tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54907838486831747452024-03-05T12:54:02.954+08:00Burning DaylightLeilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.comBlogger363125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-10543234400236012020-09-20T15:26:00.001+08:002020-09-20T15:28:07.269+08:00Life in Lockdown: Papa's Lumpiang Togue<div style="caret-color: rgb(21, 27, 38); color: #151b26;"><div style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black;"><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-variant-caps: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Yesterday, Papa dropped by to give me some of the lumpiang togue he made at home. A week ago, my sister moved out to find her independence and for my family, this means that I won't be going home as often as I would have wanted. It's really part of adulting and I gotta look after my place since I'm halfway done paying for it. Haha.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, Papa was so excited to hand me the lumpiang togue. "I just tried making it," he said, all smiles. Since it's the weekend, its a habit in my folks' home to cook together. The last time I was home, we tried making those popular sushi bake with crab sticks, Japanese mayo, cream cheese, pepper, seaweed flakes, and topped with crab fat (yeaaaaahhhhh).</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">My dad didn't like it, though my mom took it with her to the office. All the time, they'd make sushi (my brother's specialty) and sometimes, baked banana bread. It's really just simple things since we're not chefs. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, back to my spring rolls. I love lumpiang togue -- it's a deep-fried vegetable spring roll stuffed with mung bean sprouts. Restaurants don't carry this since it's so homemade and togue has a short shelf span. These are often available from small eateries and comes with a nice tangy dip of diced red onion (it's simplest version).</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Aside from the usual julienne carrots, finely-diced chayotte (or was it bottle gourd?), the biggest surprise for my dad's spring rolls wasn't that he cooked it well -- that's a feat in itself -- but that it has tiny bits of diced soft tofu. Yes, the soft tofu you put in traditional seaweed miso soup. And yes, he didn't fry it before including this in the stuffing, which makes the taste pretty tender and special.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">He also added diced steamed chicken meat, the usual seasonings, deep-fried it, and voila -- the output was really tasty and it's exactly how it wanted it done. So I had it for brunch (he gave me three big pieces, which I devoured in one sitting). </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I love spring rolls and eat 'em whatever they're stuffed with. My least favorite is the fresh lumpia that's drizzled with sweet peanut sauce, but I still eat it when I can so that goes to show how I favour these wrapped treats. My all-time favorite is of course, lumpiang togue.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">With that, I think I'm going to do my dad's version at home and since next weekend is my designated grocery day, I'll make Vietnamese spring rolls too. <i>- 09/20/2020</i></span></span></div></div></div></div></div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-16054367315429767662020-05-27T01:39:00.000+08:002020-05-27T02:06:50.357+08:00Randy, RandyWill you take me<br />
to the arbo<br />
retum, read the<br />
names of ironwoods,<br />
vines that carve trans<br />
lucent shadows,<br />
light flooding the<br />
house in a haze<br />
East of Eden?<br />
I want so much<br />
to forget that<br />
girl on the train.<br />
Have the leaves and<br />
their foreign i<br />
dentities sim<br />
mer in my tongue,<br />
off the spinning<br />
chair, far from e<br />
choes, pangs. I won't<br />
sneak back without<br />
you knowing, write<br />
Latin science wo<br />
ven in verses<br />
like you did. I<br />
only want to<br />
bask in the sound<br />
of daylight, your<br />
voice swimming in<br />
the silence you've<br />
fallen into.<br />
I want to think<br />
of Baguio. Me<br />
ditation cards.<br />
The storm and the<br />
lamp that plucked Ba<br />
boo's daughter from<br />
her womb. Not the<br />
girl in the room,<br />
on that late train.<br />
Will you take me<br />
to the arbo<br />
retum, call out<br />
ancient names, them<br />
that dies once they<br />
depart your lips?<br />
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<br />Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-13365663309174474542020-04-12T20:43:00.003+08:002020-08-18T19:36:59.865+08:00Life in lockdown: the fish with a bird's name<div style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<br />
We're running out of rice. My organic long-grain is taking its sweet time rolling into town from Nueva Ecija, the country's rice granary. We've run out of meat and garnishes and condiments and resorted to frying; the last time we bought supplies, the vegetable racks were wiped out. We picked up a bottle of kimchi and that was it, our vegetable fix.<br />
<br />
So, dilemma laid out, we go to the solution: we checked out the grocery store across the street to see if the lines are manageable given the Holy Week closures. (Three weeks ago, we lined up for five hours and finished our shopping in under an hour. Apparently, its a normal queue time given the pandemic lockdown.) Lo and behold, the lines are not long at all, at least late in the afternoon. And the vegetable racks are newly-replenished.<br />
<br />
This time, our story ended in three hours; two lining up for sustenance and an hour preparing what I've never cooked before: <i>sinigang na maya-maya</i> (sour stew red snapper). Technically, I've made sinigang, but never with a fish.<br />
<br />
In my grandmother's lexicon, there were only two acceptable meat for sinigang: shrimps and fish. For shrimps, the bigger, the better. For fish, she favored only two: <i>lapu-lapu</i> (red grouper) and maya-maya. Lapu-lapu, expensive and hard to come by, were for Sundays when every family member comes to the ancestral home to eat lunch and <i>merienda</i> and dinner before driving back to Manila. Maya-maya, on the other hand, were for non-Sundays. Even until today, I remember what maya-maya tastes like in Ate Nena's sinigang... it's <i>that</i> common in my grandparents' household.<br />
<br />
Both fishes are notorious for their bones. If you're unlucky to have a fishbone stuck in your throat, you'd need to have it taken out by a cat or by a <i>suhi</i>, a person born feet first. (In the context of home births, suhi children are believed to bear special powers. They survived a painful, abnormal, and dangerous birthing process and, therefore, are a natural at curing errant fishbones in the throat.)<br />
<br />
Why my grandmother favored these fishes, I know not. I do know that my grandfather had five cats and my father is a suhi. So, when I saw the maya-maya on the wet portion of the grocery, this childhood memory returned. <i>I must have this fish and I must make sinigang!</i><br />
<br />
The maya-maya was on its last order: scrutinized but passed over, reeled from tongs pushing it aside, left behind on the butcher's block. The shame pieces, the ones nobody wanted. For me, though, last pieces are always the lucky ones.<br />
<br />
My grandmother would frown at this. I'd know because I learned the wet market trade from the countless Wednesday mornings we spent together choosing food and on the daily kitchen dates where I'd watch her transform any ingredient to the most delicious meals. Buying fish, as she'd shown me, is to notice the silver shimmer, finger the skin and flesh and look it straight in the eye. You don't buy fish that you have not picked out yourself and had not been cut in front of you.<br />
<br />
Unlike this one.<br />
<br />
It's already steaked, cleaned. Bleeding a little, but exposed to the open airconditioned air, maybe for the whole day. No eyes to betray its quality. </div><div style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">But there's no more grandmother to stop me.<br />
<br />
I took them home, the lucky pieces I tenderly wash and slather in rock salt. I grounded black pepper before dropping them in a pan to sweat alongside onions and ginger. The scent of coconut oil will devour that "fishiness" I detest. But maya-maya isn't like the <i>tulingan</i> (mackerel) or the <i>tilapia</i> (St. Peter's fish) anyway. Above fire, it doesn't assault the senses, doesn't permeate every side of the house with the strong stench of the meat of the sea.<br />
<br />
It fizzled and turned to white. Now I remember why my grandmother favored this in sinigang. It's not as flaky as tilapia or as chunky as tuna. It goes swimmingly well in a bowl of sour tamarind stew, surrounded by tomatoes, kangkong, and sliced radishes.<br />
<br />
It's light and comforting.<br />
The texture is warm and fleeting.<br />
<br />
I've never succeeded in cooking sinigang, which I've only done with shrimps. This, however, turned out to be a good stew. I've added more pepper than usual so when it's piping hot, the sourness brings in this peppery kick at the back of the throat. I think my sister liked it -- she finished the whole cut.<br />
<br />
For a moment, the dish made me forget the anxiety and dread that boils underneath this lockdown and transported me back to those carefree Sundays in that old house when the aroma of food wafting from so many kitchens was the only scent that matters. <i>- 04/12/2020</i><br />
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Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-84768946938142610682020-01-26T23:11:00.001+08:002020-08-18T19:41:04.289+08:00Saturday, done right<span style="font-family: helvetica;">The past week had been bad on my energy levels. With all the shiz going on at work, I wish I could just block off all the updates and just forget I work in-house. But I guess it's all part of the commitment -- and I just have to ride it out.<br />
<br />
As someone who's besotted with constantly shifting moods, I know this sinking feeling too well. The best way to go beyond was to escape my neurosis, hang out with friends, and eat well. So for a yummy buffet lunch, I pulled my lazy ass off the bed and met up with my college girlfriends. <br />
<br />
The last time we were together was during the gala night of our film and that's way way back in August. They're still fun, of course. And as expected, they always know how to handle my morning intensity. Over Chef Laudico's Angus beef tapa (and other gourmet Filipino food), we talked about life after the film, including my current predicament with my crush.<br />
<br />
"See, it's not you, it's him," Nica said.<br />
<br />
"I had the feeling something's up." A sharp pain shot through my throat as I swallowed crab meat scooped out of its hard shell. A teeny tiny piece got stuck at the right side of my jaw and I might need a cat to soothe the pain. "But he has a girlfriend. Yikes."<br />
<br />
"At least you know he's not gay." We all laughed. It was like a scene from a SATC episode. "I can see why you like him," Karen said. Unlike my other group, my girls weren't too harsh -- no reading of auras here (a talent I didn't know my Iyengar yoga-practicing friend has).<br />
<br />
"If you could tell him something, what would it be?"<br />
<br />
"Burn that freaking polo shirt," I said without batting an eyelash. "He looks immature, careless, and likely to break the rules -- not good semiotically speaking. He looks like a fuccboi."<br />
<br />
"I'm sure you have more to say than that!"<br />
<br />
I excused myself and got another glass of cucumber lemonade. Maybe. But what else was there to say? We don't have anything tangible to work with. The most that can be exchanged between this crush and I are a few emojis and a round of pleasantries. One day, this juvenile attraction that has nowhere to go will get flushed out of my system and I'll forget ever feeling this way.<br />
<br />
Law of relativity.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
We all gushed over the milk tea cheesecake. We're in another spot for deserts and had our fill of bottomless mojitos in the middle of the afternoon. This feels like college all over again, when we'd do walking art tours feeling woozy, installation arts intermingling with the perpetual need to lower screechy voices and avoid tripping.<br />
<br />
"Do you have plans for a second film?"<br />
<br />
"I have," Nica answered. She's gung-ho on being a producer, directing again a far off possibility. With this material ready for production, she's spending the year securing funding.<br />
<br />
"What about you?" A pair of eyes turned to me. Marj had left for mass.<br />
<br />
"Well..." I started. Should I even share? A long history of heartbreaks over stolen ideas wasn't doing well for my neurosis. And besides, I normally don't share concepts until they're written down. But these are my friends after all. They will always have my back. "I'm developing two stories. It's been in my head for the past 2-3 months."<br />
<br />
"Hurry up and share it," Nica says. "I'm about to leave!"<br />
<br />
After another 15 minutes, I literally pitched my concepts to two budding film producers guided only by my mojito-induced brain and the familiar comfort of knowing that as my friends, they'll wade through all the mumbles and jumbles and get it. I think I must have pulled it off; they were excited.<br />
<br />
"I'll badger you this week," Nica said before heading off. Now Karen and I were the only ones left standing.<br />
<br />
"Where do you want to head off next?"<br />
<br />
"I think..." I started. "I need coffee to sober up."<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
I haven't had nicotine in my system for a while and I'm back to square one. It's funny how one u-turn can pull you back to where you started, ushering another long journey to getting clean. Now I have a sated fix and a whole pack to get rid of. Old habits do die hard.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
My head cleared while I'm having my second round of citrus tea. I spent the great deal of an hour ranting about lost opportunities, frustrations, and creative fears. We're back to calmer topics: relationships. Easier topic to dissect and a good distraction from the inherent dissatisfaction that comes with getting old.<br />
<br />
"If you were in your 20s, you wouldn't think twice in formalizing your set-up," I said. I've never had a "chill" non-committal set-up, though my past relationship was still pretty "chill" by traditional standards, I said. Karen agreed. Even without meaning to and despite a conscious aversion to marriage, the words consistency and stability came out to play. Welcome to your 30s.<br />
<br />
"I just want someone who's not..."<br />
<br />
"-- a pain in the ass?"<br />
<br />
We laughed. We continued. We changed. Thirteen years ago, we stepped out of college with rose-colored glasses, raring to change the world. But the world changed us instead. I wonder if we could transform some more and if we can, how drastic would it be. And that if we'll recognize the us today, drinking tea and talking about unstable men. Our fire was like an order of bottomless mojito -- the first glass was strong but it gradually turned to juice.<br />
<br />
Eventually, our cups emptied and our Grab drivers arrived. We separated in high spirits -- inspired, even -- and went home. For the first time this week, I slept well, only to awake at 4am with a stinging heart. I just shrugged it off as another reason to quit smoking.</span>Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-55213265020177117052019-12-31T23:57:00.000+08:002020-01-02T14:28:18.415+08:002019, a eulogy<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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The year is ending in a few minutes and my social media feeds are bombarded with essays. I hate all the unwarranted emotional downpour but since I'm very introspective, I guess I'll just try to understand that people move in the same wavelength this time around, albeit publicly. Nica says her 2019 was a year of fulfilled wishes -- we finished the film and she traveled to all these beautiful countries. That had me looking back on my year. So before it ends, I think I'm going to bandwagon with everyone and do my usual remembering remembering list (because its fun to read back sometimes).<br />
<br />
In January, I learned that life can mimic movies. Alone in a foreign country with bruised shoulders and a broken heart, it's possible to bleed quietly while stuck in a downpour, the rain washing my tired body with feelings of wasted time, effort, and resources. That to go "home" was to brave the rain, unmindful that the best bed at that god-forsaken time was a white-washed bunk bed in an unfamiliar side of town. "Oh, I have a friend here," I told my Vietnamese receptionist with teary eyes. "Actually a boyfriend. But not anymore." To say he was shocked and speechless was an understatement. I've never been so outright with my feelings before, thinking people will never be able to handle them -- heck I can't even. But he responded in the nicest way possible: "You know... Sometimes life happens." I laughed. Yes, I say, it does, as he ushered me to a shared room where I was holed in for a day. When I stepped out of that room, I reconciled with a high school best friend who I had a falling out three years ago and who took her time to make me enjoy my newfound "single-ness" in a country that always reminds me of missed opportunities. During the day, I serendipitously crossed paths with a man I greatly admire while checking out the temples, found a book vending machine after hours scourging the same street on foot, and at night, devoured Michelin-star street food. I got reminded that things always always get better. You just have to raise your head, smile, and walk on. Also, that I'll never get on a plane to see a boyfriend. Ever.<br />
<br />
In February, I learned to endure. My film was still in the annoying in-between place. We got a new producer on board but the funding was still missing. But still, it was good to know that people are still excited about it. Patience isn't my strongest asset but sometimes that's the best course of action during a stalemate.<br />
<br />
In March, I let go of ambitious dreams. We gave up on an Alexa, cut down everything we could to make do with the resources at hand, which isn't much to begin with. It was a choice between finishing the film or not. We decided that sometimes, simplicity comes with peace of mind.<br />
<br />
In April, I learned that partnerships just don't work. We let go of our new producer and was once again, on the hunt for a new one. It might have been a good move because after we did, friends reached out and supported our decision. Sometimes, it just doesn't work. Toxic relationships are just toxic and should be let go.<br />
<br />
In May, I had a new beginning. Surprisingly, the middle of the year brought two new awesome things: a new job and a new producer. Things are finally looking up. Sure it had its pitfalls and I had to endure an hour's worth of low vibration conversation with another person. But at the end of the day, I stand by our decisions. I'd rather let go of certain people than to let go of my crew.<br />
<br />
In June, I broke. Rushing to make a full-length feature in time for the festival used up all my energy, patience, and optimism. We had a few weeks break where I asked, again and again, why I decided to do this, why I decided to give up everything for this film. It was a dark night of the soul moment and I thought it was the worst. But apparently, it has only begun.<br />
<br />
In July, I broke again. Sometimes things don't work. But we have to make do with what we have. I learned a lot from making a film. But when we wrapped up production and post-production, I realized that despite all the shitty things, the unnerving moments, and crazy process, I still love films and I will do it over and over and over.<br />
<br />
In August, I was defensive. On so many fronts. Surprisingly, I still have a lot to burn but I knew I was fizzling out. But the film, the festival ended. We were bruised but we're still alive. And that's good, right?<br />
<br />
In September, I felt empty. When you pour all your energy, time, attention on one thing for three years, it eats you up. Finishing the film was like having a close relative die after months of taking care of them in a hospital or in a decaying bedroom. It was a relief but it also made me extremely lonely, empty.<br />
<br />
In October, I pushed myself to the limit. It was beginning again, but in an uncomfortable, disadvantageous position.<br />
<br />
In November, I tried again. And again. And again. And realized I badly needed a break.<br />
<br />
In December, I hibernated. I had 12 days of doing nothing. And I realized I should have done this after we finished the film. Emotional check-ups are always a good idea after every endings. Also, I adopted a dog and I think Chewie (short for Chewbacca) helps with my anxiety.<br />
<br />
Looking back, I had a pretty shitty yet accomplished 2019 -- no wonder I was such a bitch! The year tested my patience, strengthened my endurance, and made me realize that the world is still largely unexplored and awaits conquering. Here's to new passions, new loves, and new opportunities! I am awake now.Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-28217053223443045282019-12-13T18:55:00.002+08:002019-12-13T18:56:37.178+08:00What's it like?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Recently, I've been in a very introspective period, a phase triggered by two news of deaths: one from someone I've heard of, another of someone I work with. I am not personally close to both.</div>
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When November gave way to December, two people died. Dr. Ed Gomez, a national scientist and the man behind the largely-successful repopulation of the giant clams in the Philippines. Sue, a colleague I only know online through our news desk. </div>
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I learned of Dr. Gomez's death first. His contributions to marine research were significant -- he conducted the first nationwide assessment of the coral reefs in the country in 1981, which led to conservation policies that continue to get updated, improved until today. He also helped repopulate the giant clams in the 1980s. From two giant clams, our waters now have more than a hundred thousand. And yes, it's the same giant clams that Chinese vessels illegally harvested in areas of the South China Sea under the Philippines' exclusive economic zone.<br />
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"I wondered what's that like," I told June a few days ago. "To spend your entire life doing one thing you're extremely passionate about."<br />
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"Imagine what it's like see all your hard work get stolen before you die," was her only response.<br />
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It's also the same question that came to my mind when I heard of Sue's death. She doesn't want anyone at work to know. With the kind of set-up we have, it was easy to hide her ailment. With Sue's death, I asked the same thing. What's it like to live doing only one thing? To sustain a passion for a cause to the point that you continue doing it despite your body slowly betraying you?<br />
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What's it like?</div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-61960104195718801292019-11-17T22:38:00.001+08:002019-11-18T03:35:07.378+08:00Why I left journalism, and why I returned<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the last two weeks, <a href="https://twitter.com/edsMNL" target="_blank">Editors of Manila</a>'s Twitter thread on why journos left the field, which revealed the downsides of working in the local journalism landscape, has been attracting a massive amount of attention. I was awfully struck when a very private former colleague jumped into the bandwagon and lamented why he left the profession.<br />
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Here are the things I agree on:<br />
- To be an entry- and mid-level journalist in the Philippines is to be perpetually 'woke' but broke.<br />
- The newsroom culture is demanding (no holidays, low overtime pay, low pay rates) and the most competitive newsrooms are riddled with toxic masculinity.<br />
- Things can get catty and snarky (especially in the beat). Plus, double standards. Period.<br />
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This had me thinking: Were these the same reasons I left the profession? I don't think so. The last time I was an in-house reporter was in 2010. I've been freelancing for a decade and officially ended my love affair with journalism in 2015. Now I'm back, albeit, not employed by a local media outfit.<br />
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I guess I'm luckier than most -- I never struggled with a minimal pay because, for some odd reason, I was well taken care of by my editors. I don't remember much my cash-strapped struggling cub reporter self. I do, however, remember the coverages I loathe, the times I burned the midnight oil for a story that would go stale if I wait for daylight, the times my colleagues and I lamented the bulk of data we had to wade through while eating lunch. When I hark back to my early days as a journalist, I remember having fun. But of course that's just hindsight, the challenges morphing to insider jokes and running gags that keep us preoccupied on days we all meet up for coffee, a luxury we never had ten years ago. Being so young, idealistic, and optimistic, those years were the heydays -- ones that formed a deep bond among former colleagues-turned-housemates-turned-siblings and that connection lasts until today.<br />
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The industry burned me, yes, but I remember the laughter and the stupidity, not, never the pain.<br />
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---<br />
<br />
Over Vietnamese dishes, Jen and I talked about our girlhood dreams. Hers was to publish a book, mine was to become a novelist. Every step I took from the age of seven until 24 was geared towards that: writing a novel. But then, I also dreamed of getting a banner headline, covering the elections, writing a series of investigative stories, headwriting a show, directing a film...<br />
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"Have you ever had a dream that's not connected to your work?" she asked.<br />
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"Never," I said. "Maybe becoming a novelist?" That, I added, has been the most elusive so far. I had the opportunity to publish some flash fiction stories two years ago when I was prolific. Then the intensity fizzled out as I ventured into filmmaking, and the stories left unedited and abandoned, dying with the publishing deal.<br />
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"Do you regret your choices?" Our desserts arrived: a beautiful green steamed rice cake drizzled with sweeteners. It was refreshing to the palate, a gentle ender to a savory feast.<br />
<br />
"Maybe if I didn't leave journ, I would have had a book by now -- at least given my career pace ten years ago. If not a novel, maybe something more journalistic." The rice cake wobbled under my silver spoon. "I would have crossed off 'write a book' in my life goals."<br />
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"But hey, at least you made something out of the choices you made." Jen smiled. "At least you can cross off 'direct a film' and 'headwrite a show'."<br />
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"A pain in the ass show, yeah. Off the list -- never happening again."<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
I left journalism because it was tiring to sit on the fence and watch the world commit the same mistakes. Sure you have front row seats to history but if the road to that was fucked, won't you feel bad? Besides, I was young and the world was unexplored. I will not let the newsroom feast on my youth, I said. So I jumped out of my stable, regular, and would-have-been high paying job, abandoned the prospect of becoming an editor, and explored the uneasy, volatile, and capricious world of entertainment television.<br />
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Out of the industry, I saw its many faults, limitations. In the back burner I raised an eyebrow as it struggled with the new lay of the land, bat an eyelash at how its reporters, once belittled in my days for "only being an online journalist" grew to influential heights, glorified even. I saw former colleagues get ostracised for their "objectivity," which they defended to death even as they ironically voice out their personal opinions on their social media accounts. I saw how some reverted to the lame "I'm not a journalist" excuse to escape criticisms because, after all, they took a different undergraduate degree, overlooking the fact that once one belongs to a media outfit, its ethics and standards should be the norm and not the exception, and that attachment officially makes them "journalists."<br />
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I left without regrets and pursued creative writing because it was a calling. Television opened my cloistered little self to realities on the ground, exposed me to socio-cultural sentiments beyond what can captured by a news report. I'd be a hypocrite if I say I didn't miss journalism -- day in and out, I wondered what it's like to come back, to feel the accomplishment of a byline, to bask in the rush of a breaking news, to be part of a collective high in an election war room, to temper the agonizing excitement of doing fieldwork on a story that nobody has written about yet...<br />
<br />
I cried when I signed my exclusive television contract because it signaled the end of my life as a journalist. But I also cried when I left television, cried when I left my humanitarian work to make a film, and felt the emptiest after finishing my first full-length feature. All those transitions hurt. Every ending was closing the door to another life, to another me in another time.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
"I'm back to square one," Jum said while we endured the Pasig City traffic on a lazy Saturday afternoon. We just finished window shopping for a toy poodle in Tiendesitas and her little baby, an energetic Yorkie named Cooper snoozed on her lap as she turned the wheel. "I realize I have to be active on Facebook and Twitter again so I can rebuild my personal brand and my sources."<br />
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"Yeah, and I have to stop ranting on Twitter. It's no longer a private space," I mumbled. "My old contacts are either retired or off the grid." But that's not the hardest part, I said, it's when you stare at a blank Word document, churn out words for hours only to realize you don't know how to write anymore and the words are... missing in action. "I feel like a fresh graduate. Especially when my copy comes back and it has so many red marks... I feel like I'll never be able to write the way I used to... But you know, maybe it's just my ego getting in the way. <i>So what if I suck?</i>"<br />
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Jum laughed. "What will you give up to be a brilliant writer again?"<br />
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"Directing. You?"<br />
<br />
"Being a managing editor." She hit the brakes. We're trapped in another Carmageddon. <br />
<br />
Don't you feel that we're being too <i>burgis</i> (UP's demeaning term for an elitist or someone who thinks like one)? Instead of returning to journalism with a higher calling (like change the world), we're returning for self-improvement.<br />
<br />
"I just want to be good at writing again."<br />
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<i>Who wouldn't?</i> I realized. We're too old to wallow in the financial insecurity that comes with working for media, too old for regrets and wounded pride. These new jobs are not mere vanity projects after all. We laughed at what we lost and what we thought we gained, smiled at the prospect of returning to a place we never left.<br />
<br />
Cooper raised his head, extended his paws toward my seat, and ruminated jumping to my lap. Instead, he went back to sleep.Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-27153210058987758492018-11-03T18:36:00.000+08:002018-11-03T18:37:58.513+08:00Panglao’s Trash, in Perspective<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkKhPL13IIlDWIkhS5Dj9GHZxtaHqiWT9CjynHXexDIOPNHB0zJa-xBTKTCWa-hfPgmtN9_xlQovZP7d_KI5aF470eFZhZyqVN0TFvpnLxq16rywHvXxfhO-z8JabmUfmEtHxEi-y/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-11-03+at+6.30.34+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="489" data-original-width="864" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkKhPL13IIlDWIkhS5Dj9GHZxtaHqiWT9CjynHXexDIOPNHB0zJa-xBTKTCWa-hfPgmtN9_xlQovZP7d_KI5aF470eFZhZyqVN0TFvpnLxq16rywHvXxfhO-z8JabmUfmEtHxEi-y/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-11-03+at+6.30.34+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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After months of labouring on this material, it finally came out in Newsbreak, now the investigative arm of <a href="http://rappler.com/"><span style="color: #e4af09;">Rappler.com</span></a>. This series on Panglao tries to answer one question: Why are there trash no the beaches?</div>
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It’s a simple question but the answer, not so. I looked for answers and got numerous positions, all on interlacing issues in the municipality. Simple questions begets complicated answers, especially on a local governance context. </div>
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Anyway, I’m proud of this material—its surprisingly came out better than I anticipated. And that lay-out from Rappler really made this series extra special. So, read on:</div>
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Part 1: <a href="https://www.rappler.com/newsbreak/in-depth/215274-panglao-bohol-riding-tourism-cash-cow" target="_blank">Panglao: Riding the tourism cash cow</a></div>
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<li style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">where I validated that Panglao has been receiving tourists that were originally headed for Boracay, registering the highest recorded in 10 years.</li>
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Part 2: <a href="https://www.rappler.com/newsbreak/in-depth/215362-garbage-as-price-panglao-bohol-tourist-destination" target="_blank">Garbage in Paradise: The price of Panglao’s rise as tourist destination</a></div>
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<li style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">where I connected the tourism and waste nexus—easy in Panglao’s case—and establish how waste management plans are underestimating trash volumes from by tourism</li>
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Part 3: <a href="https://www.rappler.com/newsbreak/in-depth/215424-panglao-bohol-solid-waste-new-system-old-problems" target="_blank">New system for old problems: Panglao’s struggle with solid waste</a></div>
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<li style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">where I discussed the solid waste management system of Panglao and how it is burdened by two types of trash: those accumulated from history and the burgeoning trash of the present</li>
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Part 4: <a href="https://www.rappler.com/newsbreak/in-depth/215506-tourism-funds-waste-management-conservation" target="_blank">In Panglao: Tourism funds waste management and conservation</a></div>
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<li style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">where I looked at earnings from tourism and how the municipality allocates this, and eventually cutting budgets for waste management</li>
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Part 5: <a href="https://www.rappler.com/newsbreak/in-depth/215668-erring-establishments-politics-add-panglao-garbage-problems" target="_blank">Trouble in Panglao: Erring establishments, politics add to garbage woes</a></div>
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<li style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">where I co-related the garbage problem with bigger social issues, particularly how politicians are overlooking violations by businesses for fear of pull-outs </li>
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Writing this series was very challenging because of the overwhelming data that the municipality has provided me. But at the end of the day, there’s no choice but to write when deadline looms. I also feel that I’m kinda serendipitous when it comes to writing materials… because all of a sudden, this topic became relevant. I can’t wait to make more special reports in the future! - <i>11/03/2018</i></div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-84064353390257593022018-10-24T19:24:00.000+08:002019-11-18T15:12:12.938+08:00Is long-form investigative writing dead?<div style="color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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Last night, I had the opportunity to sit down with my editor to discuss a special report that I’ve been working on for months. I submitted the first draft—to her horror—a three-part story, each having 4,000-4,500 words (roughly 6-8 pages). </div>
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It’s too much, I know. For online, my usual limit at stories is 4 pages (2,000 words) but I haven’t written a special report in a while and I have tons of data. If you grew up in an investigative media organization like Newsbreak, honed by editors with JVOs, then you’re used to churning out 6-8 pages for a special/investigative report.</div>
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But times are changing. News magazine is dying and online is all the rave nowadays. The quicker the read, the better. But you see, my sensibilities seem to have stagnated—reading short pieces make me feel deprived. I want ‘em long and overflowing with insights and figures and dynamics. Skimming just isn’t my cup of tea.</div>
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So as Ms Chay relayed the usual statistics they get over stories, the reading patters, trends, and whatnots, I couldn’t help but ask: Is long-form writing dead? Can we not read the same lengthy meaty investigative reports that are full of the most amazing turns of phrases?</div>
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No, she said. As figures also indicate that there are still readers who read through Part 1 to Part 7 (yes, it reached that point because a normal online long article should contain 1,500 words only) but these people are limited and the hits they generate do not place said article in the Top 5 most-read stories in a month, maybe even in a year. </div>
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“But long from is still alive,” she said. She hopes.</div>
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But really, is it?</div>
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For international news sites, its up and well. But locally, it’s obviously struggling. Because how else can you explain why a material that should have been written in 3 parts gets spread into seven, maybe even eight parts? I mean, could you read a story on the same theme for a whole week?</div>
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But then again, you have soap opera. Shown every day, for 30 minutes. </div>
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Yeah, I figured. Maybe long-form article packaged as short-form can work.</div>
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This had me harking back to my travel magazine days when 1,500 is common for a full-length travel feature article. Actually, the standard is 1,800 for a major destination (the ones that are placed on the cover). </div>
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The longest I’ve written was for an international publication: 2,600 words or a whopping 5-6 pages for a special report on surfing. (She said it’d fill 7 pages so I know that in reality, she only needs 1,800 words. I didn’t say anything… it was my first feature story for them.)</div>
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But surrounding said long-form articles are stories that range from 150 words to 800 words. The most common is 1,200. So on paper, I can easily gauge a material. I’d know if my editor is pulling my leg when she asks for 500 words because if I see the sample layout and it covers half the page, I’d know I only need to churn out 150. Na-ah, there are pictures, remember? And the layout had to be pleasant and charming without screaming for attention. </div>
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So why does my magazine upbringing matter when it comes to the special report that I’m doing for an online news site? </div>
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Well...I have to imagine how my article would come out when it’s laid out—no, not as a spread but as one long scroll. Because 1,500 words aren’t so bad… it’s 3-4 pages on Word; with pictures, videos, and graphics, it can extend to 5-6 pages. So 1,500 words is surprisingly a good length to work with for a special report. </div>
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No more beating around the bush ala feature writing. Get the right verbs, make the paragraphs succinct, deliver the ideas straight to the point. The turns of phrases, after all, aren’t based on length, it's based on writing style and quality. </div>
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Yeah, maybe long-form isn’t dead—we really cannot tell unless it's buried ten meters deep—and maybe, it’s still finding stable ground after the great move from paper to screen.</div>
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So after rewriting my three-part series, it has now extended to seven parts, with each piece ranging from 1,200 to 1,500 words. I kinda like how they read better, crisper now. I guess it doesn’t matter how long or short the article is. If one loves writing, it will show.</div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-39871744175999460082018-06-18T14:22:00.000+08:002019-11-18T15:13:28.720+08:00And here we are<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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I am beginning to feel that sluggishness of having to update an outdated blog account. Blogging seemed to have been largely abandoned in my time and space, largely because I no longer avidly attend writing classes and I became more active in other social media accounts. But I still think blogging is a good habit to maintain because it forces me to sit down and dedicate time for my writing—a leisure nowadays since I’m frequently distracted by Netflix and just hanging out online. </div>
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Anyway, let’s talk about my film.</div>
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Late last year, I coaxed Libay into joining a film festival. I had a concept but since my work at an international NGO was time-consuming, I needed the help of a friend to put that idea into a workable material. Also, I don’t feel confident with my writing since the last time I wrote a script was for my cable show early last year. Anyway, I had a concept and Libay liked it. We think it fits the very limited production budget from the festival. Also, we think it was easy to mount. </div>
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We developed the concept for a month, meeting only one weekend to nail down the material. The original theme was old-age suicide, inspired by what happened to one of our bosses. I wrote the storyline based on our initial brainstorming. But it was too depressing. We wanted something light, something that would make us laugh and cry and rake in audiences of all ages. We wanted something fun. </div>
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Thinking about this suicide concept had me coming up with another concept, albeit a different one: about life, finding a new life, an invigoration in old age. So, we changed the material. As usual, I was tasked with writing the storyline (a common thing if one co-writes with me). But writing the storyline was a feat: the characters and the plot we created weren’t sinking in. I feel like a hypocrite if I write them down. So, with four days before the deadline, I raised the ax and killed the material we developed.</div>
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I made a new storyline, a new outline, and a new treatment. Libay still wanted to co-write so we divided the material. Nica, who I tapped as a co-director, was also willing to give the material a shot. These two ladies helped me write a full outline and we were able to meet the deadline.</div>
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It was 9 in the morning when I trooped to Manila, had our treatment printed out, bound, and submitted for the festival. I did it alone and it was okay. It would be our little secret... if we fail to make the cut, we’d be the only ones who knew the disappointment.</div>
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I had the most exhilarating trip to Marawi City on January 31. I spent the day with meetings, plannings, and getting my shoulder to the wheel. My body and my mind were beaten and I was raring to drop. Then, a message came from a friend who’s also part of the festival came:</div>
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“If your entry gets picked, who will direct it?”</div>
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Friend asked. I was tucked in bed when it came but I stood up, opened the window, and lit a cigarette in the middle of the night, in the humid Iligan air.</div>
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“Me and Nica?” I answered, unsure. “If they don’t like us... I can ask a more experienced director friend to direct it.”</div>
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We exchanged a few more messages but the bottom line was this: The material was shortlisted! And they don’t mind that a pair of newbies (Nica and I) would direct the material. </div>
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I told Nica, who excitedly waited for the email the next day. I was surprised but I didn’t get to process it yet because I was busy with my fieldwork. I was only able to process it when I told TD and we celebrated over shots of vodka. </div>
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It was also during that time, the first weekend of February, that he told me he’s leaving for good, in 14 more days, a sudden news he didn’t share immediately because, like me, he also had to process it. So over a yummy Indian dinner, some cigarettes, and servings of our favorite poison, we decided to call it quits. </div>
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He’ll follow his dreams of working in Switzerland while I fulfill the desire of my young adolescent self: to make a film for this festival.</div>
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By March 1, Nica and I made the presentation. We were like two little college girls waiting for our turn, constantly reassuring ourselves that it will be okay. The funny thing was that, we didn’t expect to be shortlisted. How can we? We were inexperienced and raw. Sure, I’ve written hundreds of scripts but it was never for a film. Nica had made a lot of AVPs but never longer than 10mins. </div>
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Also, the decade out of college had been hard to us. We jumped from one job to another, always feeling much farther from the dream. Nica took the path of an editor while I took the path of a writer. The ending: to be directors. When we meet directors our age and I shared this teenage dream/fixation, they were surprised that we were exposed earlier to this industry, igniting the constant question: “What happened?” which was a harder-to-answer version of “why did you stop?”</div>
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I don’t know how to answer that. Even today, I don’t know why. Life happened? Our sensibilities changed? We wanted to do other things? I don’t know. But we always said to ourselves: One day, it was always one day. Someday. Until that one day became more than a decade.</div>
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Until we stopped wanting that dream. So getting the news was a rejuvenation of sorts. It’s not just a creative reawakening for us but also, a reminiscing of the old passion we had for the craft. After this one, Nica and I don’t know if it will be the first or the last. We just know we wanted to do this, get it over with at some point, reach the dream and then dream of something else. When we finish this material, we are also closing a chapter. I’d like to see it as a rite of passage from our adolescence to adulthood. </div>
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Its no wonder why, the script made us nostalgic. We think of the old films we loved from this festival, before we deemed it too “commercial”. (Maybe, we never stayed because we knew the landscape was changing and we do not know how to ride with it anymore. And, we do not want to accept that reality: that our life decisions were taking us further and further away.)</div>
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By May, we got the news that we’ve been selected as official finalists.</div>
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And here we are. <i>- 6/16/2018</i></div>
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Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-52796843907132428672018-01-13T00:01:00.000+08:002018-01-13T00:14:07.729+08:002017, a eulogyYou leave<br />
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me<br />
scars I rub to bleed fire.Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-55786668131545178572017-08-11T22:14:00.000+08:002018-10-27T22:21:31.474+08:00From the Editing VirginI finally found the time to edit my videos of NYC with Jason and Paul. And it's also my first shot at actually editing a material that's more than a minute, albeit on iMovies because to be honest, what do I know of editing?<br />
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So after almost a day labouring on this one, what do I think of editing? Super duper mega over tough.<br />
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Like I had to go through all the videos I took. And the worse part was that I shot without any story in mind--I just shot with Alab. Well, actually, I shot with the concept: walking NYC because it seemed to be just that: a place to walk, stroll, tip-tap, breeze through on foot. So I took videos of myself walking.<br />
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Editing it, was another story. I took videos of the boys so they have to be the source of the story here. So what new story did I come up with? See for yourself:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/229370409" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="640"></iframe>
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I also used an original song which captures the vibe of the area. Hope this isn't so terrible I'd totally ditch editing. <i>- 8/11/2017</i>Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-60596308805942099912017-06-13T10:03:00.000+08:002018-10-27T22:07:03.046+08:00A Sunset Catch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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TD and I saw these children last night while doing our mandatory walk along the beach. These kids, as we found out, were looking for shrimps and little octopus to eat. He immediately took out his GoPro while I adjusted Alab. I was unable to finish filming because my memory card got full—bummer! I learned so many lessons on shooting to be honest. Number 1: Always make sure to bring extra memory cards with available space. Second, it’s really tough to shoot on low-light.</div>
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I only edited this using iMovies because kinda lazy to open the more professional program. Here’s the video I edited (and hopefully, managed to salvage):</div>
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It’s not my best video (I seem to be regressing lately) but this made me want to continue and continue and continue practicing shooting videos. Hopefully, I’ll improve soon. <i>- 6/13/2017</i></div>
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Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-37061049220162728852017-01-22T15:55:00.001+08:002017-01-22T22:21:58.077+08:00It's Only January!<div>
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I could not get myself to stop staring at this photograph. I'm pathetic, I know. Especially since its not even true to begin with. This was a joke from the crew while we're shooting this project. The fact is this: I'm not directing this material--I was actually hired as a producer. But we don't have a director, only a cinematographer, animators, and a couple of other producers (writers, storytellers). Seeing my name affixed with Alfred's, who's a legit DOP, in this clapper, scene after scene, take after take... I can't help but be mesmerised. I am really pathetic.</div>
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But then again, if this is a premonition of sorts, I'd gladly embrace it. I believe in signs, after all.<br />
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Its been two months since I started working as a creative producer. The assignments have been laid out last December and my calendar is swarming with script deadlines, contact lists, auditions, prod shoots, and previews. Its a different ballgame altogether--I used to only write scripts. I've never been too involved before, now, I should. My six years in television have cultivated a certain level of detachment: I let go of my scripts once its with my headwriter, I don't attend prod shoots, and I definitely do not sit down during editing sessions. I write, wait for feedback, revise, then wait for the material to air only to get disappointed that the director or the actors didn't maximise the material. Its a never-ending cycle of inspiration and disappointments. If you're too attached, you lose.<br />
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With my new job, I'm present in all areas of production. Its definitely a step-up and its an improvement I imagined myself doing countless times. When dreams are in your head, they don't take forms... But when they take shape, the feeling is beyond surreal--dreams cease to be limited in the romanticised realms of my head, they become tangible objects I can grab and contain.<br />
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I am definitely in a better place.<br />
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The exodus did me good. The new environment opened my senses to the bigger picture. I feel like I am free to create again, with no formula, no tradition, no rules hanging over my head like a curse. Of course, in time, this freedom will morph into another cage. For now, while I'm still new to the experience, I'm enjoying the space.<br />
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My boss is a visionary who accomplished feats in the industry. She produced the movies I've grown up with, the few brilliant ones in the mainstream industry. She's a perfectionist and a seasoned storyteller. She's traditional the way the mainstream world is traditional. But she knows how to combine art and formula. She knows how to make art <i>work</i>. A wide range of filmography has proven that she's made it work.<br />
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Last week, she asked the group to do a vision board for the year. It doesn't have to be extensive, only five items will suffice. In mine, I've listed:<br />
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1) Go to London<br />
2) Stage my first play<br />
3) Get into an international screenwriting workshop<br />
4) Direct my first short film<br />
5) Finish the murals in my condo<br />
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As if. Dream on. Crossing fingers. Good luck. Start now. The list is mad crazy impossible. But I love mad crazy impossible. So if I throw it out there... maybe, just maybe, it will be thrown back.<br />
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Then we go back to the clapper.<br />
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Aside from my regular creative producer responsibilities, I've also taken in some more on the side. The production shoot earlier this week is one of those. Its for an animated material that will be launched online next month. I accepted the <i>raket</i> without batting an eyelash. Nica just had to say one thing: Animation. Its not a secret that I love animation, that I love Japanese animation, that I love the surreal (the more French, the better). So when this project landed on my lap, I just thanked the universe.<br />
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Aside from this, I'll be working on a drama series for free television. Its not the most enticing proposition but I accepted because I need the training (and the money, of course). Headwriting a show is different from writing a show. I need to walk the talk, see if my theory is correct: that the <i>masa</i> audience can appreciate a different form of storytelling, that the powers-that-be shouldn't relegate their productions to what worked in the past, that we should always push the envelope.<br />
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You can't stay in the past if you want to be a revolutionary. (I learned that much from Lala Land.) Young writers can do either one of two things: 1) Reinforce the established norms of storytelling or 2) To continuously challenge the traditional forms and create contemporary and experimental ways to tell a story. I'm done with the first. I'm doing the latter.<br />
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When I'm questioning the path because its riddled with rules, I always go back to my favourite novelists: Kafka had a day job and hailed the writing devil at night, Mann worked in an insurance company, Le Carré was a spy, and Woolf was homeschooled. They never had creative writing degrees. Their crafts stemmed from their passion to tell stories. They are trailblazers. They helped shape what gets studied in class.<br />
<br />
There are formulas to make a story sellable, but there is no formula to write beautiful stories. - <i>1/22/2017</i>Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-20800774651583547772017-01-06T20:03:00.000+08:002017-01-22T20:21:03.576+08:00We Are All StorytellersLast month, my ex-favourite person (it became so after this video) sent me a video on why I shouldn't call myself a storyteller. The bottomline is this: Don't call yourself a storyteller if what you make is bullshit; and that "real storytellers" (i.e. limited to those who write novels and make feature films) never call themselves as such. The message that struck me most is that identifying yourself as a storyteller is so common nowadays that it has lost its "prestige".<br />
<br />
My opinion: A perspective of a bourgeois traditionalist.<br />
<br />
And coming from someone I admire and liked at some point, I was aghast. Was I offended? Of course I was. When I watched it, I got angry. I still do. One, an artist seldom identifies him/herself as a storyteller in these parts. Its not common. Two, what is bullshit? Should I measure my works based on a few people who revel in binaries? Who can only say my art is bullshit because of comparison? Three, it plays the "exclusive" card that mutes and discourages passionate people from continuing what they're doing--that the world can only have one artist, one designer, one painter, one scriptwriter, one storyteller, who can hit the high marks in one go. And that to be granted the right to label yourself as such, you need to adhere to standards that the powers-that-be imposed. That's crap.<br />
<br />
Aren't we all storytellers? So what if we're all storytellers? The world is changing and it will continue to evolve. If you cannot ride the waves, you become a Luddite.<br />
<br />
On a non-rhetorical and more personal perspective, I'll go with this... I've written essays (and won a lot of competition back in the days), news and feature articles, online branded content, hundreds of narrative scripts for television, and now, I'm producing narratives for the local cable. I paint, I do pottery, I take photographs (and has even published some). What should I identify myself with given the range of formats that I've written and can write in, in both fiction and nonfiction? Given the various media that I can produce? Isn't it appropriate that I cluster them altogether into one word? As a storyteller?<br />
<br />
Because in its simplest form, that is what I do: I tell stories.<br />
<br />
So, immature me blocked my ex-favourite person in social media, for good. He had it coming. My point is: If you can't respect people as individuals, then respect them as artists. If you can't respect them as artists because "artist" is too high-brow and exclusive for you, then at least respect them as creators. <i>- 1/16/2017</i>Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-58859585459448254742016-12-31T20:14:00.001+08:002017-01-01T14:00:38.978+08:00Remembering RememberingThe year 2016 will close in a few hours and my Facebook feed gets bombarded with how horrible the current year had been with its share of shocking international events and high-profile deaths. Its the worst year, they say. Given how my world turned upside down this year, I might also say the same.<br />
<br />
But I remember 2009 as my most difficult year yet I don't remember what transpired during that time. 2016 was difficult, yes, but it strengthened my foundations. Maybe, in the long run, I will not look back with anger but with gratitude for the year that started my future.<br />
<br />
In January, I relearned passion. A month away from home recharged my creative juices. The new environment did me well and I remember this month as full of drive and determination. I remember looking out the window and seeing a world that awaits conquering.<br />
<br />
In February, I pushed my boundaries. I applied for the international job I've wanted and submitted my first-ever one-act play for a local theatre festival. I realised I define my boundaries and push them when I can, when I think I should. And I should always feel that I should push the envelope. As Princess Tarhata said: "The world belongs to the bold."<br />
<br />
In March, I found my ground through flight. A talk with Cyril made me realise my nature: I am not a flower that waits to bloom, I am a bird. I am at my best when I am free. And that despite the adventures, I still need a nest to return to. <br />
<br />
In April, I moved to my new home. my bat cave is small but well-lit. And the space fits my need for freedom. Staying in my balcony made me feel like belonging to the world. I and my art do not live in a vacuum. I am a vessel of the world and my art is my permutation of the world.<br />
<br />
In May, I relearned that money is only necessary for paying the bills--it could enrich my skills, but not my talents. Edith Piaf said "they cannot print enough money to pay for our talents" and she was correct. I write because I love to write, not because I'm going to earn from it.<br />
<br />
In June, I learned to face reality. I let go of travelling for pleasure. If I cannot find myself at home then it is impossible to find myself anywhere else. Travelling to find oneself is pretentious; I am not an escapist. Real clarity can be found despite the noise, not without it.<br />
<br />
In July, I fell in love. It breezed through me like air. Unnoticed, fleeting, unwanted yet necessary. I will always wonder why it came at a time when I wasn't looking for anyone to be with.<br />
<br />
In August, I chose to stay. The rush came and left too quickly. He decided to be practical while I relished the intensity. In the end, my feelings burned me but I will never regret choosing to stay. When given a chance between walking away and loving, I will always choose to love.<br />
<br />
In September, I left my job of six years. The departure enabled me to identify the people who had my best interests at heart. He was uncaring about my whole predicament.<br />
<br />
In October, I learned compassion. We want what we want. We love what we love. People do what gives them happiness, even if it means hurting someone else. On my end, I can always choose to forgive and keep my distance. Happiness is a choice.<br />
<br />
In November, I learned to give up. There's nothing wrong with having standards and choosing to be with people who embodies those standards. I've built them through the years, by experience, by surviving pain. I lost people, feelings, hope and happiness, but in the end, I felt like a winner. If given a choice between happiness and peace of mind, I should always choose peace of mind.<br />
<br />
In December, I learned to let go. Despite how I want what was, I cannot return to the past. People leave and people stay. Sometimes, in my immaturity, I pushed some away. I am keeping the ones who stayed. Because they are worth it. - <i>12/31/2016</i>Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-1489810439383068992016-11-08T21:31:00.001+08:002016-11-17T01:13:09.940+08:00The End<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5GjEe69hfRfGJNmLIVx3_N-TZdD__0yK8NWy0d6wbC-RlvfZZT_GX2JSSSuvTywX04RNdnRfa6CGSVF9H5T6xmOceoaTCqKU0EBeUC_bj-7zvB8EEScn8rR3wQEU0u3XIc1i13CH/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5GjEe69hfRfGJNmLIVx3_N-TZdD__0yK8NWy0d6wbC-RlvfZZT_GX2JSSSuvTywX04RNdnRfa6CGSVF9H5T6xmOceoaTCqKU0EBeUC_bj-7zvB8EEScn8rR3wQEU0u3XIc1i13CH/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="230" /></a></div>
<br />
I believe in signs. It's not because they're romantic but because noticing them means one thing: awareness. When I get preoccupied with nagging thoughts and my feelings are in overdrive, I take a long walk around my neighbourhood to take in the world: the building traffic in Reliance, the convoy of tricycles and trucks, the salary people rushing to the train, the stray cats by the fishball vendor... I ask myself questions and through the process of asking, I find my answers.<br />
<br />
The vagueness of a street, the high walls, the darkening sky. The people, the noise, the dust, the emptiness of everything fills me. And in those moments of being there, being present in that state, I remember. The answers come.<br />
<br />
The storyline forms itself and my character begins to speak. The practicalities of my current situation floats for my attention, so do the options I can take. The ambiguity of my lover becomes glaring red lights. I find my answers by simply being there.<br />
<br />
I've read somewhere that the present is the safest place for a troubled soul. And I agree. Yesterday, my job ended. Tomorrow, I might find out the lover belongs to another. But today, I am walking, relishing the stability of the pavement, feeling my toes, letting the city wind brush through my cheeks.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, things just end.<br />
<br />
A song from my favorite local artist says endings are also beginnings and speaks of the wariness of a future in an undefined present. But I don't necessarily have to think of the future when I can focus on today. Right here, right now. I love endings--I had too many endings I should know how to deal with it. I love the bittersweet taste of completion. The culmination of a phase is both exciting and terrifying. Everything is headed for an inevitable decline so why not enjoy the ride? The best I can do is carry the good things and walk on. <i>- 11/8/2016</i>Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-17584375843830796412016-11-06T14:55:00.002+08:002016-11-06T15:15:13.430+08:00Sunday<b>8:03 a.m.</b><br />
<br />
I am on the verge of a creative breakdown.<br />
<br />
I've been ruminating on a feature film concept since June but my muse hasn't been cooperative. The story idea came from Purple who, when asked what propels her to wake up everyday, told me about this community who managed to rebuild their livelihood after Yolanda. She has accommodated all my queries and has emailed tons of readings, articles and reports. I'm even in the loop for the on-site training and am ready to book a flight once they finalise the dates.<br />
<br />
But I remain unfeeling and uninspired.<br />
<br />
And a tad insecure too. Have I lost the magic after leaving television? I have not written a decent script in more than a year now. I've always believed that a writer who is not writing is not a writer. That I am only as good as my last work. One year of doing nothing had this glaring after-effect. This dry spell is the worst I've had in years. I am suddenly devoid of <i>anything</i>. I must be depressed again.<br />
<br />
No wonder I harboured this deplorable antagonism for <i>them</i>. And why I cannot lower my pride to reach out and make amends, to at least salvage a portion of the burned bridge. They wasted my time, exhausted my patience, and repaid my loyalty with mediocrity.<br />
<br />
Ah, pathetic thoughts, of pathetic people, of pathetic me.<br />
<br />
<b>10:54 a.m.</b><br />
<br />
Its been two months already. It ended after almost a year of vicious bargaining and more than a year of frustration and restlessness and outright hostility. Despite wanting this freedom for so long, I feel a bit down. Blame that blasted dinner.<br />
<br />
Tin's now an editor for Bloomberg, Jay's moving to an Australian risk assessment company, Rey's swinging it at the BOC, Purple's an established environment activist, Ziel's almost done with law school, and Thea's a litigation lawyer for a top firm. And me? Current status: jobless. With an unfinished masters degree, a pile of incomplete first drafts, and a motivation that's close to none.<br />
<br />
<b>12:02 p.m.</b><br />
<br />
"You can finish it in two weeks."<br />
"I can't."<br />
"We have the training."<br />
"I lack the discipline."<br />
"You're a mess."<br />
"Yeah."<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>2:40 p.m.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I burned this week's daylight by watching Japanese animated movies and reading <i>shonen</i> manga. Stupid hero learns how to use the tools with a 'never give up' attitude. In the end, hero mastered the craft and the prize: recognition from colleagues who now regards him as a genius. I love these stories the most, for some weird reason.<br />
<br />
Last weekend, I watched that notable Shinkai movie and replayed Hosada's adapted film of the same theme. These dropped a realisation: I used to create stories of this nature, with a simplicity that snowballs into poignant complications that lack mainstream storytelling's 'bigness'. I'm not a found story writer but I'm also not a mainstream storyteller. My sensibility has always been nestled in-between.<br />
<br />
More than half a decade in the industry and television ate my soul, limiting my thought process to the capacities of the idiot box. And maybe that's the problem: I continue to think like a soap opera writer. Maybe I cannot nail down my feature film story because I still have that boxed and outdated mentality.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My argument with Jules sort of confirmed this. My snobbish responses to his criticism (not of me but of an article I shared) riled me up. But after a few responses, I realised I was getting gungho on a non-issue. Why do I still defend journalism when I'm no longer a journalist? Why do I try to explain social science research when I'm no longer a social science researcher?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, I swing that question to my current predicament: Why do I still think like a soap writer when I'm done writing soap operas? <i>- 11/6/2016</i></div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-49115833228416147922016-09-14T20:26:00.000+08:002016-09-24T20:29:21.142+08:00Daylight's wasting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/7L-Rwxoc2jU/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7L-Rwxoc2jU?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<br />Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-12669948187580785522016-08-28T21:07:00.000+08:002016-09-01T13:24:00.449+08:00Saturday NightThey don’t put bubbles in the milktea anymore. They omitted the Thai version and retained this one, a brown concoction with more milk than tea. I barely remembered how the old one tasted and as I stirred the tall glass, I realized I do miss the bubbles. Nica arrived with the twilight to find me in my favorite balcony table, my mind swimming in smoke.<br />
<br />
“I was with Kim at the art fair earlier.”<br />
“How was it?”<br />
“Good. Tempting as shit.” I killed my stick. “Kim’s into this health networking thing. She attended a conference in Bangkok last July and came back a different person. Do you know what she said when her dad asked her about the whole experience?”<br />
“What?”<br />
“I saw my future.”<br />
“Wow.”<br />
“She stood in that conference hall with 18,000 people and saw her future.”<br />
“That’s great!”<br />
I lit another stick. “Have you ever felt that way? I mean, being in this place and knowing that you belong? That this is where you see yourself for the next so and so years? Doing this?”<br />
“Yes of course! I felt it once… no, twice. The first was when <i>Tatlong Piso</i> was shown at CCP.”<br />
“I was sitting beside you—you felt that exhilarated?”<br />
“Yes! Seeing people’s reaction, hearing them laugh… I sat there and realized: This is my future. Making films. You?”<br />
“Never.”<br />
“Ever?”<br />
“Ever.”<br />
<br />
+++<br />
<br />
My chopsticks pierced another chunk of Japanese rice while Nica narrated the plot twist of her week. I had the same, though it had been hanging over for the last six months it’s no longer a plot twist but an overused device. I had Japanese for lunch, and another yesterday. This was my third <i>katsudon</i> in a row. The air reeked of pepper and grilled meat.<br />
<br />
“<i>He</i> said I’m stubborn. That I don’t know how to stop… I only did because I was right.”<br />
“That’s the Leo in you!”<br />
“But I’m not stubborn. When did I ever go against <i>him</i>? <i>Them</i>? I’m at the fucking bottom of the food chain here.” I stuffed another ball of rice into my mouth. It tasted like sandpaper.<br />
“Well… you rocked the boat. And they’re handling it immaturely.” Nica was almost done with her plate.<br />
Silence.<br />
“I’m not really affected by all the politics… and the rumours.”<br />
“But you’re gloomy. You’re in snail mode today… treading carefully, slowly. I think that’s a good pace.”<br />
“I felt... betrayed.”<br />
“I can understand why you feel that way for <i>him</i> because he’s your mentor. But what about <i>her</i>?”<br />
“I dropped my guard the first day we met. I thought maybe if it’s with her, I can try one last time. Trust one last time.”<br />
“That is sad.”<br />
“I choose to be vulnerable with the wrong people lately.”<br />
<br />
+++<br />
<br />
The last stop: a frozen yogurt shop where my old flavor got phased out a few months ago. Times were changing. I scooped a pink twirl and rolled it over my taste buds. Strawberries. We have just finished brainstorming for Nica’s short film and agreed to exchange creative calendars. Just to check on each other’s progress.<br />
<br />
“Feeling good? Feeling good?”<br />
“Very.” This flavour was better than the pomegranate.<br />
“It’s a new season for us.”<br />
“Yeah… I love freefalling.” My cup was almost empty. “I’m on my toes all the time.”<br />
“I know, right. When was the last time you felt this way?”<br />
“More than five years ago.” At least I can answer that. “When I left journalism for television.”<br />
“And we have only one place to go now.”<br />
I smiled. Of course.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-25399081350490887382016-08-12T13:00:00.001+08:002016-08-12T19:37:50.448+08:00Stalemate<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Raindrops hit my ankles as I breeze through the cobblestones. Looming around are ancestral houses painted new, in a street littered with kitschy bags and magnets and chic restaurants, where your words hung like the strong aroma of drenched earth. Fleeting, leaving to come again. As the wind whip my summer dress, I lose my thoughts to the heady month of our connection, the blissful haze of words and stares and everything in-between. I breathe out. And inhale. The earth fills me.</span></div>
<div>
__</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The cobblestones end across the church and everything begins to look like the present. Cars abound and turn in the roundabout alongside horses. Rizal welcomes guests to the famous dancing fountain and the plaza. Yellow bells bloom in shades of magenta and light pink, bathing in the mist. I whisper a wish. The skies remain cloudy.</div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">__</span></div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">They stand like military men under thinning acacia trees, beside each other, backs tied to a wooden carriage. They have the same color, the same stance, the same shape, even the same eye patch. The hair, shaved. The skin, thin coarse graying wet. A hind leg trembles. A front leg takes a step back. Release. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Horses should be wild and free and beautiful. </span></div>
</div>
<div>
__</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Often, I ask myself if this is the endgame, that for all the efforts and risks we are given this cul-de-sac. We stop, you and I, and I wonder if we had sights set on testing each other’s patience, abusing this almost impossible connection, shrugging shoulders over an impasse we see coming but did not evade. Maybe we willed, wanted this all along.</div>
<div>
__</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I feel the cobblestones again. I am back in time. And I realize, the past should be forgotten, buried in the abyss of receding memories. There is a reason structures deteriorate and history fades and civilizations disappear. Habits live and habits die. Like our words, slowly losing its meaning. </div>
<div>
__</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I pick up a broken terracotta stone from the side of the road, its edges dirtied with gravel. I take it from its siblings and roll it over my fingers like a prized mineral. Cold and rough, I realize, and drenched, this stone I stole. And as I palm its edges, relief trickles into my body and pulls me back to where I am: in a land that retains the past for piece meals, walking with myself, under the crying sky.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Can we take a pause and then try again?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-46200017836798201162016-08-09T23:23:00.001+08:002016-08-12T19:34:04.124+08:00Childhood Bedroom<div class="MsoNormal">
I was nine when Mama decided to wash the
whole house in light pink. My room was not spared. Pink was nice but too girly
and the sudden colour change, I took as intrusion. So on a hot summer day, while
my siblings were busy with Gameboys, I picked up my spare acrylic paints and
bastardised the immaculate walls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My choice of design were flowers in red,
yellow, and blue intertwined with green swirling vines. The intention was to
paint from one end of the door to another, in an endless route that passed the
windows and spread across the room. It served as a demarcation, a line to
differentiate my paradise from the rest of the house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Day and night, I painted with instinct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little swish of paint here, a little
contour there… I repeated swirls that worked and relished the accomplishment of
perfecting some flowers. Nothing stopped me, not my siblings seeking refuge,
not the rain, not the rampage beyond the door, not the heat, not sleep. The
more things happened at the other side of the wall, I more I painted. The more
I painted, the more detached I became. And as my canvass filled with vines, the
more it belonged to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My paint dried out after a week, exactly
after I dabbed the last petal on a blooming red flower. It was already dark and
the screams have dissipated. The house was still and waiting. Mama entered my
sanctuary when I was already on the bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I’m sleeping here tonight.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As she crawled into my grove, I ruminated
how to paint the ceiling to mimic the Milky Way and how to make the paint stand
out in the dark. And as Mama whimpered and the acrylic dried, I closed my eyes and savoured the comfort of being surrounded by beautiful things. - <i>8/9/2016</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-67068093360566407932016-07-30T14:48:00.001+08:002016-08-12T19:34:32.538+08:00Bunso<div>
In this photo you are a conqueror. Do you notice how we crowd to you? How we struggle to get into the frame, be included in your light? You are full of possibilities. You are back to being the happy gentle bunso I used to cradle to sleep in the 90s.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We always know you had the potential and the stable temperament to become a military general-your dream before Guillan Barré stole your leg and your confidence. You stopped. We stopped with you, pretended to stop with you. We moved in and about while you stayed in, refusing to be the burden you never wanted to become.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I saw how you deteriorated, how you looked away when I bring up the issue. My callousness showed once. Take music classes and do compositions, I said. That way you don't need to get out of the house. You shut up. I have offended you. You stopped therapy sessions, ceased <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">using walkers, refused to meet with friends. You became less of your old self.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And now look at you! A decade after, outside the house. And with a wheelchair you chose yourself. And you tell me, over bites of sushi, that you registered to be a voter last week. I say that's great. You'll get a voter's ID next year. You smile. You are back. - <i>7/27/2016</i></div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-17827408033063162612016-07-08T22:02:00.001+08:002016-07-08T22:02:13.128+08:00Seattle’s Best Coffee, Tomas Morato<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Tuesday, July 5, 6:44 p.m. to 7:23 p.m.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">An ageing woman has a plump foot propped up
on a wooden chair. She wears a bright blue baseball cap paired with a lime
yellow <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sando</i> worn over a white shirt.
She rakes heavy-lidded eyes over the deepening traffic in Tomas Morato.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A large bag sits on her table, hard plastic
with Disney princesses. She stands up and approaches my table, which I share
with my friend Cyril, a man with a samurai bun. We sit at the smoking area. yril has been busy typing a comedy script in his black
laptop, puffing after every gap. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Woman touches a box of cigarette on
the table. Marlboro Menthol. Light. Smoking causes emphysema, it reads.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magkano
mo nakuha ‘to</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Ninety <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">po</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Woman nods and walks away with those heavy
burden of a shoulders. She returns to her table, pulls up a foot, and continues
to stare at the traffic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">+<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It begins to rain. Thunder erupts. A white
Fortuner alarms off, followed by the red Honda Civic beside it. It rips through
the air like the deluge. The cars sit across my table. I look
around—would anyone bother to turn it off?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Everyone remain focused in their tables; the law students with their book holders and neon lighters,
the men in dark hoodies typing, the rest in their mp3s. No
one’s eating dinner. And no one’s minding the screaming cars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Except for a chubby woman in a fitted black
dress inside the coffee shop. A band of golden leaves snake through her chest
and the rest of the dress. She takes out a pair of car keys and clicks them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The cars continue to sound off. She stops
clicking and resumes tinkering with her phone. Outside, in our space, the alarm blares.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">+<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A young man in a black hoodie comes out,
pods in ears. The sound system competes with the rain. A girl
sings a simplified acoustic version of Jason Mraz’s I Won’t Give Up on Us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Hoodie boy grabs a chair and moves through
his playlist, his body fitting the allotted curves of the wooden seat. The rain
slowly fades out. The streets litter with the sound of cars, engines, and
screeching tires. Honking fills the distance. Acoustic girl continues
to croon, louder this time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">+<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I bring out a box of chocolate crunchies from
the town grocery store down the road. I pull out a disc and unwrap the treat. A
little boy in ratty white shirt approaches with strings of sampaguita necklaces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ate
bili ka na, pang-kain lang</i>.” He's looking at the box
on the table. I pull out a shiny disc and give it to him. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Salamat, Ate.</i>” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He hops away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">+<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Another thunder breaks out. The alarms run
off again. I look at Chubby Girl but she no longer cares about the sound. She’s
beating words in her mobile phone, a wide Samsung Galaxy. Beside her table, a
bespectacled girl with long hair speaks non-stop. Not muttering, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">speaking</i>. Chubby Girl doesn’t answer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Are they talking to each other? Is
Bespectacled Girl talking to someone on the phone? With wireless Bluetooth
earphones? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Chubby Girl swipes a finger over her gray laptop.
Bespectacled Girl continues to send out words to another universe. Chubby Girl
pulls her phone, elbows on the table, the LCD inches away from her face.
Bespectacled Girl continues to speak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Chubby girl smiles while composing a
message. She laughs. And turns to Bespectacled Girl. She responds with a few
words. They were talking after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">+<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The bright baseball cap approaches the
table again. She talks to Cyril, who is now lighting a cigarette. She touches
the box again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magdadala
ako nito next time</i>. Ninety <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">din</i>,”
she says in halting Tagalog. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sa akin ka
na lang kumuha</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Sure.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">+<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Little ratty rabbit boy returns,
mouth full, munching. No more sampaguita.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ate,
pwedeng pahingi pa.</i>” I open the box. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pwedeng
dalawa?</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Cyril raises an eyebrow. I take out tinfoil
discs and give it to the bunny. He speeds off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magshe</i>share
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">siya sa</i> street friends<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> niya</i>,” I tell Cyril, who has resumed playing with
the jumping whale game in my phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Para</i>
cool <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">siya</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">+<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A young man in grey hoodie comes into the
coffee shop. He scans the crowd: people in separate tables. Gray Hoodie spots his friend—Dark Hoodie boy.
He almost runs toward him. And slaps him on the shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Friend, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nakakaloka ang nangyari sa inyo ni…</i>” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hay
nako</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">na</i>stress <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nga ako. Kasi naman ganito ‘yun…Nagra</i>rant
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kasi siya dahil sa</i> project <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kay Sevilla. Tapos nung ako na, aba, ayaw
nang makinig</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Gray Hoodie lights a cigarette. Dark Hoodie
continues.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Najirits
ako. Nagra</i>rant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">siya tapos ako hindi
pwede. Nakakainis kaya.</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nakausap
ko nga si </i>Cynthia<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Akala niya
magkaaway tayo nina </i>Janice<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Ang sabi
ko, hindi kaya.</i>” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nagkita
kami</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Memeykupan niya daw ako</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ang
lala </i>friend, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nag</i>snapchat<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> na naman kayo</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Hoodie boys laugh together. Gray Hoodie
finishes his stick. They stand up and heads inside the coffee shop. Our table
remains the only occupied space in the smoking area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">+<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A twin bunny in ratty white sando
approaches me with sampaguita. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ate, bili ka na.</i>” He’s not moving.
I already know what he wants. I pull out two choco crunchies and hand it to him. <o:p></o:p></span>Ratty bunny friend waits at the end of the balcony. They leave the coffee shop. Cyril makes a face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">“Laylayan</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> people,” Cyril says after the boy runs off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fail
si</i> Leni. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hindi naiangat ang nasa
laylayan,</i>” I quip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Cyril laugh. “Give her time!”</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span> </div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5490783848683174745.post-53974550936081829642016-06-16T00:03:00.001+08:002016-07-08T22:03:30.197+08:00TodayI broke my blue glass. My stoneware salt pig fell from its altar and rolled over, hitting my overturned glasses like pins in a blowling alley. It hit the floor and died with a scream. The sound was different--not like the mirror cutting into two or a ball hitting the window. It was a controlled cracking, a muffled scream elongated through the slow motion of falling. The sound filled my dollhouse like an echo and disappeared in a snap. I realised, while picking the shards, that it was as if my glass was trying to delay the inevitable. And if it had more time in suspension, more distance between the kitchen sink and the floor, I would have scooped it to salvation. It was a liberating thought.<br />
<div>
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<div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I evaded my morning pages and instead opted for napping--my favourite form of detachment. By three in the afternoon, with the laundry hanging to dry and no cleaning left to conquer, I sat down and began the torturous backtracking of yesterday's events. I tried to skip most of them, but every now and then my thoughts branched out to other matters, insights, and frustrations. It's funny how despite the years, I still have too much fuel to burn.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
--</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
According to Julia Cameron, anger is a fuel that sheds light on our boundaries. It is a loud wailing friend that deserves our ears and attention. I listened to it and realised this: despite the fact that we have moved on and let go, he still makes me angry. It wasn't because I harbour the same disgusting feelings as before, but because I have, for the longest time, decided to sleep through our issues. My issues, actually. Against him. Against the me who made stupid choices. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Whenever I dissect my anger with him being the trigger, I always always always end up directing that anger to the me who let it happen. I allowed my feelings to overshadow the red flags. I chose to be blissfully ignorant. And when the shadow cannot hide the monster anymore, it leapt out and I suffered the beating. The fact is this: being stupid is not an easy pill to swallow. My pride saved me from an abusive relationship but it continued to point fingers. And often, I retaliated in response<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">--</span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The deluge finally fell at eight in the evening, washing the city in raindrops that fizzled out after hitting the pavement. It wasn't a dance that invited romance nor was it a falling that beckoned sleep and daydreams. There were no winds to command its presence, no staccato prelude as a warning bell. It fell like it should. Hard. Unyielding. Tiny needles piercing the pollution into fogs that veiled the night. Haunting, yet so lovely. After a long tiring day, I lit a cigarette and savoured the view.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> Things may not get better but it always become beautiful in the end. - </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">6/15/2016</i></div>
</div>
Leilani Chavezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10993574876201238489noreply@blogger.com0