I got to check, it's a hole in a wall talyer which poses as a world class manufacturer.
When I was asked by a friend how was the CITEM show--
"the products are frustrating and the exhibitors-- disgusting!"
Well, some were nice... too bad.
p.s.
And yeah, no desires of participating here in the future. I'm sure there will be other venues...
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
designer angst #4
I submitted this to my ed some months ago and I think she forgot about it. I guess, I just have to post it here...
the cost of interior design
Way back in the early eighties, the word Interior Design sounded Yiddish. The practice itself is ridiculous considering that all of you are taught to do crafts and home decorating at home and in practical arts class. I can still remember how my grandmother decorated their house whenever there is a family reunion and maintained it the whole year for the reason that she can not live in an ugly cluttered house. She made her rugs, sewn her curtains and beddings, and woven solihiya on her ambassador chair. To her, it is part of life. To a lot of them in the province, including my mom, it is homemaking.
It, being basic in family life particularly with women has waned in the recent years. Homemaking developed an area of practice that is more specific, more learned and more technical called Interior Design. For others, it is a more specialized area of Architecture until it became an independent field of its own kayaking between interior architecture and home decorating.
Everybody dreams of a beautiful home. A lot would try to do it on their own, taking to heart how their Lolas would do it during the age of propriety. Some would hire a designer to do it for them. Yet some just sat down and remain dreamy believing that it is one of life’s luxuries.
What was basic before can not be a luxury in life.
It is just a pity because a lot of us think it is. Having a beautiful home is like having a beautiful dress during Sundays. And no fashion editor in any magazine will tell you that dressing well means having a lot of money to buy nice clothes. In the same way, having a beautiful home does not come with a high tag price. It doesn’t follow. What is important is your personality to be expressed in a place where you will be spending most of your life in.
Ironically, since the practice became a profession and what was homemaking before became an industry, much was developed in it as a trade and less was contributed as a craft. The rules of marketing and commercialism were injected into it that its main purpose- to provide a beautiful home, was almost forgotten. Now, we have stores and industry movers whose prime motivation is to espouse the idea that having a handsome living room is exclusive to those who can afford to buy their products. And yes, successfully manipulating the market to engender the idea that what they sell are the standards for beauty. Nothing is wrong with basic marketing strategy, that is until, a lot of those who can’t afford these “packaged beauty” actually ends up subscribing to the idea.
Interior Design as a practice and as any product comes with a price. Just like your Sunday dress, it might be more expensive than the ones you wear everyday. But unlike that dress, this designed space can envelope you seven days of the week. It is still an option if you want it expensive or not. And just like your Sunday dress, it is your option whether to pay a premium for a name or not. In any case, isn’t it always better to look for quality instead of confining yourself only to the label? Does questions like, “is your sofa base plywood or spring? Are your dining chairs in perfect proportion and ergonomics? Is the paint of your console not chipping out?” become more important.
Quality does not always mean higher price. Quality means good design and craftsmanship put to heart. It does not alienate people regardless of their status in society. It does not seek exclusivity. When Charles Eames designed the Molded Fiberglass Chair in 1949, it was with a consciousness that the design can be mass-produced and therefore be for everybody. Our airports can attest to that. When Verner Panton designed the monoblock, he may not realize that the technology behind it gave birth to the cheapest furniture genre to date but sure that design was marketed indiscriminately. These are two fathers of design whose main purpose was to give back to society, without regard to social standing, whatever talent was given to them. Not surprisingly, their names are still alive after their death. Ironically, their chairs cost much these days, It has developed a new title- collector’s items. Understandably enough, such designs became icons of furniture pieces now.
What is disturbing are the pieces now sold which serves as proof of it becoming a classic is still debatable. Yet sold at a higher cost for the reason of maintaining a certain market and desires to remain in that closed circle. It is excusable if the production cost of these pieces is exorbitant. Though one would ask, why make such pieces if you need a lot of money just producing it? Some will find it ridiculous. Others will call it passion. Still, others will just blindly buy. And yes, there will still those who will dream of owning one but can’t afford it. This very attitude keeps those who promote this kind of marketing alive. Worse, even if what they sell or claim to be standards of a handsome living room do not at all posses the quality they promise.
Interior design as an art and as a science however young, has gone a long way in our society, It has also become a business, a laissez faire and quite sadly, a status symbol. Since the profession became available for everybody, there are those who maintained a few too be their own exclusive consumption. And since a lot of them are movers in the industry, they made it the standard and the point of reference for beauty. It is this very Louise XVI French Empire against the Beidermier of the poor attitude that sums them up. No wonder why that same King Louise became the last of France.
We forget the fact that a beautiful home starts where it ends- the home. Our mothers taught us what is good and what is bad, what is proper and what is not, what is beautiful and what is ugly. I grew up in the province, I remember my Lola teaching me how to weave solihiya. We practiced in nylon and when we get to do it right, she will give us uway to do the seat of the chair. I remember my mom doing embroidery work on our pillow cases and bed covers. It is through these things we get to practice our eye to distinguish what suits us and what can’t. It is basic. It is priceless.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Of birthdays, corridors and trojan horses
I turned thirty-two last Saturday. My parents arrived that day. Shortcut to having paella at Mario's and after bringing them home, I decided to go out to Malate after midnight. Went home at about six in the morning of Sunday.
Sunday was a working day for me. Tried to finish my Tuesday presentation to a client but ended up at about five in the morning of Monday. It was Sunday when my dad got admitted to St. Luke's for his kidney treatment and and another biopsy for Monday. The week before that, they found a lump on his liver through his CT scan. The liver specialist suggested a biopsy to be sure of her diagnosis.
I woke up nine in the morning of Monday. Thirty minutes later, I got a text message from my sister that the results of his biopsy is out.
"I got the results frm lab- bad- his cancer marker's sky high and pa has hep b"
Trying to collect my senses, I called my sister and asked her how bad it is and all she told me was to go to St. Luke's that very moment. I called my ed that I can't go to the event we are scheduled to go that morning. A hour later, I was in St. Luke's.
My sister and my bother-in-law were outside the room trying to discuss what was going on. The only thing I can remember was our father has about forty percent of living another year. By that time, I am still trying to grasp the entire situation. I got inside the room and my mom was trying so hard to compose herself yet obviously teary eyed. My dad was asleep. I went out of the room, the two are still there. It was that time when my sister told me that there is nothing that we can do. My father has cancer.
It was that very moment, everything that my sister was saying peirced through me and I just found myself sobbing along the corridors of the surgical section of the hospital. No amount of medical advancements can cure my dad. His doctor suggested that we rather leave the cancer untouched to at least give him a quality life... or whatever that is left of it. I got to understand fully the meaning of Noli Me Tangere. To complicate things, he has hepatitis B. I was trying to argue that our dad looked perfectly alright so how can he be that ill? My sister just said that he has a trojan horse inside him waiting for that perfect opportunity.
It was that time when I was about to do an auto shutdown when my mom came out of the room. She did not say a word but just embraced me as I brokedown in tears. It was the time when the world stopped-- at least to our family.
We all know that one way or another, we are bound to die. Yet it makes a whole lot of difference when death is being served in front of you and you are only given this much time to eat it. It was that same night when my sister decided to tell my dad the real score about his illness. My dad just smiled and accepted it as it is then called his closest relatives to have themselves checked. It was the longest night of my life.
The following morning, I woke up finding my parents talking. Then my dad dropped the bomb at me, "If I die next year, are you going to stay with your mom?" He said.
Before I get to answer it, my mom said that I shouldn't. She said I have a life here and staying with her will be unfair for me. She then said, I can always fly to Antique once a month. My dad just smiled at me short of saying that I should take care of my mom.
I went to my shoot that day. Dazed and tired, I finished the home shoot in two hours and a half. Went to the office after that then finished all requirements for two articles. Went home at about five in the afternoon then met with a cliet at about seven. By nine, I was back in the hospital. I found my father rather cranky with sprouts of laughter. His cousin visited him bringing a cancer patient who was diagnosed to have a year left to live some five years ago.
Somehow, hope springs eternal.
They went out of the hospital today. They are supposed to by flying home tomorrow but decided to postpone it till Saturday because of the typhoon.
I turned thirty two last Saturday. It feels like ten years ago.
Sunday was a working day for me. Tried to finish my Tuesday presentation to a client but ended up at about five in the morning of Monday. It was Sunday when my dad got admitted to St. Luke's for his kidney treatment and and another biopsy for Monday. The week before that, they found a lump on his liver through his CT scan. The liver specialist suggested a biopsy to be sure of her diagnosis.
I woke up nine in the morning of Monday. Thirty minutes later, I got a text message from my sister that the results of his biopsy is out.
"I got the results frm lab- bad- his cancer marker's sky high and pa has hep b"
Trying to collect my senses, I called my sister and asked her how bad it is and all she told me was to go to St. Luke's that very moment. I called my ed that I can't go to the event we are scheduled to go that morning. A hour later, I was in St. Luke's.
My sister and my bother-in-law were outside the room trying to discuss what was going on. The only thing I can remember was our father has about forty percent of living another year. By that time, I am still trying to grasp the entire situation. I got inside the room and my mom was trying so hard to compose herself yet obviously teary eyed. My dad was asleep. I went out of the room, the two are still there. It was that time when my sister told me that there is nothing that we can do. My father has cancer.
It was that very moment, everything that my sister was saying peirced through me and I just found myself sobbing along the corridors of the surgical section of the hospital. No amount of medical advancements can cure my dad. His doctor suggested that we rather leave the cancer untouched to at least give him a quality life... or whatever that is left of it. I got to understand fully the meaning of Noli Me Tangere. To complicate things, he has hepatitis B. I was trying to argue that our dad looked perfectly alright so how can he be that ill? My sister just said that he has a trojan horse inside him waiting for that perfect opportunity.
It was that time when I was about to do an auto shutdown when my mom came out of the room. She did not say a word but just embraced me as I brokedown in tears. It was the time when the world stopped-- at least to our family.
We all know that one way or another, we are bound to die. Yet it makes a whole lot of difference when death is being served in front of you and you are only given this much time to eat it. It was that same night when my sister decided to tell my dad the real score about his illness. My dad just smiled and accepted it as it is then called his closest relatives to have themselves checked. It was the longest night of my life.
The following morning, I woke up finding my parents talking. Then my dad dropped the bomb at me, "If I die next year, are you going to stay with your mom?" He said.
Before I get to answer it, my mom said that I shouldn't. She said I have a life here and staying with her will be unfair for me. She then said, I can always fly to Antique once a month. My dad just smiled at me short of saying that I should take care of my mom.
I went to my shoot that day. Dazed and tired, I finished the home shoot in two hours and a half. Went to the office after that then finished all requirements for two articles. Went home at about five in the afternoon then met with a cliet at about seven. By nine, I was back in the hospital. I found my father rather cranky with sprouts of laughter. His cousin visited him bringing a cancer patient who was diagnosed to have a year left to live some five years ago.
Somehow, hope springs eternal.
They went out of the hospital today. They are supposed to by flying home tomorrow but decided to postpone it till Saturday because of the typhoon.
I turned thirty two last Saturday. It feels like ten years ago.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
designer angst #1 re-post
I wanted to write #4 but I guess this one is still apt to what I feel now...
I have been wanting to write this for the magazine but I can't find a section where it can fit.
Since I started working here three years ago, the question whether the interior design industry can be brought to the masses a viable cause or not remains a question. One of the reasons why I stayed in this magazine until now is primarily because of this. Real Living started with the cover line-- Live Well, Spend Smart. If we dissect that line, it does not automatically mean - have a beautiful house, yet limiting your budget to 1,500 pesos for a sofa. Spending smart can still mean buying a tulip chair knowing for a fact that it has a resale value, for 23,000 pesos. Yet, at first glance, 'Live Well, Spend Smart' can actually mean having a beautiful home on a shoestring budget. It is with this first-impression-on-the-cover-line that has been my guide in composing a lot of my visuals for Real Living.
After three years, somehow, we got the message across, especially to a lot furniture makers and exporters. We are not a high-end magazine. Yet we make beautiful homes. It is with this sincerity that we became number one in our genre. Screw modesty.
Yet every time this is being brought up, I can't help but wish sometimes that "sana, high-end kami, mas mabilis sana ang mga pull-outs at x-deals." Before I got here, I was working as interior designer of one of the highest paid pedigreed designers in the country. An average budget for a three-bedroom condominium unit can go up to eight million excluding my boss' fees. I was doing visual merchandising for their store, which actually serves coffee or tea to its clients while checking the furniture pieces on display. A single vase is equivalent to the cup of coffee, plus the cup and saucer, plus the beans, plus espresso maker. Some have even prices that can include the entire modular kitchen where your espresso maker can be found. In other words, what is sold there, what is discussed, I will never get to afford. And so is my kind-- the working class.
Where I'm coming from, this notion is true to a lot of people. Interior design is one industry for the rich. Does it follow that a beautiful home is exclusive to the rich too? Of course we say that it doesn’t follow. Because you can actually do it yourself. You don’t have to hire a designer. That is why the magazine is there. That is why there are magazines. Now, of course this doesn't apply to the first question. Maybe a bit, but not quite.
Yet working in the magazines surely made the dilemma more apparent. Especially when you see products that are well crafted with perfect proportion priced exorbitantly. Much worse, you meet the maker of these products (furniture, for example) short of telling you in your face that you can not feature them because it does not fit your market range or simply because they don't manufacture for the local market-- spell third world. It gets more frustrating because here you are, getting invited to these shows, seeing these pieces yet your lenses are clipped but instead you get to settle to what is available in their laminate form proudly Xiamen made in the malls.
If not laminates, we have Malaysian rubber wood, or maybe some wood, which used to be crates now converted to a dinner table. Sofas made of ply boards that can last only for three years. While the products that we consider quality, proudly Philippine made are not available in the Philippines. If it is, they are too expensive. I'd settle for the latter, at least it is sold here. If you dig deeper, these products don't really cost much export wise (they have to still compete with China after all) but when sold here, their prices are doubled. This is one thing I cannot understand. It is a conscious effort to alienate your products to a vast majority of your people. It is with this attitude that makes interior design an industry only for the rich. Quality interior design.
I attended a symposium months ago and a demi-god of a designer was invited to speak. He was wearing this pink suit saying that design is for everybody yet you can not approach him easily because you have to pass thru a battalion of local designers who are harbingers of the exact opposite idea he espouses.
Interior design is indeed for everybody. It only becomes elitist when mixed with the word industry. It is not for free either, as everything else, it comes with a price. It only becomes elitist because of the conscious effort done by a lot of members in its core for it to be such.
While the worldwide trend is moving towards tapping the greater market (which is the middle class), we are living in feudal times here in this country. Where the monarchs are trying so hard to keep their fancies exclusively theirs not knowing the peasants outside already crossed the moat. The greater question here, do the peasants outside care? Do they really want to enter? It is also with this question that I am still with the magazine. Indeed, there is a growing number of people who are more conscious in making their homes more beautiful now. But is the number sufficient to at least fuel the materials and means of opening the market?
I’m still with the magazine. And I still stand for the cause.
I have been wanting to write this for the magazine but I can't find a section where it can fit. As I said before, I am not writer, but sure there are other ways of airing this one. Photos perhaps?
I have been wanting to write this for the magazine but I can't find a section where it can fit.
Since I started working here three years ago, the question whether the interior design industry can be brought to the masses a viable cause or not remains a question. One of the reasons why I stayed in this magazine until now is primarily because of this. Real Living started with the cover line-- Live Well, Spend Smart. If we dissect that line, it does not automatically mean - have a beautiful house, yet limiting your budget to 1,500 pesos for a sofa. Spending smart can still mean buying a tulip chair knowing for a fact that it has a resale value, for 23,000 pesos. Yet, at first glance, 'Live Well, Spend Smart' can actually mean having a beautiful home on a shoestring budget. It is with this first-impression-on-the-cover-line that has been my guide in composing a lot of my visuals for Real Living.
After three years, somehow, we got the message across, especially to a lot furniture makers and exporters. We are not a high-end magazine. Yet we make beautiful homes. It is with this sincerity that we became number one in our genre. Screw modesty.
Yet every time this is being brought up, I can't help but wish sometimes that "sana, high-end kami, mas mabilis sana ang mga pull-outs at x-deals." Before I got here, I was working as interior designer of one of the highest paid pedigreed designers in the country. An average budget for a three-bedroom condominium unit can go up to eight million excluding my boss' fees. I was doing visual merchandising for their store, which actually serves coffee or tea to its clients while checking the furniture pieces on display. A single vase is equivalent to the cup of coffee, plus the cup and saucer, plus the beans, plus espresso maker. Some have even prices that can include the entire modular kitchen where your espresso maker can be found. In other words, what is sold there, what is discussed, I will never get to afford. And so is my kind-- the working class.
Where I'm coming from, this notion is true to a lot of people. Interior design is one industry for the rich. Does it follow that a beautiful home is exclusive to the rich too? Of course we say that it doesn’t follow. Because you can actually do it yourself. You don’t have to hire a designer. That is why the magazine is there. That is why there are magazines. Now, of course this doesn't apply to the first question. Maybe a bit, but not quite.
Yet working in the magazines surely made the dilemma more apparent. Especially when you see products that are well crafted with perfect proportion priced exorbitantly. Much worse, you meet the maker of these products (furniture, for example) short of telling you in your face that you can not feature them because it does not fit your market range or simply because they don't manufacture for the local market-- spell third world. It gets more frustrating because here you are, getting invited to these shows, seeing these pieces yet your lenses are clipped but instead you get to settle to what is available in their laminate form proudly Xiamen made in the malls.
If not laminates, we have Malaysian rubber wood, or maybe some wood, which used to be crates now converted to a dinner table. Sofas made of ply boards that can last only for three years. While the products that we consider quality, proudly Philippine made are not available in the Philippines. If it is, they are too expensive. I'd settle for the latter, at least it is sold here. If you dig deeper, these products don't really cost much export wise (they have to still compete with China after all) but when sold here, their prices are doubled. This is one thing I cannot understand. It is a conscious effort to alienate your products to a vast majority of your people. It is with this attitude that makes interior design an industry only for the rich. Quality interior design.
I attended a symposium months ago and a demi-god of a designer was invited to speak. He was wearing this pink suit saying that design is for everybody yet you can not approach him easily because you have to pass thru a battalion of local designers who are harbingers of the exact opposite idea he espouses.
Interior design is indeed for everybody. It only becomes elitist when mixed with the word industry. It is not for free either, as everything else, it comes with a price. It only becomes elitist because of the conscious effort done by a lot of members in its core for it to be such.
While the worldwide trend is moving towards tapping the greater market (which is the middle class), we are living in feudal times here in this country. Where the monarchs are trying so hard to keep their fancies exclusively theirs not knowing the peasants outside already crossed the moat. The greater question here, do the peasants outside care? Do they really want to enter? It is also with this question that I am still with the magazine. Indeed, there is a growing number of people who are more conscious in making their homes more beautiful now. But is the number sufficient to at least fuel the materials and means of opening the market?
I’m still with the magazine. And I still stand for the cause.
I have been wanting to write this for the magazine but I can't find a section where it can fit. As I said before, I am not writer, but sure there are other ways of airing this one. Photos perhaps?
Monday, August 21, 2006
designer angst #3
It was not so long ago when I told myself that I will not accept projects for less than a million. Now, I am starting to do one that I quoted for 500,000 and the owner told me that she can only afford three hundred.
The number one reason why I said that, was primarily because of the work load. Apparently, homes of a lesser budget means more work. Meaning, sourcing like you're looking for a needle on a shag rug. Usually, low-end suppliers will not give designers swatches and samples. In order for a cheap tile to be approved by the client, it's either bringing the client to the store or buying a piece for approval. Fabric can only come from elpo in divisoria and lights and faucets, from binondo. You don't leisurely visit these places on a regular day. It's an event going to Ylaya and Ongpin.
Secondly, the lesser the budget, the smaller my fee since it usually is percentage of the budget. I do need the money. Apparently, a lot of people still don't understand the whole idea that it is actually a job. A design proposal does not at all mean just a couple of drawings, a swatchboard and a discussion over a cup of coffee for three hours. Designers would actually spend sleepless nights trying to form a concept for the given space. Together with the laying out of the plan, is solving each problem the floor, the ceiling, the walls and every single detail the interiors give. In each proposal, much work is done. And when the drawings are done already, half of the work of the designer is finished. Apparently, less than half of the fee is being paid at this time.
Together with laying out the floor plan, is a lingering reminder that the budget is is only up to this. It is very frustrating to design when you know for a fact that the space has the potential to be really beautiful and each space can be of function when you are restricted by the budget-- or the lack of it.
I have been very honest to my clients for the past years. I would tell them initially how much they need to finish the house and most of the time they say that they can only afford sixty percent of the estimate. It has been very hard trying to keep everything not to go over that given sixty percent. Maybe next time, I'll jack up the price to double. Sixty percent of that will not be that bad as a working budget. Then again, what does it say about me?
So far, I rarely take photos of the finished product (as defined by the client) primarily because for me it is not yet done. Yet their pocket says it is. Though I doubt it very much myself if indeed it is their pocket (sounds pretty much like f#*k-it) thats speaking. It was not their main priority. Then, I would feel depressed because it is to me.
Yet I am doing another one with exact same story. My fee is secondary to the whole thing. I want my client to have a beautiful home. I just hope she will understand my predicament. Maybe I should tell her my story.
The number one reason why I said that, was primarily because of the work load. Apparently, homes of a lesser budget means more work. Meaning, sourcing like you're looking for a needle on a shag rug. Usually, low-end suppliers will not give designers swatches and samples. In order for a cheap tile to be approved by the client, it's either bringing the client to the store or buying a piece for approval. Fabric can only come from elpo in divisoria and lights and faucets, from binondo. You don't leisurely visit these places on a regular day. It's an event going to Ylaya and Ongpin.
Secondly, the lesser the budget, the smaller my fee since it usually is percentage of the budget. I do need the money. Apparently, a lot of people still don't understand the whole idea that it is actually a job. A design proposal does not at all mean just a couple of drawings, a swatchboard and a discussion over a cup of coffee for three hours. Designers would actually spend sleepless nights trying to form a concept for the given space. Together with the laying out of the plan, is solving each problem the floor, the ceiling, the walls and every single detail the interiors give. In each proposal, much work is done. And when the drawings are done already, half of the work of the designer is finished. Apparently, less than half of the fee is being paid at this time.
Together with laying out the floor plan, is a lingering reminder that the budget is is only up to this. It is very frustrating to design when you know for a fact that the space has the potential to be really beautiful and each space can be of function when you are restricted by the budget-- or the lack of it.
I have been very honest to my clients for the past years. I would tell them initially how much they need to finish the house and most of the time they say that they can only afford sixty percent of the estimate. It has been very hard trying to keep everything not to go over that given sixty percent. Maybe next time, I'll jack up the price to double. Sixty percent of that will not be that bad as a working budget. Then again, what does it say about me?
So far, I rarely take photos of the finished product (as defined by the client) primarily because for me it is not yet done. Yet their pocket says it is. Though I doubt it very much myself if indeed it is their pocket (sounds pretty much like f#*k-it) thats speaking. It was not their main priority. Then, I would feel depressed because it is to me.
Yet I am doing another one with exact same story. My fee is secondary to the whole thing. I want my client to have a beautiful home. I just hope she will understand my predicament. Maybe I should tell her my story.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
hating byes...
Growing up in the province has its advantages and well, yeah... disadvantages. Since Antique is a shoreline province, you can actually serve the best the sea can offer. Living as if nobody would actually need a refrigerator (only for ice and ice cold coca-cola, I guess), where mineral water is not bottled but overflowing, where carbon monoxide is one compound you can only find in chemistry class and days and nights seem longer than as they are now. Barriotic, provincial and bucolic. The very reasons why it is called bakasyunan. I longed for every summer vacation when my cousins from Manila and Iloilo would come and stay there for a couple of days. And each time they leave, I hated every single moment of it.
I grew up having summers where I felt I was always left behind. Growing up in the province taught me to hate hearing the word 'good-bye'.
Taken from 'vaya con Dios' which literally means go with God. That is the best wish you can give for somebody who is leaving-To go with Him. It's funny, it is supposed to be addressed to the one who is leaving, yet it is more painful to hear when youre the one left behind.
When I moved here, I would still hear the word from time to time. Sem-breaks, christmas vacations, summer... The best thing to do all the time is to go home ahead so that you will be the one who is going to say the word and not them to you.
Tuesday of last week, my sister said it to me. She left for the US to study her masters. Trying to pull myself together, I went back to the car quite intact with no liquid part of me dripping. While inside the car, my other sister blurted, "Three months from now, you're gonna be back here for us."
That's when I cried foul. I will be ill well-wishing them goodbye by November. I saw flashes of my chilhood pictures as we pass by EDSA. I saw myself dreading the fact of being left. It was a long sigh when I came to my senses that it is the inevitable. My sister and her family will be gone for good before the year ends. The other one went ahead a few minutes ago...
Growing up in the tropical third world has its advantages and well, yeah... disadvantages.
I grew up having summers where I felt I was always left behind. Growing up in the province taught me to hate hearing the word 'good-bye'.
Taken from 'vaya con Dios' which literally means go with God. That is the best wish you can give for somebody who is leaving-To go with Him. It's funny, it is supposed to be addressed to the one who is leaving, yet it is more painful to hear when youre the one left behind.
When I moved here, I would still hear the word from time to time. Sem-breaks, christmas vacations, summer... The best thing to do all the time is to go home ahead so that you will be the one who is going to say the word and not them to you.
Tuesday of last week, my sister said it to me. She left for the US to study her masters. Trying to pull myself together, I went back to the car quite intact with no liquid part of me dripping. While inside the car, my other sister blurted, "Three months from now, you're gonna be back here for us."
That's when I cried foul. I will be ill well-wishing them goodbye by November. I saw flashes of my chilhood pictures as we pass by EDSA. I saw myself dreading the fact of being left. It was a long sigh when I came to my senses that it is the inevitable. My sister and her family will be gone for good before the year ends. The other one went ahead a few minutes ago...
Growing up in the tropical third world has its advantages and well, yeah... disadvantages.
Monday, August 07, 2006
uno, dos, tres (nagoyo ni carlo)
Uno, Dos, Tres
(from Carlo)
3 People Who Make Me Laugh:
Uno: college friend ricci chan
Dos: college friend lloyd
Tres: theatre friend gilleth
3 Things I Love:
Uno: designing
Dos: commenting
Tres: sleeping
3 Things I Hate:
Uno: ill manners
Dos: euphemisms
Tres: hypocrisy
3 Things On My Desk (at home):
Uno: my i-book
Dos: cigarette, ashtray and lighter
Tres: ostrich feathers i plucked from one in pampanga
3 Things I Am Doing Right Now:
Uno: encoding
Dos: crying
Tres: smoking
3 Things I Want To Do Before I Die:
Uno: become extremely wealthy (yung nakakapandiring yaman!)
Dos: fly a plane
Tres: tour the world
3 Things I Can Do:
Uno: eat anything (as long as i have my virlix)
Dos: move my ear without using my hand
Tres: sit by the beach all day
3 Ways to Describe My Personality:
Uno: crazy
Dos: funny
Tres: intimidating (i refuse to believe this until now!)
3 Things People Might Not Know About Me:
Uno: my first dream is to fly a plane
Dos: i love playing chess
Tres: im a son of a preacher
3 Things I Think You Should Listen To:
Uno: your mom
Dos: your instincts
Tres: bette middler!
3 Things I Don't Think You Should Listen To Ever:
Uno: a preacher claiming that they are the only one true church
Dos: your alarm clock
Tres: korina sanches
3 of My Absolute Favorite Foods:
Uno: the late holland sausage fried rice
Dos: my father's ginataang tambo (bamboo shoots with prawns/crabs in coco milk)
Tres: batchoy and puto
3 Things I'd Like to Learn:
Uno: fly a plane
Dos: how to make a walk thru design presentations
Tres: capoeira
3 Beverages I Drink Regularly:
Uno: coffee
Dos: coffee
Tres: coffee
3 Shows I Watched When I Was A Child:
Uno: man from atlantis
Dos: looney tunes
Tres: wonder woman
3 People I Tag to Do This Crap
sige na nga, lahat!
(from Carlo)
3 People Who Make Me Laugh:
Uno: college friend ricci chan
Dos: college friend lloyd
Tres: theatre friend gilleth
3 Things I Love:
Uno: designing
Dos: commenting
Tres: sleeping
3 Things I Hate:
Uno: ill manners
Dos: euphemisms
Tres: hypocrisy
3 Things On My Desk (at home):
Uno: my i-book
Dos: cigarette, ashtray and lighter
Tres: ostrich feathers i plucked from one in pampanga
3 Things I Am Doing Right Now:
Uno: encoding
Dos: crying
Tres: smoking
3 Things I Want To Do Before I Die:
Uno: become extremely wealthy (yung nakakapandiring yaman!)
Dos: fly a plane
Tres: tour the world
3 Things I Can Do:
Uno: eat anything (as long as i have my virlix)
Dos: move my ear without using my hand
Tres: sit by the beach all day
3 Ways to Describe My Personality:
Uno: crazy
Dos: funny
Tres: intimidating (i refuse to believe this until now!)
3 Things People Might Not Know About Me:
Uno: my first dream is to fly a plane
Dos: i love playing chess
Tres: im a son of a preacher
3 Things I Think You Should Listen To:
Uno: your mom
Dos: your instincts
Tres: bette middler!
3 Things I Don't Think You Should Listen To Ever:
Uno: a preacher claiming that they are the only one true church
Dos: your alarm clock
Tres: korina sanches
3 of My Absolute Favorite Foods:
Uno: the late holland sausage fried rice
Dos: my father's ginataang tambo (bamboo shoots with prawns/crabs in coco milk)
Tres: batchoy and puto
3 Things I'd Like to Learn:
Uno: fly a plane
Dos: how to make a walk thru design presentations
Tres: capoeira
3 Beverages I Drink Regularly:
Uno: coffee
Dos: coffee
Tres: coffee
3 Shows I Watched When I Was A Child:
Uno: man from atlantis
Dos: looney tunes
Tres: wonder woman
3 People I Tag to Do This Crap
sige na nga, lahat!
Sunday, August 06, 2006
prologue to soaps
I came from a very huge family in Antique. I remember my mother trying to make our family tree from the Abiera-Salazar side and it never looked like a tree when it was laid out. It was a fifteen-page family forest. And that was just half of my mother's family starting from my great great grandfather.
My closest friends would know our story. For lack of topic, I would start the litany of my mother's family's stories and we will end up until the wee hours of the morning. Theirs can give Isabel Allende a run for her money.
Our nuclear family is becoming interesting everyday as well. My parents as the quiet couple, make it Lucita Soriano and Chinggoy Alonzo living in a bario and my two sisters as the struggling to succeed Sharon Cuneta and Maricel Soriano. My baby brother as the young Mulach. With my father's siblings as Bella Floreses, Odette Khans and Max Alvarados (mind you, they are twice the size of both girls individually). And as days go by, the soap gets more complicated and at times hilarious and absurd. Each charcter has their own stories continually playing. A lot of times, way tangent to the main plot yet goes back to it sooner or later which is still-- the family.
A lot of us are living in soap operas and a lot of times, ours is more exciting than what we see on TV. Then we find ourselves in situations and crises and coping with those does not necessarily require musical scoring (just like Lamangan's masterpieces) yet as we do hear the music in our minds. The drama behind each scene is something that we either want to avoid or milk. I really don't know if I do want to milk mine now. But sure I hear the music.
Lani singing I'm Losing You from Baz Lhurmann's Something for Everybody.
My closest friends would know our story. For lack of topic, I would start the litany of my mother's family's stories and we will end up until the wee hours of the morning. Theirs can give Isabel Allende a run for her money.
Our nuclear family is becoming interesting everyday as well. My parents as the quiet couple, make it Lucita Soriano and Chinggoy Alonzo living in a bario and my two sisters as the struggling to succeed Sharon Cuneta and Maricel Soriano. My baby brother as the young Mulach. With my father's siblings as Bella Floreses, Odette Khans and Max Alvarados (mind you, they are twice the size of both girls individually). And as days go by, the soap gets more complicated and at times hilarious and absurd. Each charcter has their own stories continually playing. A lot of times, way tangent to the main plot yet goes back to it sooner or later which is still-- the family.
A lot of us are living in soap operas and a lot of times, ours is more exciting than what we see on TV. Then we find ourselves in situations and crises and coping with those does not necessarily require musical scoring (just like Lamangan's masterpieces) yet as we do hear the music in our minds. The drama behind each scene is something that we either want to avoid or milk. I really don't know if I do want to milk mine now. But sure I hear the music.
Lani singing I'm Losing You from Baz Lhurmann's Something for Everybody.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Real Living August
trabaho muna...
thanks carlo for the photo
As they say in the ad-- JUST DO IT!!!
Do-It-Yourself tips... stylish homes... shopping without waiting for the cab... make-overs and more!
Coming from the bestselling decor magazine in the country!
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thanks carlo for the photoAs they say in the ad-- JUST DO IT!!!
Do-It-Yourself tips... stylish homes... shopping without waiting for the cab... make-overs and more!
Coming from the bestselling decor magazine in the country!
Grab your copies now!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
tara na... palabas ng bansa
When I was in my younger years in Baybay Elementary School in San Jose de Buenavista, Antique, our kasaysayan teacher would always say that our country is rich in so many ways- natural resources, skilled manpower and so on. Saying it as if all of us can actually understand what she meant. None of us did. Instead, it gave us such illusion that we are afterall a great nation.
A few years later in the mid-eighties when I get to somehow picture the state of the nation when I get to see my father cursing the television set everytime Marcos would appear. I actually thought at one point that he will throw his coffee mug at our Radiowealth black and white TV. We are a mess as a country. After eighty six, everytime there is an election, it's a fiesta of new hope. Promises are laid and a new beginning is near. A few months after the election, the fiesta continues to the streets, clamoring for change wanting yet another beginning.
My father has always been a patriot. I grew up hearing him say that I should love this country because this is the only one I can actually claim to be mine. That I should never settle being a third class citizen anywhere else. It was last year when he asked me if I want to work and stay abroad, some asian country perhaps. My other sister is leaving the country two weeks from now. She says she going to study there for two years and if she can find a job after, probably will stay there for good. And the other one, this November, together with her family. They are going to the US as migrants.
It is indeed an illusion what my grade three teacher discussed. Though there is a part of me that still believe that it is not so. As my father resigns to the whole situation, I begin to ask myself what really is in store for all of us if indeed we stay? As a lot of our peers left already, will we be lagged behind?
Before I got to answer my question, I chanced upon this video---
Sunday, July 23, 2006
that sweet thing...
My sister and her family lives in this two-bedroom apartment somewhere in the better side of Quezon City. I used to live there, until my sister got engaged and I felt the strong need (for myself and not for anybody else) to live on my own so I moved out. My sister noticed that I was already out of the house months later I found a place of my own. Anyway, the master bedroom is what they occupy and the other bedroom has always been left vacant for visitors (e.g. family members meaning us). Both bedrooms are on the upper floor, typical of two bedroom apartments.
My father occupied the other bedroom when he arrived here two weeks ago. Until he went under the knife and eventually stayed in the hospital for about a week. A day before he got out of the hospital, my mom arrived. As they both can not bear not seeing each other for quite a long time, she decided to come here last Thursday. From the airport, she went directly to my father's room and a few hours later, my dad decided to actually stand and help himself in the toilet. It was amazing. Too amazing that his doctor agreed that he can actually go home the following day.
Since the two bedrooms are on the second floor, we decided to transfer the single bed in the living room for my dad so he won't be bothered of going up and down the stairs. My mom decided to sleep on the couch. Still not feeling too near to my father, she asked for a futton so she can sleep on the floor just beside the bed.
It was her last night here last night. She flew back to Iloilo this morning. my dad would have wanted to fly with her if only his doctors allowed him to. We all decided to cramp ourselves in the living room with my other sister on the couch and me on the sleeping bag beside my mom. Nobody wanted to sleep at the other room uptairs. As it was almost midnight, my dad started to doze off, my mom still half awake, tried to listen to our talk until she eventually fell asleep. The whole time, holding my father's hand.
It was the sweetest thing I ever saw in ages.
My father occupied the other bedroom when he arrived here two weeks ago. Until he went under the knife and eventually stayed in the hospital for about a week. A day before he got out of the hospital, my mom arrived. As they both can not bear not seeing each other for quite a long time, she decided to come here last Thursday. From the airport, she went directly to my father's room and a few hours later, my dad decided to actually stand and help himself in the toilet. It was amazing. Too amazing that his doctor agreed that he can actually go home the following day.
Since the two bedrooms are on the second floor, we decided to transfer the single bed in the living room for my dad so he won't be bothered of going up and down the stairs. My mom decided to sleep on the couch. Still not feeling too near to my father, she asked for a futton so she can sleep on the floor just beside the bed.
It was her last night here last night. She flew back to Iloilo this morning. my dad would have wanted to fly with her if only his doctors allowed him to. We all decided to cramp ourselves in the living room with my other sister on the couch and me on the sleeping bag beside my mom. Nobody wanted to sleep at the other room uptairs. As it was almost midnight, my dad started to doze off, my mom still half awake, tried to listen to our talk until she eventually fell asleep. The whole time, holding my father's hand.
It was the sweetest thing I ever saw in ages.
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