Visions of Noise

And so, began my career as a teacher. I never did things “academically” and I usually teach the way I learned things. I learned photography by picking up a camera and not by reading a book. Everything I knew was practical knowledge. This was how things went. Not only did I teach photography but also how to tell stories with both photographs and words so informally, I was also teaching my students how to effectively use English as a means of telling a story. And boy, was their English bad! I don’t mean to deride my students. I fault the system for what it was and it was a disaster! Apparently, teachers obligated students to refer to books and follow what they were taught almost like it was a religion. And being a Catholic institution, religion was the core of their being. I couldn’t believe how some people could go to church every single day of the week and including Sundays. There was the mandatory prayer before every class that I naturally dispensed with and devoted as much ti...

Serendipity happens, usually happens when you need it to. Me with Ms. Emmy Fernandez, Sr. Myrna Bas and Atty. Virginia Gatchalian After completing a Master Class in Photojournalism in June of 1995 under Spanish Master Photographer, Cristina Garcia-Rodero, I tried to study Spanish just so I could write to my mentor and to better understand the exquisite films by Luis Bu ń uel and renegade filmmaker Roberto Rodriguez of “El Mariachi” fame. At the time, Instituto Cervantes Manila offered classes on Saturday mornings and evening classes on weekdays. I chose the weekend since I was working as an advertising photographer for one of the top studios in Manila and it was difficult to predict working hours. Like any class, there was the getting-to-know-you part and little did I know that I was seated next to a faculty member of the B.S. Public Relations Department of the Santa Isabel College Manila—the late, Emeline Fernandez, a handsome, mild mannered lady who was about forty-something. W...

  I had my eye on her since she first attended a film showing at the old Instituto Cervantes in Leon Guinto in Manila. It was on the third week that I took a chance and approached her as she was sitting idly on a bench under a huge mango tree one summer evening. “So, how’d you like, ‘Como Agua Para Chocolate?” --“It was okay. I like the sensuality.” “I would’ve guessed as much. I didn’t catch your name?” --“I never gave it,” she giggled. “You got me! But seriously…” and introduced myself. --“Pia, the name’s Pia…” and she blurted out her last name. “Sorry to intrude. You seemed like you were having a conversation with one of the bats on this here, tree.” She cracked herself up so hard, her laugh echoed on the walls of the four-storey building which housed the Spanish cultural center where I was trying to learn the language, the culture and its cuisine. Almost every week in the summer, they would show films in the outdoor theater and you could have a beer with your to...

  My life is complex in its simplicity. I am the product of the many storms I have weathered—alone! I know that I intimidate people. Since my younger years, I have been labeled, “sungit” and many consider me unapproachable. Some people love me. Many others hate my guts. That’s just the way it is. I have discovered early on that it was never my obligation to please people or that I had to walk along the grain all my life. I am an outlier and I will always be that guy who stands right outside the wire separating the normal from the socially undesirable.   Who I am is quite obvious. What I am, is complicated at best.   I have always sought an answer as to what I am. Years ago, I met someone who was similarly lost and trying to find her own bearings. She was the daughter of a well-known intellectual and her wit and humor was proof of her lineage. We would hang out for coffee or wine on lazy summer afternoons in Malate. We did a couple of projects together when I was ...

Like many of the pieces I write, no one will read this either but who cares? Sometimes one has to do things simply for the pleasure of it like, smoking. Was there anything more disgusting? Nothing about smoking is ever pleasant—the smell of burnt tobacco and the mess that cigarette ash leaves in the ashtray and all around it. Not to mention, smoking or the consequences of smoking can kill you or otherwise leave your body in a horrible mess. So, why does anyone smoke? I cannot answer that question directly. I started smoking when I was 12 but the vice didn’t get serious until I was 17 or 18 when my mom caught me all lit up one summer afternoon. She’d been suspecting all along that I was hooked on nicotine, particularly one night when I came home stoned on ganja. But seriously, what drives people to smoke or take on any vice? Many would remark that it was peer pressure that made them succumb. I have no such claim or no one to blame but myself although my father was a heavy smoker...

  “Hey, what’s up,” he asked while he yawned at the mouthpiece. --“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered. “Well, now that you got me up, I couldn’t go back to sleep even if I wanted to!” --“Sorry, I had to wake you…there was just no one else to call.” “What about your best friend?” --“You damn well know no such thing exists!”   He contemplated the last sentence. He could never grasp the concept of a “best friend”. Of course, he had friends but to find the best-est was something that always puzzled him.   “Yes, I remember telling you that because I can never understand how—among all the people you know on this earth, you could find one that “out-friends” them all?” --“And I told you, I agreed, didn’t I?” “Quite right, dear…quite!”   He reached for the pack of Marlboros he had lying next to the ashtray on the telephone stand and fumbled for his Zippo. The silence was broken by a loud “clink” and a spark momentarily turned pitch darkness into dayli...

  In the tranquility of solitude is when the monsters come. I call them monsters because they eat away at my soul with a ravenous, insatiable appetite that demands immediate attention. Sometimes they compel me to get out of bed and fumble for pen and paper or force me to turn on the laptop. They will not rest until the last morsel of sanity has been devoured. This has been my life for as long as I can remember. It has been an illness that has afflicted me for at least three decades. While others spend hours just sitting in front of the boob tube or hung up on a video game or senseless viral videos and showbiz gossip, I will be zoned out and like a maniac on crack, banging away at the keyboard. I can isolate myself from any human contact—real or virtual—and enjoy the sound of my fingertips tapping at maniacal pace while consumed by EDM or trance music. Whatever I listen to affects the mood of the piece I’m writing. A dose of Linkin Park unleashes my angst while sentimental tune...

It’s really pointless for me to attempt to get any sleep when words begin to flow like a runaway train in my mind. It’s always in the dead of night, alone and in the tranquility of solitude that I put thoughts together like a jigsaw puzzle, often with a lot of missing pieces.     

I guess there are places that are conducive to writing. There are times when I am compelled to write. Outside of work, most of the things I like to do need to be done at the proper time and the place. Otherwise, I will be itching for a pen and notebook or a piece of paper or an anxiety comes over me that I will force myself to sit down and set all my focus into accomplishing just one thing, whatever that may be. Anything worth doing deserves passion. Writing or any other creative process needs to be an inspired effort. I cannot just sit and stare at a blank screen or sheet of paper all day and expect to do any sort of scribbling or that magically, my fingers would tap and glide over the keyboard by themselves without being driven by a thought or a germ of it. This is something that ordinary people will never understand. It could take seconds or it can take years for a piece to be put down on paper. This is why I draw upon previous experiences because it would only be a matter of pu...

“I’ll see you at dawn,” she said. It was more than enough to sober him up from the buzz of a couple of bottles of brew. Since they got to the island, he was aching for the chance to be alone with her. He was on-assignment, filming a documentary in the island of Culion in Palawan which was formerly a leper colony and earned the notorious distinction as, “The Island of No Return”. They had met about a week prior. A close friend and colleague had been speaking praises for her—how amazing this young lady is, and how she could leave behind a good life in Manila to spend time with the indigenous, Tagbanua in the remote village known as Sitio Alulad. His first glimpse of her was from the quay behind the inn they were staying in for the week. She was dressed in a rugged, almost androgynous fashion but her face bore the femininity which attracted him. He could tell she was from an Ivy League-ish university in Manila. She looked conservative but seeing her so far from the comfort of the city...

  Originally written: 03 may 1998   Of all the words Passed between us And all those nights I got stoned On nothing in particular I never once wrote A poem for you   Of all the things Left unsaid between us And all those hours We spent talking About nothing in particular I never once confessed My feelings for you   Except on paper   My affections for you Have long since died The only warmth I feel Is this hot and humid evening And the thing I most miss I never once had   Why at all should I indulge In mindless preoccupations When there was nothing at all Between us But a love you never felt And a letter I never sent

  (Originally written 29 October 1993)   Its nights like these When the evening whispers A soft lullaby Very few ever get to hear Or appreciate   Into the nothingness Drifts my mind My thoughts bear The sweetness of your smile The gentleness of your voice   And this same emptiness My arms embrace Pretending That the cold evening breeze Bears semblance Of your warm, delicate body I once held That one sleepless September night   And though it hurts What choice have I But to believe That for one brief moment You were mine This poem is a thought for you Although there remains Much to be said It is best to leave this, Like its title, Unfinished.

  In 1993, he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Instead of a “Bang!” there was a loud click and he felt the hammer drop on a dud. It wasn’t enough to kill him but it was enough to give him a headache. Later that same year, he would “O.D.” on a cocktail of medication. He could not remember what the concoction was but it triggered an allergic reaction to paracetamol which almost caused a difficulty in breathing. Instead of seeking treatment, he lay there alone in bed, waiting for the inevitable that would not come. It was a very troubled time which was the result of a few high-risk assignments that he refuses to talk about to this day—life-changing events that would shape how he would eventually spend decades fighting his demons, putting up a brave exterior while a quiet storm lashed at his soul. Writing was his escape, his refuge and his redemption. He would fill out hundreds of handwritten pages of poetry, short stories and essays and anything that came to mind. H...