Friday, February 15, 2008

Again, another Rally...

I am at my desk, mentally preparing for a video conference to a client in Hong Kong, and occassionally distracted by the horde of rallyists traversing Ayala Avenue below.

Some of them might have their hearts in the right place. And yes, corrupt people should be brought down... No, shot instantly, he he... But right now, I think of this bungled schedule of mine, the work that needs to be done, and Sandra's school bus tied up in some traffic somewhere.

The Philippines is the poster boy for democracy in the hands of people who can't handle it well. We are too quick to table our cries on the streets and expect a political reform after. Sure, it worked in 1986. Twenty two years later, I don't think so.

Getting up from my desk to get coffee, the TV blared on about tanks rolling in Metro Manila, sort of the President's way to get more security. She and her administration have cried of an assassination plot by the insurgents. Well, what does she expect? The country is in worse shape and her family has supposedly pocketed too much money from this Broadband deal. I look at the traffic, I look at my life, working my ass off at this hour and I think hey, I can kill someone too with all the inconvenience caused. Ha ha.

I am so politically apathetic. LOL.

Meanwhile below is the breaking news from inquirer.net


Anti-Arroyo protesters swell, start march in Makati

By Cathy Miranda, Abigail Kwok
INQUIRER.net
First Posted 14:45:00 02/15/2008


MANILA, Philippines – (UPDATE 2) At least 3,000 anti-Arroyo rallyists have started to gather in Makati City, representing various militant, civil society and Church groups.

About 100 law policemen from the city were deployed although there were those who were sent from Las Piñas and Parañaque, officials on the ground told INQUIRER.net.

They also said that the rally was expected to last until 8 p.m., based on the permit that was issued by the local government.

A mass is scheduled at 4 p.m., they said.

The protesters, who are expected to converge at Paseo de Roxas, near the monument of Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino Jr., are demanding the resignation of President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo over the national broadband network controversy that has linked her husband and some of her allies to allegations of corruption.

Police have closed Ayala Avenue to traffic and only members of media were allowed to park their vehicles along the road. Radio and television reports added that Paseo de Roxas and Buendia were no longer passable to vehicles.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Billiards with Dad


Once in a while, I am my father's son.

Last weekend, while every single male member of the clan opted to swim in the pool or tinker with the videoke machine (mind you, i wouldn't dare get caught with that one), I got the cue and played old fashioned 8-ball with my old man.

Growing up, I was a dutiful daughter. But more than that, I was his partner in a lot of things. We went fishing together, and I am his only offspring (yes, more than my brothers) who learned how to hold a worm, or gut a fish. He taught me how to scrub an oyster, and shuck it after. He taught me how to hold a rifle and kill a monitor lizard before it kills one of the ducks (we had a farm once). He also let me go with him to the barbershop, where barbers would lash out their own political opinions and I would hear my Dad in a heated debate. That in essence, shaped the way I am now. A girly-girl with old man insight and subtlety.

And if there's one thing I learned with him about men, is never sit them down when I want to talk about something important. Always say news "in passing", like when I'm handing popcorn during a commercial break. Or in this situation, over a game of 8-ball.

ME: I heard cousin ____ is doing well in Ireland.

DAD: (while managing to land one of the balls in the corner pocket) Yeah, she's doing great. Earning serious money.

ME: What if I get to do that? What if I venture out of Manila?

DAD: (Puts chalk on his cuestick) What do you mean? Be an expat?

ME: Not necessarily. I have this start-up idea which will involve a lot of travel. I might be gone every month, like a nomad. But I want to be based here.

DAD: (grunts) hmp.

ME: Anyway, it's just an idea.

DAD: Which countries?

ME: Some parts of Europe, and Middle East.

DAD: (misses a ball) there's something wrong with this cuestick... So you're resigning?

ME:
Not until I'm sure about it.

DAD: We can always take care of Sandra while you're gone. I'm more concerned about this travel thing. You're a girl.

ME: I'm waayyy over 30, Dad.
(i then hit the 5th ball into the middle pocket)

He sighs and fumbles with the chalk again. And then he goes:


DAD: When you travel, do you ride in Business class?


I guess that's my Dad's way of saying, I hope you'd be well taken care of.

And then, distracted as he was, he won the game.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

Everyday, Sweet Sunshine

Another Coke ad, quite upbeat and positive, albeit not as moving as the one in last month's post. Directed by Ken Chung and colourgraded/post produced in Hong Kong.

video

Monday, February 4, 2008

...of an Old, Beautiful Time

I love the charm of provinces, with simple folk showing much respect for old things passed on to them by their grandparents' grandparents. I love seeing hand-carved furniture or hand-blown glass meticulously cared for by next generations. I don't consider this materialism, more like sentimentality and remembrance of family history.

This romance for old things has died, unfortunately. The rise of IKEA (I call them fast-furniture, lol) has killed this respect for lovely, old bric-a-bracks. I am guilty of this too, I'd be quick to let go of anything old or worn-out. It seems practical to just buy a new one than maintaining something special.

Anyway, when work beckoned us to find a picturesque rural neighborhood (and no beach communities included, darn!) we chanced upon these lovely archaic houses, about 200 years old. And because this government of ours is too poor to declare the houses of historical significance (meaning shell out money for maintenance), the 21st century descendants have taken it upon themselves to salvage what's left.

We didn't intend to shoot the houses, just the streets and alleyways around them. But the pretty little details of these homes seduced me into venturing inside. And armed with just an old Nokia phone, these pictures don't really do them any justice.



I loved the four-poster bed, intended for a señorita, set near her wide french-lace curtained window where she was once serenaded, or presumably seduced. I loved the glass door knob on her bedroom door, which could've trained her to handle things delicately, and not to bang it if she ever got upset (I would do a lot of door slamming if I weren't allowed out of the house).


There were small washed out watercolour portraits, a far cry from the lush acrylic or oil paintings that hung in the homes of the old rich. The portraits may be small, but quite tasteful. Whoever the old ancestor was (an 18th century Chinese immigrant, the one in the picture above, next to the mirror) was modest, considering his home was huge. The mirror in itself is also a conversation piece. A letter from his son was etched on the glass. "To my dearest father, the master of this home", it said.

I was also peeking -- alright, rummaging -- around the house, looking for little clues of their personalities. And in one old drawer, I found this. A stack of crumbling documents. This one is a last will and testament, dated 1865 and written in Spanish, the Philippines' mother tongue in the colonial days. The paper was literally deteriorating in my hands (O, God forgive me for holding them). I hate being this curious and nosey, but I was drawn to the beauty of the script. The way his pen swirled revealed his education and genteel nature. And that in his last days, he bequeathed this lovely house to his younger sister. It was not a very special story, but this paper, this house, is like stepping into someone's diary. Ordinary made extraordinary by time and care given by the succeeding generations. And with that, I said my apologies to the spirits and put the documents back where I found them.

A superstitious camera crewman said there were ghosts in the place. I didn't feel that at all. The house is not haunted for me. It was loved, and that is why it felt so inviting. In fact, if I was lucky enough to see a ghost, I'd probably say "Good day, Sir. You have a lovely home".