The absence of stories is failure of the mind

That shot is totally useless, throw it away, Ja said as soon as he saw this. But it's yellow and it's made of wood, I replied, you know how I love wood, and the way that it bears the marks of the elements, see those dents on the edges? See its uneven surface, the marks of time showing despite the yellow paint? The marks of the sea and wind, how can I just throw it away?
But there's no story there. What exactly are you trying to say? Ja asked.
No story! I exclaimed. Canary yellow against the blue, no story? Who painted it, no story? How long has it been standing there, no story? Who are the boatmen? What kind of people are they? No story? Isn't the absence of stories a failure of perception? Isn't it even a failure of the imagination?

I miss my reading time today

Photographing photojournalists

Lake Lanao. Mick and Toto. Panglantaw Mindanao Mobile Multimedia Newsroom. June 2014.  

Shining Moment

Loving the Shadows

Since I am still chasing an impossible deadline, just let me post this first to mark this time of my life, hoping that I can retrieve it later, and then, I can remember what I have gone through, and finally, I can write and talk about it with you, and that would be a chance for both of us to laugh again and be free.

Sunrise at Nova Tierra

Morning starts with Ja telling me if you really want to be a photographer you have to get up and watch what the sun’s first rays are doing to the mosque, get up, what are you doing there, lying down, you, spoiled lazy brat, just a few seconds and this moment is gone; I said, what do you mean, just a few seconds, are you sure you're talking to me? I live here for a long time, don't you realize? I have taken millions of pictures of that mosque and they all look the same,  I’m tired, I’m still sleepy, I have memory loss, and I still have to finish my dream to retrieve my memory, otherwise, I’ll feel lost and tired the whole day. As soon as I said this, I get up anyway to take a picture of the Al-Ziddiq Mosque.

Photographs are like Babies...

It’s a long wait for justice for this elderly claimant in Davao City who was forced to sit down as the long queue for claims processing seemed not to be moving. GERMELINA LACORTE Read on

Glimpse of Lake Lanao

After I chased Pam to the third or was it the fourth or the fifth (?) floor of the unfinished building, where, as soon as she saw me,  she glared at me saying, what are you doing here--you and your fear of heights? Go down, go down, just leave me alone, I can easily get this thing done. I said it's not about my fear of heights that is the problem here, finish what you're doing as fast as you can and let's get out of here, ASAP! All the while I saw the man or whoever it was at the construction site looking at us, with loathing, looked Pam up and down with such a look of contempt, why does he look angry, full of hate, am I just imagining things? I smiled my best smile to the man, hoping to break the ice, hoping his hatred will somehow thaw, but sometimes my charm just wouldn't work and this was just one of those times.

To the Man at the Marco

Back in October 2013, after I dismissed the class at a university at 9 pm, I crossed the street to cover a late night presscon in a hotel. On the third (or was it the fourth?) floor, we were all awaiting, ambush style, for the main source to appear  when I looked up at a man looking down upon us from his hotel room window.  This was my thoughts to the man:  Whoever you are, I want your life. If it’s not for sale, just give it to me for free and I’ll make you happy, do you think I talk like a whore? Come on down here, where Mick and I am squatting, looking up from among these cameras and TV crews, all waiting in ambush to interview the mayor; Mick, contemplating of a probable life in Jakarta, while I am thinking of buying a camera, how can I buy one, I need one very badly, what are you thinking standing there, opening your door like that? Are you looking down upon us, wondering, what are those cameras, those tripods doing down there, swarming like bees, what are they, TV crews, reporters? Those people with notebooks, pens, recorders, readied; why are they squatting like that? How about the others, how long have they been standing there, waiting? What’s up? Who are those people inside the function room, where their eyes seemed to be fixed upon, who are they really, these people? So many of them, waiting, when it’s almost 11 pm, only hour before midnight, what are these people waiting? Aren’t they going to get some sleep?

Losing my yellow coin purse

Losing my yellow coin purse is really very difficult because it brings back the devastating feeling of all my previous losses: those bagful of clothes long, long ago, I left in a hotel after I heard the devastating news about you; or that stupid brown wallet I lost inside the busy Marawi public market in June while taking shots with Mick and our Maranao friends; or how it felt to lose my beloved eyeglasses one Tuesday in April while shuttling from a magazine office to a TV network and finally, to a big newspaper compound at the heart of Jakarta. Or, how it was to leave the newly-found Rachel Cusk's book on a seat of a jeepney. They were not really worth millions, especially my yellow coin purse, which only had six one peso and two 25-centavo coins in it; but there’s something about losing that makes you feel empty and dry. There’s something about the absence of the thing you lost that makes you look around to notice the color you once took for granted but now makes you think of the missing object with ache. Now I look at them and take notice: the yellow tupperware glass standing tall amid all the clutter on my table, the yellow container thrown in a grass-covered lot next to our house, the yellow cover of Ken Auletta’s book “Googled,” my yellow underwear. I remember the day that Ja left and we ran out of cooking oil. Is that the way relationships are measured? Through the sheer number of yellow cooking oil containers bought from a convenience store, used up and emptied? [This post has nothing to do with Pnoy's yellow, which I vehemently detest!]

A Harried Visit to My Mother's Garden

I’m still in the midst of a very difficult assignment but I can’t help posting this here. It’s always gratifying to find out it was not my eye that was at fault, afterall; nor was it my poor overworked point-and-shoot. Something else is the reason why I can't take the kind of shots I wanted to take for a long, long while.

Watching Dewitt Jones

Who won't fall in love with Dewitt Jones?

Birthday Wishes

I never used to celebrate birthdays—but increasingly, these years, I get a certain wish, a strong, quiet but maddening desire, to be with myself on this day; to do nothing, to spend time with myself (of course, with dear ones); but primarily, to see the beloved hermit in the form of an Old Man with the Lamp on this very day, very far away from society. But normally, this wish doesn’t usually happen to me. In 2007, I remember spending this day right in a newsroom in Cebu, trying out a copy-editing job with friends and strangers who never had an inkling it was my birthday. I read a lone greeting from a friend (it was from Ca) in Davao when I sneaked peek on my FB—or was it my email? They never knew I was in Cebu, spending the graveyard hours copy-editing. In 2008, I was inside a dorm in Quezon city’s barangay Loyola Heights, battling with thick theoretical readings for our Media Ethics class at the Asian Center for Journalism (ACFJ) at the Ateneo the following day. I was already very drowsy because it was already deep in the night so I told Prateesh, my pretty Nepali roommate, I can’t take it anymore, I got to sleep and leave my readings in the morning; but Prateehba was so insistent that I should not sleep. “No, no!" she said. "Do your readings now. You won’t be able to wake up in the morning.”  “I can wake up,” I said, confidently. “My body has an inner clock that’s working perfectly.” Prateesh insisted that I should not sleep so, I read a few more pages for a while and only went as far as Herbert Marshall Mc Luhan and never got to John Rawls’ Theory of Justice, which was my report the following day (how I figured out John Rawls’ theory of justice the following day without reading him is another story) but on this night of my birthday, I simply could not take all those readings anymore, I was already very drowsy as I declared to Prateesh, “I’m not going to brush my teeth tonight because it’s my birthday.” I can still see the shock and amusement on her face. She laughed so hard that she totally gave up making me read the rest of our readings. It was Bryant who discovered the following day it was really my birthday (I think I had forgotten it) and he rushed to join us with the Indonesian gang for some simple fun at the mall.  The following years, my wish to be alone on my birthday remains a wish that has never been completely fulfilled and satisfied; and this year, this month, I’m afraid I’m going to spend my day exploring a Unesco mountain.  I only wish I get to see the hermit.  It will make up for everything.   

View from the Seventh Floor

Just a Glimpse of Iligan

We climbed up the top floor of the other building (what do you expect if you're with an excited bunch of photojournalists?) Pam, whose friend showed us the way, was always willing to climb anything; she's the type who won't think twice of climbing the highest tree in a jungle just to get the vantage point of a photograph, any photograph; as she did when she climbed the unfinished building inside the MSU campus to take a perspective shot of Lake Lanao. Here, we took what Ja and Sean would refer to as the sniper's view of the Iligan City Hall; even as I was trying to suppress my inherent fear of heights as we inched closer and closer to the edge.

Anatomy of Pablo

I was trying to organize my files when I came upon the photographs I've taken in one of the series of stories I covered in the aftermath of the typhoon Pablo. The photographs showed me something that I did not see at the time I was covering the stories. Years after the killer typhoon that ravaged Mindanao towards the tail-end of 2012, I feel the need to look back and bravely take account of what I did and what I failed to do in those stories.

Another View from Our Office Window

Everybody is looking forward to the weekend while I'm still trying to cope with my writing backlogs.

Jeepney seen from a Jeepney

I know that if I show this picture to Ja, he would stare at it very briefly and then, swiftly, he would look away.  Oftentimes, he'd let out a sigh. A long,long sigh. If I'd ask him, what's wrong? Isn't this picture cute? Ja would not even utter a word. He would just give me one long, sorrowful look, and then, he'd go back to his business. Ja is my photo-critic and I exactly know what he wants in a picture.  He wants a picture that tells a story; the kind of pictures with people in them doing some actions; of course, I don't need to say that they should be well composed, the rule of thirds and all, you know, the kind that gets published in newspapers. But I don't know how to make myself want to take those pictures to please Ja. I only want to please myself.

Learning to breathe

I said I have to run more often and delight at the stares of women at the pharmacy after I enter their air-conditioned premises, rivulets of sweat streaming down my face and neck, wetting my shirt. Do I really love to shock people? I should run round and round the park only to test how stubborn and how hard-headed I could get. If I give up that easy, I'd be a wimp; running would save me from being one. Just think of them men, who takes to speed and running to measure a person's worth. I should run. I should make it a point to run--or walk? If only to study character, in reality and fiction. Should I listen to people as they talk while they walk? Can eavesdropping be a kind of brainstorming? I should talk to myself. I should study my breath as I run, discover my own pace, listen to my body to avoid injuring a foot or a leg. Talk to my body, calmly and quietly, just like the way you talk to your soul. If you have one. Breathe.

Reading Maryanne Moll

In her blog, writer Maryanne Moll talks about the passing of her grandmother she fondly calls Bita, and then, I discover a lot more about Bita in her Palanca-winning story, "At Merienda" that I did not notice before, since I've only been a distance reader; though, for quite a time, I've been faithfully reading her blog, which I discovered years ago when she wrote something that really made me cry. I've been searching for what it was that she wrote--it must have been something about writing and the self, which used to be my biggest angst--but I could no longer find that early post that really introduced me to her. She had a way of deleting her posts sometimes, immediately after posting them (which, I understand, because I also do it a lot of times), but my all-time favorites are her posts on Lost Ground about her attempts to write in the Bikol language (again, folks, Bikol is not a dialect!); My Street, Myself, where she described a particular street in Manila where she lived for a while; and other really sensual kind of writing such as this.