bwisitdiaries*

There was a man dressed in white. Somehow I was friends with him and we were sitting in a park. After having a rather lenghty conversation, he turned to me and said: "I hope he doesnt turn out to be an Edgar." Then he walked away. I dreamed some more and when I woke up I saw that the metropolis was drenched in rain. There was a thin film of mist hanging above the houses below and for some strange reason, try as I may to get out of it, I was already in abject funk.

Watching Ed Wood was a little bit painful. Not painful in a way that watching a truly horrendous movie like a Joel Lamangan movie is painful but painful nonetheless. Tim Burton’s Ed Wood was definitely far from being terrible. In fact, I found it hilarious and well made. It is just that I have this nagging feeling that I am an Ed Wood in the making. I’m afraid that perhaps my illusions of grandeur are just that—merely illusions. One of the instances that might support this suspicion is the time when I presented an outline of a story I wrote in a writing workshop. It was a war time drama about a small time crook being caught in a much bigger battle and when it was read in class it bombed big time. Imagine my embarrassment when my classmates started laughing at what was being read. Since I am quite a veteran at being laughed at—I’m painfully shy to the point of appearing moronic— I laughed with them. “This is not a comedy, is it?” asked our esteemed teacher.

My nagging suspicion, howeve…

Because I used to work in an environment where the working hours go way beyond the nine to five schedule, I felt, no, I thought I was special. Special in the sense that unlike the seemingly ordinary office worker, I don't have the same rigid rules and routine. It is as if the wild working hours were a testament to my creativity. Of course, it was not. I would drag my tired and smelly self towards the MRT platform at 5 in the morning and observe — not without condescension I must add — the early morning passengers that have begun to surround me. I would look at them—newly bathe and ready to start the day— and think about how ordinary their lives were. Ordinary in the sense that their days do not differ that much from each other. They wake up to the loud ruckus of the alarm clock (or in some cases, their mother's loud grating voice), haul themselves to the bathroom and later fling themselves to the streets where they are usually greeted by mind-numbing traffic. And by the time t…

I just spent the last 72 hours reading Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, a sprawling, obsessively detailed account of Hollywood in the 60s and the 70s. The time then, as Bob Dylan so famously put it, was a'changing. Sexual revolution, pot, and Vietnam were looming in the horizon and an entire generation of artists were hellbent in changing Hollywood. Elsewhere, Nouvelle Vague was happening and the French, with its auteur theory, was about to change the face of cinema. Indeed, it was heady time to be a filmmaker and American filmmakers, with Francis Ford Coppola in the forefront, were staging an invasion of the film studios. And surprisingly they succeeded, albeit very briefly.

It was certainly a rare moment in American cinema when the film director reigned supreme: Coppola, Bogdanovich, Beatty, Friedkin, etc. were treated like gods and not surprisingly, ruled like demons. With so much sex, drugs, and megalomania going on during that time, one wonders how the filmmakers made any film at al…

Lany has been baking cakes since when we were still in college. From simple chocolate crinkles, she eventually tried her hand in preparing exquisitely decorated and delectable cakes and pastas. In fact, whenever I am invited to their house, I make sure that it's my eat-all-I-can day. That way, I wouldnt leave their house filled with regret. Bottomline is: she's good. So good in fact that she has received nothing but compliments from the PETA people (not the animal organization but from the theater group).

Interested? send her a text message at 09274514704 or you can place orders on this site.

alam mo yung pakiramdam na ayaw mo naman talagang gawin pero ginawa mo parin kasi kailangan mong mabuhay at magbayad ng renta, cable, tubig at kuryente. alam mo yung parang tumambay ka sa gabi sa may circle at tumayo at nagpa-pick up at na-pick up naman ng isang van na sinasakyan ng isang team ng basketball players. alam ko kinky fantasy ito ng ibang mga bakla pero pano kung yung basketball players eh kamukha nina max alvarado (or fill in the blank any of the guys that you find despicable) at dinala ka sa may antipolo at duon kinantot ng kinantot sa pwet kahit sabi mo hindi ka bottom kung hindi top ka! top ka! punyeta! (aray ang sakit!)pero imbes na bayaran ka ng malaki o nang tama, binugbog ka pa at pinagtatadyakan at pinagduduraan at itinulak ka pa sa may bangin na parang si Myrna Diones nuong dekada nubenta.

So umuwi ka, aaka-aka, wasak na wasak ang wetpaks, duguan at halos hindi na makalakad. pero ni hindi ka makapagtaxi o makapag-McDo o Jollibee dahil leche wala. ka. ngang. pera.

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NOTE: This is an old post. After reading this, I suddenly miss Joy and our adventures in Malate. Where on earth is that girl? O well, now that i have finally resigned from my menacing job, maybe I could hang out more often with my friends. The question is: do i still have friends? O well...


july 9, 2006
sunday / somewhere in project 6

PART ONE

i was a bit tired, i needed to poo and i hated what i
was wearing. it was not a nice way to start a saturday
night in malate but what the hell i was depressed.
normally when im about to go out energy would
literally pop out of my skin. i would sit in a taxi
with my ass barely touching the seat in excitement.
but that night, despite the possibilities that awaited
us, i was actually sedated. at the start of the night
i was one big scar but only when i was able to type
something on the PC that the anger subsided. i
remember telling an officemate a few years ago, back
when i was writing on my journal almost every day that
writing kept me sane. suffice to say that…