Short Term Plans

I did not meet the deadline I set for myself. I was supposed to give my mentor a copy of my manuscript last Saturday. Except I couldn't. Suddenly, there were so many things I wanted to add and revise and edit. So there's a new deadline. This week. That's a promise.

And while the novel is being scrutinized by The Great One, I will be working on a number of other projects not related to it:

1. coming up with a compilation of flash fiction that I discussed with Adam Mordo of The Man Blog.

2. conceptualizing a short film with Jason Tan (aka larryboy).

3. attending my Mandarin class every Sunday morning in Binondo.

4. learning how to drive c/o my dad.

5. starting to keep my eyes and ears and nose open for jobs. If you know of anything that you think might interest me, holler.

So so far, those are the plans.

EDIT: 6. organizing a speed dating event with long-time friends Anna and Dan. This will be exclusively for Fil-Chi's, at least for now, so if you're interested or know anyone who's interested, let me know.

Popol's Milo Moment

Popol is my cousin's son. He recently won a gold medal in a teakwondo competition. For some reason, I couldn't edit his gold-medal-winning fight so I had to settle for this one, which is during the elimination round.

He's the one in red armor.

Rant: Stupid People Should Not Be Made to Answer Phones

One of the many things on my list to learn in the next few
weeks is how to drive. It has actually been there for years but I just kept
putting it off. So finally, this morning, before I parked myself in front of
the computer for another round of writing/editing/fidgeting (you get the
picture), I took out the white pages, looked up “driving” and sure enough,
there were dozens of entries just waiting to help me be on my way to road
independence. I first called up Socialite, knowing at least two people who
studied there, and was quite pleased with their packages. They have a branch
along Rizal Ave.
which is not too far from where I live.

Before I decided to go with Socialite, I called another driving
school. This one is nearer my place and being lesser known, I figured they
might have cheaper rates. Here is our conversation:

JC: Mag-i-inquire lang tungkol sa driving lessons. (I’d like
to inquire about your driving lessons.)

Grace Driving Institute rep: Driving lessons?

JC: Opo, meron po ba? (Yes, do you offer that?)

GDI rep: Oo. San ka manggagaling? (Yes. Where are you coming
from?)

JC: Valenzuela. Bali
magkano? (How much are the lessons?)

GDI rep: P1800 ang 5 days. (P1800 for 5 days.)

JC: Ah. Ano pang ibang meron? (Are there others?)

GDI rep: Ha?

JC: Meron pa bang iba? 7 days? 10 days? 15? (Are there
others? 7 days? 10 days? 15?)

GDI rep (impatiently): Ano bang gusto mo? 5? 7? 10? (What do
you want? 5? 7? 10?)

JC: Pwede ko bang malaman yung presyo ng lahat? (Can I know
all of the prices?)

GDI rep (said curtly and fast): 5 days, P1800. 7, two-five.
Tapos, three-six. Ok?

 
Then she promptly hung up the phone. Needless to say, I was
very irritated. And this was right after I had a very pleasant talk with the
representative from Socialite who was giving me all the information even before
I got the questions out of my mouth, and was very polite in answering my
additional and not very usual queries. I was tempted to call back and give her
a piece of my mind but then I remembered that I’m a blogger, thus I possess
boundless power over stupid people of the world. What I really did was take out
my laptop and allow my irritation to flow through my fingers.

Minus one student for Grace Driving Institute. And because I’d
like to think that I’m influential to at least five people, and those five
people are influential to five people each… Ha! Do the math, people.

Beware of bloggers.

 
Novel page count: 132

Arrest Gloria

This is my first tibak event in years.

Basically, it's a concert/poetry reading that revolves around the topics of 1. unseating GMA, 2. calling for a peaceful and honest elections, and oh, 3. world peace. It gathers artists and cultural people alike for a night of words and music as we ponder on freedom and/or the lack of it.

It was fun, except I felt a bit cheated because I was waiting for Conrado de Quiros to speak, as promised, but noooo! No Conrado de Quiros onstage! Hmp. Oh well.

Socializing. Again.

Had lunch with my high school best friends, then dinner and a sort-of pool party with d'barkads. :)

The Man Blog Celebraganza 2

So the man blog had another beerfest last Saturday night. As expected, the man-bloggers were hilariously funny and as politically incorrect as imaginably possible. So here are the man-bloggers (or sometimes referred to as "Joni's boylets" by some well-meaning friends).

Exclusive, Never Before Seen Photos of... Baby Iel!

aka. Tababoy, Uod, Buybuy.

Lots and lots of Baby Iel!

Pups for sale!

We're selling pitbulls. P3,000. No papers. Contact me if you, or anyone you know, are interested: 0922-8829800.

Tonight I Can Delete Messages

25 February 2007

Tonight I can delete messages.

It is only tonight, more than a year after LB and I broke
up, that I deleted all of his messages on my phone. We were together for almost
three years so those messages also cover the same span of time. They were
virtually useless. They crowded my inbox. They were not even true anymore.

In the beginning, I refused to delete those messages out of
the foolish hope that we could still get back together. We were good together.
We were happy. We were so in love. And didn’t those messages just prove how
much we loved each other? Surely, we would get back together. After months of
crying myself to sleep and dreaming up scenarios of running slow-mo into each
other’s arms, I started to entertain thoughts that maybe ours would not be the
kind of happy ending fairy tales were made of. Still, I kept them messages. Even
long, long after I stopped hoping we would get back together; long, long after
I knew there was no way we would get back together; long, long, long after I
realized we should never ever get
back together; the messages stayed in my inbox. I would delete what I deemed unimportant
messages from other contacts to have enough space for new ones. When I ran out
of friends’ messages to delete, I would, grudgingly, choose from his messages
and delete one or two that were the least sweet of the lot. Many still
remained.

Tonight, finally, I deleted each one of his messages.

I deleted them one by one. At first, I would open and read
the messages. Be sad for a few seconds then read the next one. After a while it
was just my thumbs doing all the work. There was a time when I thought I would
only delete them once I meet someone I really like, and would probably love. I
have not met anyone that fits the description.

But tonight I deleted them all.

Maybe I finally got tired of seeing “Message inbox almost
full” every time I would get a message. Maybe because I felt the need to
celebrate the spirit of Edsa and freedom in a more personal way. I don’t think
the real question is why I finally deleted the messages. I should have deleted
them a long time ago. They were the last pain that he was making me suffer. The
real question is why I kept them.

I kept them because I felt the need to be reminded that once
upon a time, I was loved.

Bagets Night

It was our almost-weekly movie marathon with d'barkads. For the front act, we had "High Fidelity" followed by the main feature, "Bagets," and finally the Korean gory movie, "Old Boy."

If you look at the pictures though, it would seem like all we did that night (and the next early morning) was eat... Which was not entirely wrong either.

Dreaming Death

22 February 2007


I Could Have Died Last Night. Twice. 

I took on the persona of a young boy in my first dream last
night. Or at least the first dream that I was aware of. A male adult, I don’t
know who, was behind me, guiding me as we flew—or fell—from a high place, most
probably a tall building. I was delighted at the sights all around me and was
even adjusting my goggles while hanging on to something, could be the adult’s
hand or arms, so as not to fall (which was weird because we were already
falling). My excitement at the feeling of flight quickly turned to panic when I
realized that we did not have a parachute and we were on our way down. Head
first. Fast. Just before I hit the ground, there was total darkness for a few
seconds. There was a part of me that was struggling to wake myself up. I finally
woke up to total darkness. I was lying on my stomach, facedown on my pillow. My
heart was beating fast and I was catching my breath.

Visions of relatives finding my dead body in the morning made
me afraid to fall asleep again. I lay awake for a long time, fighting off
sleep. I had had similar dreams in the past where it would feel like I was
about to die of something but this seems to be the first time wherein I was
anyone other than myself. I was a young boy of about 8 or 9. I had also woken
up several times before, having to catch my breath. I think I might have
stopped breathing for a few seconds.

Eventually, I fell asleep again. In the last dream that I
had before I woke up in the morning, I was living away from home in a small
house that I was sharing with a number of other people, families even. The
living condition did not feel very ideal although I cannot think of a specific
reason now. There was a feeling of mild chaos, maybe because of the many people
in the same house. An older woman visited me and was asking about my condition,
clearly concerned. I don’t think I know the woman in real life. In the dream,
she did not seem to be a relative although someone familiar to the family. She seemed
to be from the same “community” from where I came from. I cannot explain what I
meant by that, except that she might have been a close neighbor or a family
friend. We were in the living room. She was convincing me of how much better I
would feel if I did go back home. She was asking me why I didn’t just go back
where life was more comfortable. She mentioned how “there are no squatters back
home.” I don’t know what exactly that had to do with anything. In the dream, I
had to think whether I was back in China
but it was clearly somewhere in Manila.
Finally I asked her, “Kamusta si Amah? (How is Amah?),” suddenly feeling such a
deep longing for my Amah. She shrugged and answered, “Ayun, buhay siya. (She’s
alive.)” I then felt like going home just to be able to be with Amah again.
Then I woke up, still filled with longing and sadness, and realized that Amah
had been dead for 17 years.

Novel Page Count: 129