Disturbing the Universe

Disturbing the Universe v.2.0

2006-10-31T23:15:00.000+08:00

Here it is... my new blog! Please click on the photo above to see it. Hope you'll visit often. Cheers!

Farewell, Dear site, who accompanied me for a year and witnessed my joys and despair and boredom. Close your eyes now—go to sleep. Rest peacefully in Darkness, deep.

The end in the beginning & the beginning in the end (Part 1)

2006-10-31T01:55:00.000+08:00

In many ancient cultures, Samhain (Halloween or All Hollows Eve) marked the last day of the year. They celebrated the last sunset of the summer and welcomed the rise of the first winter moon. It was not only the most opportune time for settling and reckoning, for throwing out old ideas and influences, but it was also the perfect occasion to commemorate the cycle of life and death, the beginning and ending of things.

I celebrated my first year as a blogger on the 19^th of October. I haven’t been a good one lately; 377 days was not nearly enough to train me to write and post everyday. I shall make an effort to improve on my record during my sophomore year.

To celebrate my anniversary and to mark the beginning of another year of being a webnaut (you know, like an astronaut), I have decided to change the look and feel of my blog and migrate it to another site. I am still tweaking parts of it, so you will have to wait till the last sunset and the first moon rise to see it.

I hope you enjoy the eternal turnings of birth and rebirth that today brings. Remember, you can’t have room for anything good and new if you don’t cast out the devils of the old year.

Happy All Hollows Eve!

He's here!

2006-10-29T17:24:00.000+08:00

Nakata
Originally uploaded by Bealtaine.

My uber crush, recently retired Japanese footballer Hidotoshi Nakata, is here in Manila. He arrived late last Friday and went to Payatas Saturday. His visit made it to the front page of the Philippine Daily Inquirer's Sunday edition. Imagine that! :) His trip was organized by the UNDP and the Presidential Commission for the Urban Poor.

Now why did I not hear about this till now?!?!

Early last Saturday he signed some autographs at the Starbucks 6750 (does that mean he's staying at the Shangri-La Makati???) and was whisked off to Pasig City to kick off a series of Football clinics organized by UNDP, Futkal, and Rock Ed Philippines called "Sipa sa Masa." For more info go to this site.

So is he still here? I was not able to go to Germany to see him play... maybe I'll get to meet him here. Yeah right. With my luck, he is probably boarding a plane right this minute to go to another Asia country. Lovely.

I should really pay more attention to these things! :) It's great though that football is being promoted in this country. Hooray! :)

Wake up

2006-10-26T02:05:00.000+08:00

I have something to confess: I've been binging. I feel as if I have been forcibly put on a sensory diet for the past couple of months, so now I am gorging on every photo, website, news, art blog I could get my hands on. Ahhh.... it's so good to be alive again. I credit this sudden awakening to the following events:

1) Milenyo: Much has been said about the storm that ravaged Manila a while back. I was inconvenienced by its passing (no electricity therefore no aircon, no TV, no mobile, etc, etc), but was basically left untouched and undamaged. I survived but… what was I to do with my time? I was weaned from the telly and texting and was able to read, write, sketch, and WORK. We still do not have cable at home, but I don't even miss it. And my mobile phone? I honestly can't be bothered to text unless it's really important. I am not a slave to Globe's UNLIMITXT anymore!

2) My old computer crashing: If my old computer didn't die on me (may it rest in peace), I wouldn't have been forced to buy a new laptop, the one I have been planning for months to get. Since I now have a faster, more efficient machine, I get to work more and I get to do extensive art research online. BTW, I christened my laptop "Brighid." B was named after the Irish Goddess of all sacred fires. She's also a healer and guardian of the Arts. She doesn't get along with my iPod , though. "Cerridwen" (from the Welsh Goddess of inspiration and providence) is a Mac Girl; I'll have to reconfigure her, change her settings to Windows, in order to connect to B. I lose all of my songs if I do that, so I just have to keep the two gals separate. I got Cerridwen ages ago when I still had my Mac "Precioussssss..." Long story.

3) Getting sick: I have been stressing over a major personal project for two weeks and when I finally finished the first part, chronic fatigue set in, my body turned into a sack of sand, and I had no other choice but to rest. This spell wasn't as bad as my usual, but it kept me from spending my energy on trivial things. It made me see the things that were important to me.

4) Unexpected messages from friends: several midnight calls from NJ to help me (no, push me!) get my project rolling again, a simple, quick text from a friend jet-setting in Davao or Cebu or Bacolod (she travels a lot so I forget!) saying that she believes that my plan might work, an early text after a football match from a friend who was watching it in Singapore--my favorite team lost but she saw it as a good omen for me, and a pancit palabok for dinner (hmmm... this isn't exactly a message but you get the point!). It's amazing how real friends just know when to catch you.

5) Revisiting my other friends: re-reading old novels and comic books, listening to my favorite bands from high school, dyeing my hair back to my natural hair color (I know... that's another blog altogether!)... I start to remember myself again without all the static and white noise.

Okay, I am getting sleepy and I am already finding it hard to concentrate on this entry, so I am just going to leave you with some inspiring images I found on the net. They are photos of sculptures made by Walter Martin and Paloma Muñoz. They remind me of the type of art I can make.

Lesson

2006-09-11T19:11:00.000+08:00

Hermit
6B pencil on A4 paper
11 September 2006

My former Life Drawing professor would freak if he sees this. I guess because I still insist on illustrating instead of drawing. He said I had a style though, which was good, and that he could see that I draw the way I sculpt. We went to the zoo a couple of times to sketch the animals and, at the end of the day, my hippos, giraffes, lions, and birds looked like a menagerie of my plaster models. It’s those lines and the way I compose my pictures. At first glance they exude Zen-like silence; when you sit beside them for a while, though, you could see that the clean lines are there to keep what’s inside from bursting out.

I am learning to be messy and chase the shadows.

Enduring Creation and random thoughts

2006-09-10T23:34:00.000+08:00

Temperance
6B pencil on A4 paper
10 September 2006

My friend M and I used to play this game when we were bored—we would ask each other “If you were a ___________, what would you be?” The questions would be popped in the weirdest of places and the most inopportune of moments. “If you were a pencil…” was asked at 4AM, whilst smoking, sitting on a bench, opposite the Metro stop, waiting for the sign to come alive. My favorite so far was this: “If you were a disease, what would you be?” I am almost always Manic Depressive. We asked this question in the middle of a storm, standing outside a closed pastry shop, under a tattered green awning, at 5PM, with our stomachs growling.

This is a drawing I did in under an hour. I stopped working on her face when I realized she was starting to look like me. She’s slightly askew. I hate that she came out so clean. She will probably become a part of something bigger.

Temperance, the Fourteenth of the Major Arcana in a regular Tarot deck, generally means “Mature adaptation to whatever life offers; individualized existence.” Reversed: Unfortunate combinations.

Pain. Old French peine; Italian pena. The root taps down to Latin: poena.

According to Random House Webster’s Dictionary, Temperance means, 1. “moderation or self-restraint. 2. total abstinence from alcoholic liquors."

It’s time to eat another bag of Boy Bawang (that’s yummy, garlicky roasted corn kernels).

Illustration Friday: Farm

2006-09-10T20:21:00.000+08:00

Illustration Friday: Farm

This is more “abattoir” than “farm.” I started to draw an assembly line of eggs this morning, but I still haven’t figured out how to make it interesting; am still working on it. In the meantime, I am back to drawing dead birds. This is a rapid sketch using charcoal; I’ve still got flecks of black dust on my cheeks. I scanned it in B&W and inverted the colors.

I like dark things. I initially didn’t want to post an entry for this topic. Farm sounds so benign. I found a way to make it my own though. At least I am still trying! :)

Here's the original:

Child of Saturn

2006-09-09T17:56:00.000+08:00

Nuir d’été, 1890 (Musée d’Orsay)
Homer Winslow (1836-1910)

Something clicked into place inside me. I awoke with a start, jumped out of bed as the sun rose, and started cleaning my room. I threw open all the windows, scrubbed the floorboards, dusted my bookshelves, and changed the sheets. I rearranged the furniture with Herculean determination; I would have torn down walls and transplanted my room to a sunnier spot had I not realized that I was only renting a room and did not own the place. General cleaning was in order.

This could be the effect of the Full Moon or it could be that I just got tired of being tired. I spent the whole day yesterday in bed, nursing a colossal hangover. I didn’t really drink that much; with two bottles of beer and a sip of cheap red wine, I willed myself into drunkenness. I was desperate for a reprieve from that barren child who had been spending endless hours splayed on the floor, defeated, reeking with suffocating saturnine malaise and dripping with melancholy.

I was only able to slip away from her tight grip for a couple of hours. When I opened my eyes she was roosting on my chest, scratching the lint on my shirt with muddied claws, staring at the black moth that somehow got into my room. I wonder if she would let it escape. Too exhausted to move, I allowed myself to be swallowed by darkness. An hour later and I was up. She had moved to a corner, her scraggly head resting on a pile of dirty clothes. The moth was gone.

I rummaged through the fridge for nourishment. I opened a bag of fresh greens. My body was screaming for meat, but I couldn’t be bothered to cook. I finished half a gallon of water hoping that would flush down the toxins and cobwebs from my system. There was still no running water (it was the third day; the manager of the building said it would be back by tomorrow) and the electricity was low. I could turn on the fan but not the lights, the telly but not the computer. Frustrated, I return to my room. Mélancolie, as I now start calling her, coaxed me to return to bed. With nothing to do, I gave in. Sleep took over instantly.

It was dark outside when I woke up. The lights were still not working; I turn on the TV. Not even the Sports News could rouse an emotion from me. Spain lost to Northern Ireland? I turn my head the other way and face the wretched creature that has been siphoning my energy. I study her face with indifference—her slithery hair shining in half light, weathered skin that was both greasy and parched, pudgy and taut, her eyes drowning in darkened sockets. She was not malevolent in any way, I realized. She was just devoid of everything; a useless lump of mass occupying space for no reason at all.

I began talking to her, asking her questions. She remained in her wraith-like state, more interested in flicking specks of dirt from her nails than speaking to me. I poked, I prodded. WHY ARE YOU HERE?!? Her apathy enraged me. I started pulling her at her yellow-stained sleeves. I pushed her off the bed. I grabbed her neck and threw her against the night table. WHY? WHY? WHY? Not a screech, a whimper, a moan. WILL YOU EVER LET ME GO? My head started to throb. I wanted to kill.

I stepped back and started to weep. The scream that was thrashing inside my lungs for days was no longer silent. Primordial anger, hate, sorrow, pride, guilt, and wrath pulsated within my shell, erupting from my chest, tearing down the stone cold moor around my heart. I am sorry. I was wrong.

I sat in front of her; I am shivering. She doesn’t ask for comfort or care; I offer her none. I reached for the nearest trinket on the table, a half-eaten chocolate bar, and left it beside her. I bid her goodnight.

Something clicked into place within me this morning. She is gone. Saturn’s child will be back someday. In the meantime I am alone again. I am free to open the windows and air out my soul.

Illustration Friday: Safe

2006-09-03T02:01:00.000+08:00

This week's topic is "Safe." Great timing. I've been struggling with this concept for the past couple of days. Here's a recent entry from my journal.

Oya

2006-09-02T21:36:00.000+08:00

Grumpy Cat
Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

This is my cat, Oya. Well… not exactly. She’s my ex-flat mate’s cat, but I considered her as my own. I haven’t seen her for over a year. I miss her.

Oya just turned 5. Her owner calls her an “enana,” a dwarf, because she is smaller than most cats. She was the runt of the litter, but she was the most beguiling of the bunch. While the rest of her brothers and sisters were purring and brushed themselves against the legs of their potential owners, this little one just sat in the middle of the room and pointedly ignored the humans who were cooing and ahhing around them. She looked absolutely bored and would stare down the other kittens that pranced around, running after dust balls. She won the heart of E, my ex-flat mate. She took her home and named her after a tiny city in Galicia.

She was hiding when I went to the apartment to check out the room I was thinking of renting. I had no idea E kept a pet in the house. The apartment was spacious, newly renovated, but the room was a closet. I had my doubts about living there until I saw the cat litter tucked behind the potted plants in the veranda. I asked E about it and she confessed that she indeed had a cat but it was anti-social and stayed away from people, even her sister who was a regular fixture at the flat. She assured me that it would stay out of my way so she hoped that that wouldn’t be a problem with me. I immediately agreed to get the room. I’ve always wanted to own a cat, anti-social or not. I grew up in a house full of dogs—up to 8 at some point—so I never got a chance to see if I could get along with a feline pet. I left and returned after an hour with the deposit. That’s when I saw Oya for the first time as she popped her head from behind the enormous plant in the living room. A glimpse of that tiny face and I knew that I had made the right decision.

She stayed away from me the first couple of days. I was noisily transferring and rearranging my stuff as I tried to settle in my new space. I caught her once, though, sniffing at my bags, and then she ran away when she realized that I was looking. She finally graced me with her presence after a week of playing hide and seek. I was reading a book, perched on one end of the sofa, when she silently entered the living room and parked herself on a large pillow on the floor. I tried not to get too excited and stopped myself from calling out to her. I coolly looked at her direction and continued to read. She looked back at me as if to acknowledge my greeting then proceeded to groom herself. I was thrilled.

Our silent routine continued for the rest of the week, but on each succeeding night she would sit closer and closer to me. First, she stretched herself on the floor beside the pillow, then the following day, she curled up beside my shoes, then the other side of the sofa, then the middle, and, finally, beside me. We would sit side by side for days until she finally let me scratch her back. I had made a new friend.

My ex-flat mate was surprised and impressed by our growing friendship. She encouraged it by letting me feed Oya; on Mondays I gave her her weekly treat. I would scream “Lata!” (Tin) and she would appear. She ate the dry stuff but absolutely loved her pâté-like meal.

She remained loyal to E but ignored our other flat mate. He chased after her the minute he moved into the house, but she never warmed up to him. He gave up. We, on the other hand, became fast friends, constant companions through thick and thin. She was there when I broke down when I received a call from home and found out that an old friend had passed away. I rushed into my room and she followed. She curled up beside me and stayed there through the night. She found solace in my room when we would hold parties at the apartment. She also remained there when E left for a month to visit her family.

Although we never talked or exchanged stories about ourselves, we formed a bond that I will forever cherish. I feel sometimes that I made better friends with her than the other people I met during that time. I miss those lazy mornings when we would sit on the floor of the balcony, me with my mug of hot java and ciggies and Oya pawing at the geraniums. We would sit there for a long time watching the busy bustle of the city below. On cold winter days, we would compete over the sliver of sunlight that would filter through the window or the perfect space in front of the heater.

Some people say it’s silly to regard animals as our friends. We “humanize” pets, give them personalities and treat them as if they were Homo sapiens when they are smaller-brained animals, beings in the lower rungs of the food chain who cannot possibly think and feel like us let alone understand us. But who cares? I don’t have to be Dr. Doolittle to consider her as my friend. The only downside I see about this friendship is that I will not be able to talk to her on the phone or exchange text messages and emails with her. But most humans don’t even bother to do that… So?

Silly or not, I miss her. Here’s to you, Oya. Shine bright, my little one.

Not Juliet

2006-08-29T00:09:00.000+08:00

Every once in a while the Universe throws a curve ball at you. If you are a hotshot ballplayer who’s been training for moments like this all your waking life, you slam it out of the stadium and hit a home run. But, if you are a clumsy, idiot like me who happens to wander into the game while you are looking at something else, you get whacked in the head, turned upside down, and left to crawl out on all fours.

Most of the time I feel as if I know what I am doing, that I am in complete control of my life, and I’ve got things under control. I’m usually confident that I’ve got most things figured out and I that I don’t usually get flustered by people and circumstances. I am invulnerable and immune to it all. And then the Fates step in and remind me that I am oh-so-human after all. I never get their sense of humor, those Ladies.

I hate not knowing why things are meant to happen and why you are meant to meet certain people at a certain time in your life. Why did it have to invade my idyllic space; I was merrily jumping along, following my dream, minding my own business. I never asked for this. I hate it when I am left with my mouth wide open, my jaw scraping the floor, wondering what the fuck hit me. Why didn’t it kill me? Why did it leave me here, contemplating in the dark, with a gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be?

Things would have been a lot easier if… If only… I wish… Oh well. Things do happen for a reason, don’t they? We’re just not meant to understand or know why they do sometimes. Well, most of the time. I just hate it when it happens to me. I hate hearing the three Fates cackling behind me. Yes, I know, I know. I am human after all.

A good day

2006-08-22T13:00:00.000+08:00

Yesterday was another disco ball moment. Have you ever stared at one while it spins in the dark? An effervescent glow surrounds the globe while rogue shards of light are slashed, splintered, and shattered across the room; melodic, hypnotic, organized chaos with flashes of brilliance piercing the shadows. Monday was that kind of day.

I tossed and turned the night before—I was having my usual struggles with sleep. A moment of clarity came at 8AM, two hours before my alarm was supposed to go off. I was dragged to the kitchen by my stomach; the call of pancakes was too difficult to ignore and my body was too exhausted to resist. With elegant dexterity (from God-knows-where), I whipped up a fluffy, golden batch, and with equal maladroit I greedily gorged on each one, piece by honey-soaked piece.

I knew the day was going to be a good one. I could think. I could feel. I was going to have a normal productive day. Bursts of lucidity allowed me to work, but sleep claimed me again at around noon.

Sometimes I feel as if I observe myself too closely.

I woke up. I ate lunch. I worked. I emailed. I blogged.

Right after dinner I was ambushed by a migraine wielding a high-speed jackhammer. It pounced silently from behind and started drilling from the base of my neck to my right eye. Jelly bean lights danced across the walls of my room. Sleep was my refuge. Another day ended just as I thought I was getting the hang of it.

But sleep is a fickle friend. I woke up at 2AM just in time for the re-run of HOUSE. I bawled like an idiot. I could fall in love with Hugh Laurie, even with an American accent. Okay, I’ll even take the wimpy, spineless, half-evil Australian youngling.

I am bearing my solitude calmly than usual. In the dark, I go on endlessly trawling (trolling) the streets of my head for hours on end and never meeting anyone—not even myself

Fútbol mania

2006-08-21T15:56:00.000+08:00

The football season officially started last weekend. At least for me. Various teams have been playing friendlies throughout the tail end of July and the beginning of August, but the real games started in England last Saturday. I don’t know how these people could play competitively after the grueling World Cup matches. Well, okay, come to think of it, they are paid millions of dollars to run around the pitch hoping for a chance to kick the ball. Harump, they shouldn’t complain, right?

I am just a little bit disappointed that my fave Premiership team, Arsenal, drew on their first match. Case of the rusties or are they already starting to miss the players they lost to richer clubs (read: backed by Russian drug Lords)? It’s a little too early to panic, so I will just let them be.

I can’t wait for La Liga to start next weekend. I can’t wait to see Barça play again...And kick Real Madrid’s ass. Teeheehee. It’s still a long way away (they face each other on the 22nd of October), but I’m already looking forward to it! Let’s see some action!

August

2006-08-19T22:06:00.000+08:00

I always have mixed feelings about August. It’s the time of year when the sun mercilessly blazes the whole day without relief, while the nights grow balmy and indigo dark. It is accompanied by volatile and indecisive weather; monsoon rains and tropical depressions form in the east and heat waves reign in the west. It’s as if the earth is heaving with anticipation for the coming birth pains—its nine months is almost up. It’s time to give it up.

It doesn’t matter where I am; August still feels the same way. It’s melancholy and silent, like someone tethering on a wire over a precipice. You are all alone and you could fall and no one would hear you or you could fly and your wings would bring you closer to the sun.

I can’t say that I am crazy about August, but I can definitely say that I can’t live without it. I was born on this month some odd years ago. Which is probably the reason why I have so much affinity and dislike for it; sometimes I can burst into flames with so much passion and intensity for everyone to see or I could disappear into a cesspool of murky, uneven shadows where no one dares to follow.

This month has always brought me changes. For one thing, I turn a year older every year. What have I got show for, I ask myself sometimes, when that day comes. And on some years, like this one, I couldn’t care less that it happened once again. We all have to grow old anyways.

Most of my plans come into fruition or end in August—I moved back to the Philippines twice, moved out of 3 apartments (or is it 4?), received acceptance and rejection letters from schools, awarded two scholarships, etc, etc. Dreams are born at the same time hope is discarded. I go along with the year. I always feel the need to purge and reap the fruits of my labor and to face the repercussions of my actions. Time’s up. Now I have to move on.

The month is almost over and I am still undecided if I want it to end. September brings a different set of feelings and responsibilities. Am I ready for my new life? Am I ready for the end of the year? Am I ready for the birth pains? I don’t really know, but I have 12 days to find out.

Disturbing news

2006-08-18T03:26:00.000+08:00

The M/V Solar I, an oil tanker chartered by Petron, the country’s largest oil refiner, sank off the coast of Guimaras Island in Central Philippines. Copious amounts of deadly, viscous fuel have reached several islands in the Visayas region (hello, including the island where I was born, Negros!) and are now spreading and slithering their way to the Guimaras Strait. Aside from the virgin white sand beaches, a number of marine sanctuaries and unspoiled coral reefs and mangrove forests are now in danger of being engulfed by this dark and silent monster. It has already destroyed an important feeding and breeding ground for fish and other species in the area. Protected species such as the dugong, green and hawksbill turtles, and several cetacean species live along the Strait and are now in danger of disappearing completely.

WWF (formerly known as the World Wildlife Fund, one of the world's largest and most respected independent conservation organizations in the world) hopes everyone involved and affected by this disaster—from the coastguard, to the oil industry, local fishermen and coastal communities—would cooperate in creating a national oil spill contingency plan to handle this crisis. I don’t know if there is a real plan out there from the government, but I hope someone mobilizes these people soon. There are species and industries literally dying out there as we speak!

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE go out there and do your part to save our environment. Go to WWF’s website for more information about the accident, then check out WWF-Philippines’ site to find out about the different ways on how you could help. Do something! You could even just talk about this with your family, friends, and co-workers. Or email them. Remember, every little thing counts. We could all make a difference.

New Goal

2006-07-23T00:39:00.000+08:00

create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands

I've only been to ten other countries (aside from the Philippines). According to the Visted Countries Website, that's only 4% of the world. Sigh. I MUST change this stat soon.

Pure Possibility

2006-07-18T02:22:00.000+08:00

I dedicate this to this month's Waning Moon. I say goodbye to everything that is dark and will only hold on to pure possibility.

"In the face of of life's uncertainties, we say, "Anything is possible!" sometimes with the passion of hope or despair, sometimes with detachment and indifference. The possibilities we refer to are casually more or less well-defined by the limited contexts of our life experience; thus, it may not rain tomorrow, war may or may not come, a sick friend may or may not die. Whatever it may be, we are making reference to something that seems possible. It is through actual being, then, that we understand possible being."

------ Art & Existentialism by Arturo B. Fallico

Sabbatical

2006-07-14T02:28:00.000+08:00

I opened Wish Jar Journal, one of my favorite blogs, and found out that Keri has been, in her words, "remiss in posting lately." She continues by giving 5 excuses (reasons, I mean) why she has been away from the net:

a. I have been packing up everything I own so that it fits in the car.
b. I've been finishing a book.
c. I'm rebelling a bit.
d. I've been living in the world more.
e. I have not felt the call to work in this medium.
f. I've been hunting in the wilds of the amazon, and was briefly kidnapped by a unidentified tribe of natives.

I myself have been remiss in my postings (more than she has, actually) and can relate to her list. I HAD been packing my things..uhm, a little over a month or two ago... and tried to cram everything in one car. You see, I moved to a new flat closer to the city center. Letter B is also applicable to me: I have been finishing a book. NOT making it, unfortunately... more like READING it. And it's not just one book. My attention span has been shorter of late (more than usual), so I keep jumping from White Teeth (Zadie Smith) to Insomnia (Stephen King) to Anansi Boys (Neil Gaiman) then back to Zadie. Letter C is normal for me; I am always rebelling against something. Letter D, well, is true for me as well. I have been "raketeering" (freelancing for you non-Pinoys), seeing old friends and meeting new ones. And had been going to almost all of the World Cup matches at 3AM. Why is it pay-per-view here?!?! Letter E is definitely me--I have been tinkering with my sewing machine, drawing with my sign pens, and assembling jewelry. I haven't been writing in ages and haven't been feeling good about it. Writing doesn't come easy to me so I get dissuaded easily. And the letter F? Maybe not in the Amazon or by tribes of natives, but something like that is probably happening to me.

So I am back. Now what?

------------------------------------------------
PS. The illustration above is from my all time fave (comic book/graphic/contemporary) artist, Dave McKean. I don't know how it relates to this entry. I just feel like that. Which reminds me... For all you people out there who live in Manila, is Neil Gaiman really going to be here soon? Like this weekend? I must stalk him.

Heart Attack City

2006-05-31T18:15:00.000+08:00

Heart Attack City
Originally uploaded by Bealtaine.

This week's Illustration Friday topic is "cake." I still haven't found the time to draw, so, in the meantime, I will share with you guys this image. I absolutely LOVE Sans Rival cake. It's made mostly of butter, hence, the name of this photo. This particular sample is flavored with mango. YUUUM! :)

The Procrastinator

2006-05-31T04:40:00.000+08:00

I went on a scanning frenzy a couple of days ago. I ransacked my journals and found some stuff I wanted to save from the ravaging effects of time. One drawing was in danger of disappearing completely. I didn't want to sneeze on it. I know I should have done this a long, long, LONG time ago... and one-by-one and con calma. A professional procrastinator indeed.

UFFFFF! My back and neck still hurt.

Illustration Friday: Sorry

2006-05-25T23:43:00.000+08:00

SORRY

Ink on paper

25 May 2006

Sorry I stopped writing

Sorry I wouldn't shut up

Sorry I haven't been in touch

Sorry I went away

Sorry I never left

Sorry I couldn't be there

Sorry I stayed behind

Sorry I couldn't see you

Sorry I couldn't let go

Sorry I held on too tight

Sorry I did you wrong

Sorry I hurt you

Sorry I ignored you

Sorry I bugged you

Sorry I forgot

Sorry for being sorry

Will saying sorry ever going to be enough?

Thank God it's Easter

2006-04-18T01:42:00.000+08:00

Penitent
Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

Well, I am glad that’s over. I’ve always hated Holy Week. For most people it’s the perfect time for a pilgrimage to the nearest beach, a quick jaunt to our Asian neighbors or quiet bonding time with the family. For me Holy Week is not at all relaxing—it means sitting through hours of dramatic, gory films about Christ or Moses, braving the crowds to rub the toes of the bloodied, dead Jesus with my handkerchief, and being vacuumed sealed from the rest of the world (along with evil spirits!) from 3PM on Good Friday till 12 midnight on Easter Sunday.

Oh yeah, I forget. It was like that for me. For a very long time, I might add, but not anymore. I guess that’s why I still think of it as the present. Heh. Years and years of practice so it’s hard for me to shake off ill associations with this time of the year. Now I have the choice not to go through the rituals and stuff anymore, but I still get acid attacks when I see people leave the church waving colorful woven palms in the air. That usually signaled the start of another terrifying week for me, the only time in the year when I felt overwhelmingly scared and guilty for being alive. My mother is a devout Roman Catholic and when I was little she wanted me to use this time to reflect on the significance of Christ’s death and sacrifice. Imagine how it was for me as a seven-year-old to contemplate on this larger-than-life concept.

Palm Sundays were not that bad, really. Gloomy significance aside, I enjoyed looking at the array of palms being sold outside the church. They made the whole event seem festive and joyful. Holy Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays were more or less the same. We were still allowed to play and watch our favorite shows, but we had to tone things down a bit, be less boisterous than usual, and be respectful to our Suffering Lord. Maundy Thursdays were a pain. The TV stayed off (except when religious movies were on), the books were tucked in the shelves, the jump rope was hidden in the cupboard, and the crayons were stored in their boxes. During the day, the time was used to contemplate on Christ and Christ alone, and at night, we would hear mass and watch the reenactment of the Last Supper—from Jesus breaking bread with his disciples to Him washing their feet—and/or the Passion Play.

Good Fridays and Black Saturdays were the bleakest and scariest days of the year for me. They beat Halloween and All Souls’ day by ten million points in my book. I would wake up to the unusual and eerie silence of the house. People were up and about, I could tell, but they moved with caution, guilt, and dread. Everyone knew He was going to die soon. By mid-morning I would perch myself by our second floor bedroom window and watch the fire trucks bathe the streets with gallons of water. I could almost see the drops and waves sizzle and evaporate as soon as they hit the ground. Soon after, people would start lining the streets in anticipation.

And then I would hear it. It would be faint at first, like the sound of a weak man persistently scratching his way out of his tomb. chick-chick-chick-chick. Then it would grow progressively louder. chick-chICK-CHICK-CHICK. It was the rhythmic sound of bamboo sticks hitting against each other and on something solid and organic. The first man that would cross my line of vision would usually be a guy carrying (half-dragging) a wooden cross. His white shirt would be wrapped around his head with two peeping holes cut in it. Equally masked men taking turns hitting his bare arms, shoulders, and back with a black whip would flank him on both sides. People with buckets would break from the crowd and douse the penitent with water. Orderly rows of masked men would follow, flagellating their bare torsos with a makeshift contraption of ropes and bamboo slats. This macabre parade would go on; the rows of bleeding men broken by a solitary figure carrying a cross, for what seemed like an eternity. The metallic and acrid odor of blood would hang in the humid air even after they’re gone. The sight of another fire truck would bring relief to all; they were finally there to erase the remnants of what had happened.

That event would usually be followed by brunch. After witnessing the gore, I would always feel glad that meat was off the menu that day. "Visita Iglesia" was the next thing on the itinerary. Most families would only visit 7 churches to do the Stations of the Cross, but since we were "hard-core" Catholics, mine would go to 14. I dreaded touching or praying in front of the life-size statues of the Savior frozen in various stages of torment. He was scarier than any monster I could imagine and I was constantly reminded that he had to go through all that pain to save us, to save me. We usually had to finish before 3PM, the hour of death of the Lord. From what I remember, they would close the churches after that.

Three PM was a terrifying time. God was dead and we were left to fend for ourselves till Easter morn, my mother informed me, so I should behave and stay away from evil. It was a dangerous thing to say to an imaginative child, I believe. I pictured all sorts of evil lurking behind closed doors and festering in the dark shadows. I was perennially scared of being possessed by the devil himself or one of his minions. I couldn’t even pray for protection because Jesus was gone. I felt utterly alone, helpless, and abandoned. And this feeling would extend until Black Saturday.

My fertile imagination coupled with my stubbornness and resistance to all the mandatory rituals made this yearly event worse for me, I guess. I could have just complied or pretended to be "good" for a couple of days… But NO. I had to question everything and show my repulsion for the lavish and unnecessary display of piety. I couldn’t stand another minute of watching people bleed—may it be in films, a statue, or a real man publicly seeking atonement for his sins. I couldn’t understand how I, a child, could have possibly contributed to this Man’s agony and death. I was never, nor am I now, against the Catholic Church or its beliefs. Then, I was honestly perplexed and couldn’t comprehend the immensity of the situation, now, I just get annoyed when I’m coerced to believe in it. Scare (and guilt) tactics should never be used on a child… or an adult, for that matter. It only leads to suspicion and resentment.

My Holy Weeks are now more secular and less dramatic. I still get the heebie-jeebies, though, on Good Fridays and Black Saturdays no matter where I am. And I must admit, I sometimes miss the comfort of having a ritual to follow. Looking back, it may have been a traumatic time for me to go through all of these things every single year, but the experience made me part of a community actively seeking a connection to a higher being. That ain’t bad, right? I guess not… but that thought doesn’t stop me from still hating Holy Week! :)

PS. By the way, I took this photo several years ago during a Holy Week holiday in Seville. I found their sterilized version of the Penitent quite amusing.

Peeved

2006-03-30T17:09:00.000+08:00

I am still pissed. A couple of days ago I was picked on, bullied, scrubbed to the bone, dragged across the floor, ego flattened, and kicked in the butt like I’ve never been before. I’ve been through a lot in my life, but I never felt so small and humiliated and angry as I was at that moment. Looking back, it really turned out well in the end and the whole display was for my benefit, but it hurt like hell and I do not want to be ambushed that way ever again.

I am still angry. I don’t think I can snap out of this soon. I am so peeved I want to get up and take the world by its collar and shake it till all the silly, snooty, pompous pricks fall out. I know it was for my own good, but I hate getting hurt. I can’t promise that I will not resort to witchcraft someday to remedy this pain, but I will shut up about it after I click on the publish button on this entry and move on with my life. I know my truth and that is enough. The effing bastards can just choke on the dust I leave behind as I (trail)blaze my way to the future.

-----------------------------------------
"Well behaved women never make history."
-- Maria Shriver

Illustration Friday: Monster

2006-03-27T19:16:00.000+08:00

Control Freak

Ink on paper

27 March 2006

When I think of monsters I think of the dark things lurking inside us.

This is part of a series of drawings/studies I've been making for my sculpture/installation (tentatively) called "ROOTS." I still can't decide what to do with them!

Illustration Friday: Feet

2006-03-21T14:34:00.000+08:00

Not a Hobbit

18 March 2006

Ballpoint pen on paper

This was inspired by René Magritte's 'La Modèle Rouge' and 'The Treason of Images.' And, of course, Frodo. :) I am a big LOTR fan!