IGME Files

     Water most often than not appears in my dreams. It’s not surprising since I’m a water-born sign (Scorpio).  In material form, water has been my refuge.  That’s why an excess of water in my dream baffles me no end. 

     The last time an impending flood flooded my sub-conscious realm was like a CGI-manipulated Hollywood scene, replete with fantastical elements like a UFO spotting their lone target (that would be "me"), of running away en masse to a huge Chinese temple, of suddenly freezing time, of colorful moths slowly emerging, fluttering the air.  Get the picture?

     In m dream today, I work in a basement of a school building when suddenly, a tsunami-like ball rolled over the building.  I was trapped, together with some students (real names and people of my college blockmates included).  The wierdest part was the building is underground-built, and the basement where I am was 7-8 floors down!  I knew in my dream that I didn’t know how to swim, let alone float my way up.  And then I saw myself deep under the sea, trying to hold my breathing for as much as I could, my body gliding up, my feet in tow, a few bubbles escape.  I felt the calm sea, but what I’m after was my life. 

     In the news, I was the the lone survivor of the underground school that was engulfed by the flood (!).  I attended a simple funeral rites for my colleagues.  There was profound sadness in the air for the 25 or so lives lost.  All the people could not believe I survived.  They deemed it a miraculous act.

     A lavish motorcade followed, with me standing beside Angel Locsin on her seat.  What?!

     Two weeks ago, I dreamt that a demon in disguise of a human being was beguiling me to be near him.  There’s no mythic horns and tail, but I could see his dark gaze drawing an inexplicable force on me.  I did not make the first step; our eyes met, and suddenly, I was in a trance-like state — a dream inside my dream. 

     Your ’soul’ was inside me, and that hurt.  (We’re a few feet away facing each other, possible?  Impossible?!)  I forced myself to cease the dream away.  I was frigthened and ecstatic.  Clueless.

     A lead was in store two days ago.  Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novel put it succinctly, love is "the most terrible demon of all." My awakening or destruction, all remains to be seen. 

     As I’ve mentioned before, it was my first flight ever, and it happened on election day.  My parents and I boarded China Airlines.  The night before we left, I had our monthly lunch gathering with friends.  They all gave their well-meaning support:  Walter informed me about China Air having one air crash every year, Ricky seconded I would not be missed because I would see him in two weeks (read between the lines), Nestor concerned I will have brought a "gift" when I come back (read between the lines again), and Hans offered his one good advice for the day — make a bomb joke at the airport.  These are some of my good friends and I am "lucky" to have them.  Those bitches.  hehehe

     Here’s a poem I wrote minutes we left the dreary Taiwan skies.  But it revealed something beyond.   

Under a dome of fluffy clouds — illusions of touching you, is but a window besides.

That piercing but gentle rays you glowed lined oft-beaten paths.

The grayish winds that portend inescapable air turbulence.  Hang on to "air turbulence."

Amorphous lightness we leave behind, guiding our rear side.

The massive toy playing once again with you…waiting to be licked…barely passing one thin moving layer over a bed of static and heavy set.

Souls rising and passing the dark orange upper net. 

Beneath it –

Island maps forming out of mushiness, the sun’s final bow gently illuminating my line of sight.

Its last moments of the endless moments. Highlights!

Forever wanting.    

Groban’s "You Are Loved" is the message.   

     It was spring when my parents and I arrived here in New York ten days ago, the time when the transition between spring and summer was at its numbing ‘chilliest’.  Just when I was about to enjoy wearing jackets during the day, summer came all too sudden yesterday (Friday).  I feel that I never left Manila after all.   

     My writing has become limited lately because of three main factors:  one, the fatigue that comes with daily treks to tourist spots (I have seen barely 20 min of tv for 10 days, even missing out on the last 5 shows of American Idol), because I usually arrive late at night and be up early the next day; two, we stay at a relative’s house and it’s a bit of a hiya (shame) if I act like I own the pc; and lastly, my rolls of film have not yet developed and what I want is to create a "travelogue" where I could write and pictures are seen altogether.

     What I’m excited to tell you is that I saw my first film at Walter Reade Theater at NY’s Lincoln Center (the Philippine’s counterpart of the CCP) –John Schlesinger’s "Midnight Cowboy" where a mini-retro on Schlesinger’s works was featured.  The film was somber and heavy for most parts, disturbing in a few scenes, eerily chilling in a couple of scenes, most esp the "wackos’ party scene."  It beautifully depicted what an unusual friendship can happen between an emotionally distraught and ‘lonesome’ hustler (played by John Voight) and a crippled tramp (Dustin Hoffman) amid the chaotic world in where-else — New York. 

       The bonus of the night was when Sylvia Miles (never-heard of her before), an Academy Supporting Actress nominee of the said film, was there during the forum.  A bit of the trivia she shared was that the film was "rehearsed like a play for about two weeks."  Not bad for its psychologically grotesque appeal. 

     After the last name of the film credits rolled up, a few moments of hush were in the air, and then an involuntary applause came aftewards.  That’s how tugging and relevant it still is today after 37 years it was made. 

        I am now embarking on things very alien to me, what with the windfall in terms of travelling.  They say that travelling for children is part of one’s "education," while for adults, it’s part of an "experience."  For me, being in NEW YORK now is both an education and an experience.  SInce arriving on Monday (US time), it hasn’t sunk in to me yet that I’m here; I have defied time by its forward and backward shifts.  Technically, my family and I travelled for two days.  I’m still feeling a bit drowsy, must be the effects of a jetlag.  Still, I don’t have any reason to complain. 

        I have no pictures as of the moment because of time constraints and won’t have the energy (the main reason) to do all things together.  I have just attended the school and the college’s graduation rites of my sister in Columbia University, and I’m using the Internet facilities at their library to write this. 

        I couldn’t wait to add more blog and pics here.  I hope you enjoy them as much as I do because it’s an unexpected dream that was fulfilled.   

        I will see you in six months.   

     The consul at the US Embassy told this to us — twice.  The first was an egging on, since it was all three of us, my parents and I, it would be our first time to the States.  The question led if it was our first time to go overseas.  My father paused a couple of seconds, thinking of what he would be going to say, talked about his stint at Saudi in one brief sentence.  Then the consul read my mom’s fellowship stint in Australia, she said, "I studied there." 

     It was my turn.  He looked at my paper, "So you’re an artist…a filmmaker."  I lowered my shoulders and bent my face towards the glass mirror that separates the questioner and the questioned, seconded, "An independent filmmaker."  The bold-faced "Mowelfund Film Institute" I put in really helped. 

     The next was the purpose of the visit, the clincher part.  When he saw the reason of our visit, "So, Columbia University is a very expensive school, how could she (my sister) afford it?"  My mom politely responded, "She’s on a scholarship."  He was amazed at that fact.  A follow-up question was, "What’s her plan after her graduation?"  Mother said, "She got accepted for a Post-Doctorate Research position at Brown University this July."  Now, the consul was floored. 

     I don’t recall what went previously or next, but the consul looked at my paper and joked if I’m not going to go to Hollywood and make "Superman 4."  I flashed my beauty pageant grin and said, "No, I’m going to make films here and live (here) in my lifetime."  He asked me again:  "So you teach, what do you teach?"  "I teach English, I have two students, one (basic) English, and the other under creative writing program."  And for how long, I should have said four, but I answered two, when I started teaching English for Koreans as my first job. 

     There’s a long quiet while the consul was typing, he was also biting the end of his ballpen with the cap on…then he asked for our bank certificates, my mom frantically gave them…The last paper was my bank certificate.  It was the longest time he read a paper during that interview…hmmm…bakit kaya?  Was it that it’s not too much?  I kept my poise.   Then he asked, "Is it all your funds?"  I retorted, "Some of the funds, I saved, part of it, I borrowed."  This was a blur, because after that I think he referred to my parents, maybe to take care of me.

     Then the moment came, the three yellow slips were returned to us, a signal that you’re application is accepted.  I did know that, but it was not on my head.  Then he handed his last sentence and smiled, "Congratulations, this will be your trip of a lifetime,"  And he quickly pointed a finger at me: "And you, come back, okay, there are only a few independent filmmakers in the Philippines."  I was not sure what he really meant, I heard the word "a few."  Our resolved and excited sighs deafened his last words.   

     After a three and a half hour wait for three separate waiting lines, the interview was a breeze.  We were scared shitless, that’s for sure.  But my Mom, whose more superstitious than I am, believes in signs, slightly got fate’s approval when we received our number to the interview, 3218; the number eight being a lucky number. 

     Ate, were it not for you and what you’ve achieved, we would have been denied.  We will be together again really soon. 

     A friend told me before that applying for a US Visa is like an elephant passing through the eye of a needle; he was totally right on.  But it was offset by a lot of prayers on the family’s part.  On my end, I told it to some of my dear friends and offered for their prayers. 

     After the interview, I listed each friend that knew about this, and it amounted to twenty-nine (29) people.  I thought I only told it to less than 10 people and it’s supposed to be a hush-hush.  I realized that I have a lot more to be grateful for more than a visa approval–real good friends.  A pasalubong is looming…(bibisita lang po ako…heheh). 

              Last Friday, I was invited by a good friend, Jeph Ramos, to be a photographer for a pre-pageant event in Nueva Ecija.  Out of utang na loob (for the all the help he’s done, including free viewing of stage plays at CCP and his own theater group, Teatro Sambisig), I immediately said yes.  I’m alright with a “no budget,” the thing that got my interest was my thirst for a new challenge; it’d be a baptism of fire for me to have a pictorial.  Also, it’d be my first time in Nueva Ecija.  I whisked my way out of Manila rut the next day, and I was in for a thrill ride. 

              After the three-hour bus trip, we set foot on the sprawling and sleepy lot of San Leonardo municipal hall.  With just an automatic SLR camera in my hand, I had to make do with the available light, an unfastened fluorescent light, a white-board that served as a reflector, and a location shoot at the fountain area in the middle of the administration hall.  I will not comment on the young contestants for I will be a judge for the pre-pageant two days from now.   All I could say is that it’s hard to instruct the novice to bend their backs, turn their heads and do the S-curve.  I covered the casual wear and the evening wear (no swim wear for the first festival in the province, pls).

               The beauty pageant is part of the umbrella event, the first ever “Manikling Festival” for the municipal of San Leonardo, Nueva Ecija.  It starts today and ends on Sunday.  The Festival Director is my friend, Jeph R. with the help of his Teatro Sambisig group.  The vice-mayor vying for the mayoral position entrusted his leadership, and we’re all from Manila.   

               The next activity was that I observed a Repertoire Theater Guidance (RTG) for the dance groups participating at the dance contest for each barangay.  Jeph and the dance teacher, Edwin, through RTG — saw the rehearsals, gave critiques, and guided the groups to challenge, question, praise, encourage and advise them to make the dance routines better.   

              The RTG was memorable for a lot of reasons.  First, seven of us squeezed inside a lone tricycle and traveled far and in between remote barangay.  In the first barangay, the young children were rehearsing at a small makeshift square lot inside a local PNP police station.  It was already nighttime when we got to the second and third barangay.  You’ll be amazed at how kids are.  They are poor, but passionate.  They really prepared for the festival.  In one barangay, we were shown-off  their costumes; the girls’ skirts are made of kawayan and the headdresses covered with pieces of egg-shells.  I saw the fire in their eyes, their openness for learning and their dignity.  There IS dignity in each child I saw.   

               In Mambangnan where we stayed, the hostess, Precy, made our whirling stomachs filled with a sumptuous meal of nilagang baboy (this I only ate with gusto) for late lunch.  I promised her I’d give her ice cream as a present when I come back.  The main “character” I met is Bebe and her kid, nine-year old Remiboy.  Bebe has this funny speech of slurring, like she’s always gone from a drinking spree.  Amidst her drunkard persona, she and Remiboy were the ones who drove the tricycle for us.  Jeph shared an anecdote about Bebe, she’s done ala-Virgin Mary.  She didn’t know she was pregnant until only two days before she gave birth.  When the news spread, the town folks also stopped moving.  This was six months ago.  That’s how lovable her character is. 

                  I like the way my friend Jeph does — being found in everywhere but not of the world, touching children’s lives slowly without ever thinking of the returns except the belief that one has contributed something.  To witness the sense of community among those children is inspiring. 

                  A thought crossed my mind — the simple joys of a rustic life is inviting — but the thought of uprooting myself and live here makes me think, “How long will this kind of life take me?”

               There were a few disappointments — the lack of scenic views and financial resources from the organizing committee themselves; the illogical thinking of some people (e.g.  How a local man can theorize that a child grows healthier or doesn’t get sick in rural, even if the latter’s hands is dirty?); yet, my other experiences compensated for a lot of things intangible. 

              The cooing of the birds in the quiet morning and seeing myself with another person hearing it (fantasies, fantasies!), the push-pedaled workings by Remiboy whenever the tricycle stops on the road, the energetic dancing of the children under the moonlight, the slow and slanted movement of calamansi sprouts waiting to get picked, the excitement of braving another new world –– these things make me alive. 

           The street kid’s name is Precious.  I sometimes pass by her where I go to work and tread home passing the Katipunan overpass where she hangs out/helps her family sell things.  One unforgettable evening about a month ago, I remember I was visibly irked over some things, my thoughts were clouded, when this girl, seated comfortably at a chair greeted me, “Good evening.”  I smiled in return.  I asked myself right after, “How could she see through me?” Not only was her smile so affecting, but also that simple greeting brought out purity and goodness.  Feeling her, she saved me from a dreary night.

            Two nights ago, little did I know I would be formally introduced to her at a fast-food at Katips. There, I met an old friend from the University, Tita, Aling, however you call her — Remy.  I was beside her counter where she stood.  She had with her Precious, clad in simple clothes, who she would treat that night.   From what I would presume, Tita Remy and Precious are friends.  She said Precious just graduated from the elementary, hence, the treat.  My heart almost sank.  Precious barely stands three feet!  An impoverished life has stunted her growth.  And there are thousands, if not hundreds of thousands here.

            I don’t want to brag what I paid for as part of Tita Remy’s treat.  Needless to say, I wanted to be part of the celebration.  The two-piece chicken she had, she shared it with her young girl cousin who she called outside.  At the table, I couldn’t help but look at her left eye.  It’s almost closed, only the lower-most part of the eye protrudes and forms a slit.  I tried hard not to look at it and acted normal. Precious had a low appetite, she was only half-done eating while the cousin was done with hers. She suddenly stopped eating.  I prodded her to finish them, but Tita Remy understood the nuance. Precious would share the food later with her mom.  It’s heartbreaking.

            Tita Remy owns a xerox machine and personally does the photo-copying at the Filipiniana section of the Main library until now.  For the sake of those who aren’t from UP Diliman, she’s the one who has her papers in tri-colored blue, yellow and pink.  STS sample tests and other readings are a beautiful distraction if one goes to her.  Also, she scribbles Bible quotes on post-it notes and sends them out to the (lucky) students everyday.  Now sixty-three and still kicking ass, she regaled me with stories that I didn’t know about and saw her in a different light.  How she couldn’t bear on leaving the University, most especially the students.  She started working as a secretary at the College of Economics thirty years ago, then as a photo-copy operator for ten years and counting.  She has met the likes of Mareng Minnie Monsod, Miriam Santiago down to Alan Peter Cayetano.  I was amused when I was talking to her, she couldn’t put down the tri-colored papers at the table.  She said she reads some of the students’ readings at home, including a required Filipino novel that she loved — Lualhati Bautista’s “Dakada 70”. Apart from the eagerness to learn, she reads them to summarize for the students already at the thick of deadlines!! 

            She recounted how she’s still active in a social group where she belongs, a local Elvis Presley fan club which regularly meets quarterly.  She has everything from Elvis records to Elvis wallet, from Elvis wall décor-plates to Elvis chocolate tin cans, name it, she has it.  She even wore an oversized Elvis shirt at that time. “Elvipresident,” thats what you call her for the 200 active-members of the Club. 

            After four hours of endless conversation that started on an accidental meeting, I got my own little treats from Tita Remy –- a (fake) Elvis driver’s license, a Bible quote written on Mickey Mouse small pad, and a serenade from a chorus line of an Elvis song, "Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled.  For my darlin’ I love you, And I always will."  Had a really sweet night. 

     After scurrying through my termite-ridden papers, here comes a medical finding from the Univ. of the Phil. Infirmary (Infirmatay to some), "no significant findings in the lumbo-sacral spines; no significant findings in the right elbow and right heel."  In layman’s term, I guess, no fracture or any dislocation. 

     This was my second brush at mortality.  It was May 29th of 2002, I had to get my class cards.  A quick vision flashed in my mind I’d be hit by a car.  I didn’t mind.  It became true a half hour later.  It was no ordinary car; it’s a four-wheeled "van" to be exact.  Just as I was about to cross the highway, the red traffic sign became green as I was in the middle of the road.  This van was speeding at about 50 kms per hour.  There was a moment to turn back, but I didn’t.  A little moment of hesitation cost me.  And then bam, I got hit.  Funny.

     The side of the car hit me in the elbow and my heel, my small frame then was just scratched by the van.  I was never really hit. I thought part of my insides would come out, or my limbs would be cut into pieces.  Funny because I "only jogged" in quick small steps a few feet away, like I was flying horizontally.  My other pair of my sandal went a few inches further, so I had to get it.  This was an intersection, so the cars on the other side saw what happened.  The van sped a few meters away then stopped.  A guy in the passenger seat alighted and had a quick look to check that neither my arm or my insides splashed in the pavement, then he went inside again, and the van sped.  Just that.      

    A miracle?  Yes it was.  I got out unscathed.  Not a bruise.  I was only shaking my nerves out of shock and went to the infirmary.

    No.  Not a single "defeat" (the recent was last week) would faze me.  Not an institution, not a group of people would ask me what would be right or wrong for me.  If I’d based the many disappointments in my life, fate would invite me to drink self-pity and self-destruct.  I’ve had that stage, but not now. 

     I played the victim mode too long. 

     And as I go further, there are shadows lurking, believing I won’t get any far.  I have paid my dues.  Not even a speeding van would deter my spirit.  Not a career, a lover or a friend.  Not the world. 

     Have I told you, I’m also listening to Crowded House’ "Don’t Dream It’s Over at Utube while writing this. 

P.S. Thanks to St. Michael, my archangel.  I think he saved me.  I was born under his care.