How I discover Brenda Tharp

Sometime in 2011, when I finally finished my part of what soon will become the book, "Bittersweet Stories of Farm Workers in the Philippines," I was so happy to have written a 36-page manuscript and had enjoyed every bit of it that I entered the bookstore so intent on celebrating.  As usual, I went directly to the rummage bin, where all the books were haphazardly strewn, without any attempt at organization. I did not bother casting a look at the well-ordered display shelf, because I have stuck to the belief that the real treasure are found in the rummage bin and not on the shelf.  True enough, the book, "Creative Nature and Outdoor Photography," immediately caught my eye. When I opened it, I discovered that its author is doing in photography what I was trying to do in my writing. I immediately knew it was a book for me.
All the previous photography books I read had in them what I called a male energy.  Everything was straitjacketed, including your vision, in a way that often constricted me. Aside from touching on the basics of composition and some principles of design, this book allows the beginning photographer to explore.

Torn

I'm lost again and torn in all directions. Three very strong forces are pulling me and tearing me apart.  First is UpperBla, where I am locked in a violent battle against swell-headed monsters and well-entrenched chauvinist pigs that dominate the countryside; another force, a gargantuan edifice that might gobble up my last remaining precious time for pleasurable reading; and the force of love, which requires me to stay put and stay where I am.

Summary of Meetings

Girlish sightings of a young man on horseback by the river, his lean body bent over the horse's mane, as the beast trod water, its hooves splashing, the sun casting shadows on the rider's face.
On the day I realized I was no longer a girl, you were dropping by the house for one stupid reason or another and we spent some time staring at each other.
That Christmas Eve I saw you with long firearms swung around your shoulders, and Pa, in his usual bad temper, berating you, I huddled in a corner, frozen; but you did not turn to fight.
Then, three long decades of not knowing where you were; wondering whether you were dead or alive, and not finding anyone to ask.
When suddenly, one day, someone told me you were around, I fumbled for something in my pocket.  I thought getting a glimpse of your face was an extreme act of courage, a sufficient gratification by itself; and so, I forced a man to drive right to your doorstep just to get a glimpse of you. I was not prepared for what was to follow and that was how I lost you.

A village called B'la

People in the village are dying faster than I can talk to them. He told me his mother came from Bohol but he did not know where she met his father. When he began his story, he was living alone with his mother, because his wife was in Kuwait, and his sons and daughter preferred to go home to their grandmother on their mother’s side rather than to him. I asked, so, who cooks dinner? He said it was his mother. Do you eat together? He said they eat together sometimes, but at other times, they don’t.  I had wanted to see his mother, just to say, hi, if she can still remember the girl in the past, but even before her son could finish his story, she got sick, and while I was away, she died. I suspect that this village was a young village and the people who are dying now, were never really born here. They arrived here at the prime of their lives, settled here, raised a family, and now, they’re dying. I can’t remember where in the Visayas his father came from but he said they were among the earliest people to have settled here in this village when the whole area was still a forest. His father was already gone when he was telling the story.  Although the village is a farming village, theirs were not really a farming people in the real sense of the word, they owned a school supply store, at least; where we used to buy bond paper when we ran short in school. 
While we were talking, another woman about as old as his mother, and who owned the village's longest running rice mill, had lain in a coma and was being taken cared of by their eldest daughter.  She was asleep when she got a stroke, and according to the account of the househelp, her husband had first felt her hand stroking him but he just brushed it aside, until the morning, when he discovered what was wrong.  
Later, I happened to talk with the man, who used to ply the jeepneys that used to bring people and goods to town. He remembered the girl who used to take his jeepney back in highschool. He told me he was born in Iligan before settling here but his father came from Dumaguete City. He and his sibling recently found out that their father had left a beachfront property in Dumaguete City, which they wanted to sell. But someone, a relative or something, was occupying it, so, they were having such a hard time selling it. The man was a good man, they all are, in this village. But unlike my father, he was not a farming man. He'd rather own a store,  a truck, a jeepney, or any vehicle and ply it. Much later, I met another man about his age. He was born in Quiamba, Sultan Kudarat before he settled here, but his mother came from Minglanilla, Cebu and his father from Butuan. He said he had never been in Minglanilla all his life and he was already 73 years old. The man was well-read [[well, he knew the historical role of the Philippine Daily Inquirer and the people power at Edsa and unlike most people in this village, he hated Martial Law!]] When he arrived in this village, there were still so many timber trees around.  There were Apitong, Guijo, Lauaan, Tugas, and others. "Was it the logging that wiped them out?" I asked. "No," he said. "People even burn them, when they get in the way of  corn growing!"  Even if Pa had farmed all his life and must have developed some affinity with the soil, I don't really have some romantic notion about his worldviews. I remember the indigenous varieties of mangoes, guava, pomelos, macopa naturally growing in our backyard, which he cut down to give way to the mahogany trees and the gmelinas. He preferred cash crops to fruits.
I saw where your Ma and Pa were buried as we passed by your area. I remember the last time we talked and felt the full impact of the drought.

I never run out of crazy ideas

In a Distance

Towards sunset, I took a motorcycle and climbed all the way to New Dumanjug (as if it were really that far to climb) to look at the changes in the color of the grasses as the dry condition felt all over Davao del Sur in January this year developed into a dry spell that threatened to further develop into drought. What made New Dumanjug very far for me to reach was not really its physical distance but my lack of courage to go there alone and take pictures all on my own. I gulped down my fear as I disembarked, introduced myself to a woman grazing her cow in the fast wilting grasses, and had a good time watching the children play in a distance.

Dear Solitude

Funny how I read this article exactly at the moment when I’ve been puzzling over my inability to write for days, even if I never used to believe in “writer’s block” as far as journalism writing is concerned.  Long ago, my editor and I had agreed, as a matter of principle, that we, journalists could not afford a block, an ailment commonly afflicting creative writers; because for us, it’s either we have the story or we do not have it, and that it’s only the absence or incompleteness of facts that could prevent us from writing it.  That’s what I used to think before but life is not really that simple. Something has been preventing me from writing these days and I realized it’s not just the absence of facts. I could not bring myself to write because a huge part of me was on strike; and I call this part of me, my writing djinn. It was on strike because I failed to listen to its demand for a long, long time; and for such a long time, I have deprived it of its most basic need: the full and blossoming reading life and delightful solitude. I’ve been jumping from one place to another, soaking myself with the problems of the world, that the djinn is going mad at not being able to read at least four or five books continuously for hours, in total uninterrupted silence. For the djinn, I must say, is an artist, with a well-developed inner life and a will of its own. The djinn it is who fuels my writing. The sooner I recognize this, the better for both of us. I could no longer bring myself to write even if the materials I was supposed to write were already right before me.  The djinn had the anger of Ceres, the anger that prevented the grass from growing, the anger that killed all creativity, it was the anger that practically stopped all life on earth.  Ceres is the harvest goddess whose daughter Proserpine was abducted by Pluto. Her anger had caused the plants to wilt. The anger came that part of me that had supplied the spirit that fueled my journalism throughout these years. I have neglected that part of me. And now, it is demanding attention.  It is demanding solitude. It is going on strike.  It is my only lifeforce, the springboard from which all my writings come from. 

Out of Order

What's happening to you? Don't know how to start a story? Don't know how to begin? Don't know because you no longer care what you are writing? Staring at the computer screen like this, remembering the interview and the expectations that went along with it; what's happening to you? All you're thinking of right now is the taste of peppermint in your lips mingled with the taste of kalamansi and that honey taken from a tree 30 feet above sea level. Or, that secret guyabano recipe you are making in the kitchen to fool Ja and Sean to submission. Or, the cat meowmeowing at your feet. Or, that guy whose hands, already calloused by time, you still wanted to touch.

Old passion re-asserting itself

When I was six, Ma came home with an exciting news about an artist/teacher, a dignified and illustrious Mr. I forgot-his-name, accepting six or seven year-old children to train under him at home. The students--whom Ma imagined could be all boys--would stay with the Master on weekdays and may go home on weekends, an arrangement similar to a boarding school for young artists.  Even in a remote place like B'la, it promised something special; it even sounded different: a training in Art. I felt loved, happy.  Even at that point, I thought, Ma must have felt something about me, must have thought I had some of what people called "potential."  I was filled with excitement. Day after day I waited for it to happen: to learn Art, to watch the Maestro render reality on paper. But the month ended without a word from Ma. I waited and waited until the waiting became so unbearable.  When I finally asked her about it,  she told me she decided against it because she was worried about me. For her, it was unimaginable: a six-year-old girl living with boys under the tutelage of a man.   That officially ended my career in Art and Ma quickly forgot all about it.  I didn't. 
Well, maybe, I forgot all about it while I was growing up but that's what I remember now.  I remember how I was quickly forgotten, my dreams set aside. 
Ma taught us to put ourselves last always.  All the drawings that mattered in school were those being done by boys.  The bold strokes, the tri-dimensional realistic renditions, the portraits that copied reality even if they were only done with a ballpoint pen. Girl drawings were merely beautiful, trivial. Together, we--girls--thrived in the shadows, learning from each other and enjoying every moment of it; and that's how we persisted. It's only now, when old passions try to re-assert themselves, overwhelming us in their intensity, that we come to realize we could have been bolder.  
Then, we want to start all over again.

Lost in Kialeg

What I look forward to

This year, there will be more roads to take, miles to run, stories to write, accounts to hear, things to make, places to go, images to collect, recipes to try, food to taste, books to read, cats to coddle, rivers to follow, mirrors to find in nature and in man-made structures and landscapes.

What do I want?

He is such a delightful friend and he said to me just a few minutes ago, "So what do you want now? It seems you've lost all zest for life, you're no longer happy with what you're doing, you don't want to write anymore, you don't want to talk about writing, you don't want to cover stories, what do you want to do? Maybe, it's high time to look around for things that make you happy. Otherwise, you'll have such a big problem there. What would anyone do to someone who could no longer be happy? I sat staring at my computer screen. No, I said. I want to plant timber trees and read Annie Proulx while watching them grow. That's all I want to do.

Postcard Greetings!

Happy 2016!

Sights to See

At the strike of the magick hour, I went out to see the cats play in the jungle in the backyard. I thought, maybe, they're happier here because they can smell the grass, they can climb the trees and even walk their way through the top of the fence and they have a wide ground where to play, compared to their life in the city, where we used to live on the second floor and there was hardly any ground for them to play. I watched Shocklit clawing the trunk of the tree, watched Oreo climb up on top of a stump, and saw Muffin, her body lost in the wave of grass as she waded her way to catch up with sister and mother Cats. When I ran into the house, the rays of the late afternoon sun have entered the windows and struck the ceramic vase on top of the cabinet.

Christmas Stirring

I had a great time walking to the dam and back and seeing the full moon framed by the kaimito leaves as I crossed the hanging bridge on my way back to the old palengke, trying to find the way to Bebing's house. I'm a bit worried I would be totally broke for the New Year but the sight of the full moon, reflected on the water in the rice paddies, was more than anything money can buy, and so, I stood there, savoring the welcome bout of memory loss, for the full moon simply made me forget all my troubles, and the haunting beauty of the place made me think of you, made me want to see you, although, you're already out of my sight, maybe, even gone from my life forever, yet, I still treasure every tiny bit of memory of you.

My Forgetting

I awoke with a bad headache and suspected it was my cholesterol shooting up again, so, I decided to abstain from my usual breakfast of rice and fried egg and promised myself to eat only slices of fresh pineapples from the market for the whole week. I wasn't able to eat until 1 pm because I still had to do the usual chores at home; such chores as feeding the cats, watering the surviving Oregano and Aloe Vera and mourning over my wilted Dillweed; washing Sean's dirty shoes, dancing the Zumba right in the living room; and then, looking at myself in the mirror while coddling Munchkin, the Cat, which has shamelessly and embarrassingly turned into a lapcat; and then, forgetting all about work.

Inventory

A bit of good news: At least, I was able to retrieve the images from my ruined memory card, after I thought I had lost everything (with no regret) when two computers and my laptop already refused to read it. I may have lost the Dream Journal that I wrote some time in 2007, after I've thrown away all my other reporter's notebooks prior to our moving, but I have full trust in the basic principle which says that whatever has been written has already been revealed, and having been revealed, it has been stored in the great storehouse of knowledge, ready to be accessed by anyone worthy of it.  I realized, too, that no matter what, I can still start another Dream Journal, and I can still recall some of the most important dreams that I've written in that Journal.  I should never feel so incomplete again. I only have to look around to believe that everything that I need right now is just within reach if I only look long and hard enough to find it. I never lack for anything. I have everything I wanted.

Feeling Screwed Up

Last night, I finished Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw and cannot stop cursing Henry James, because I thought I did not really like a ghost story, no matter how gothic; but in between, I thought, is Henry James’ narrator insane?  (It was much, much later, when I learned about Henry James’ ambiguity, that I realized, it was Henry James’ writing working in my head) but hearing me, Ja asked, why don’t you ask Henry James? Stop complaining to us. But Henry James is dead, I said.  Oh, Ja said. Then, he added, and how is the language? He’s a 19^th century author, why would you like to read him? I said, I came to open the page while I was waiting for that guy in B’la, and realized I could not put it down. The guy—who was supposed to put on the grills in the upper windows—did not arrive and so, I continued reading.  I haven’t finished it when I needed to go back here so I took the book along with me despite my earlier promise never to bring new books to the new house, which is very small, and already too crammed with books.  But I can’t help it.  I needed to lose myself in a book to fight the deep uneasiness already bogging me, creating havoc to my nerves. At home, Pa kept saying, he used to have a classmate who used to have so many books, he was so stupid. Bobo. Dull. I told him I met so many people, Pa, who never went to school and yet were very brilliant, they had super-first-class minds. I was thinking of the lumads, who were clear-headed in their thinking. He did not reply.  I also met a lot of people who went to school and graduated and who were very stupid, they didn’t know how to use their minds. He said, I used to have a classmate who had so many books but was so dull (bobo).  I said, maybe, he never read his books? He said, how can he read them, there were so many? He said he never had any book, only a notebook, and yet, he was very smart.  Later, I realized, Pa must have been talking about me: was he thinking I have so many books and is so bobo? I was horrified.

I was getting anxious because I felt I was already being left behind by the election stories that were going very fast, I had trouble keeping up. And yet, while my world was slipping away, leaving me behind, I got so stuck in B’la, where Ma and Pa kept staring in space, as if nothing was happening to the world, and Pa would suddenly say, I need to go to town, I need to drink beer in town, and Ma would be frantic, running after him.  Watching them, I get so confused, disoriented. I could no longer understand what’s happening to me.  Oftentimes, I have grave doubts why I’m even spending time in B’la, especially when Ma and Pa are behaving like they never really needed me there, resenting my presence.  I’d asked Ja, are you sure, there really is any worth to what I am doing? They don’t seem to like me there. Why am I doing this? Why do I need to spend time in B’la when they keep saying to me they don’t even need me there? Why would I go there when I really badly need to earn an income here? Why do I need to sacrifice days-without-income watching them, only to be snapped at, and to be made to feel I was a total failure just because I love books and I hate to drink alcohol?

Moving On

My right ankle is almost healed when we moved to the new house. This one is a smaller one, making me realize with horror how much garbage I have brought along with me.  I'm not yet talking about my books, which I don't consider garbage in any way, but a lot of the boxes we brought along with us are still stuck in the doorway, prompting the landlord to drop by this morning, offering us his bodega for storage, or a piece of canvass covering to protect them against the weather. But still, I can't help feeling guilty and helpless every time I open a new package. I have amassed such a huge volume of books, which I cannot let go, which, in turn, added to the weight I have to carry every time we move.