(un)happy endings

It's weird how sometimes, things just pop in your head. But these moments often lead to good, usually creative, ideas, right? Well, I had an idea.

The image of The Little Match Girl suddenly flashed through my mind. You know that sudden thoughts that sometimes make no sense or just come out of nowhere? I immediately confirmed with my sister the manner of death of the girl, and it's one sad way to go. Isn't the story a fairytale? If it was, then it should have had a happy ending, right? Maybe it wasn't. That was probably the saddest story I have ever read during my younger years.

The idea I had was continuing the story, or somehow altering something about the story. I don't know why but, however sad it was (it's friggin' heartbreaking, dammit), it is actually good...I think. I know I used to have the book, but I rarely still have the things I owned from childhood. So, I would definitely hunt for a copy; if I would work on the idea, I first have to reacquaint myself with the whole story. I don't remember much, other than she sells on the street and strikes a match to warm herself. Then she eventually dies. Hah.

The only problem though, is I have no idea what I would do with the story. I'm not sure if I want it to have a happy ending, maybe change her death to be less sad and alone? Or her story could be my inspiration in making my own Match Girl. I don't know. We'll see.

I talk as if I'm any good at making (mending?) stories, but I'm not. It's just an idea, and I do hope I can think of something and get to it! That would be nice :)

Food blogs and other things

1. Gone are the days of clean desktops and huge free memory
2. I have this constant struggle of limiting myself to two cups (mugs, actually) of coffee a day
3. Coffee candies doesn't do the trick, however yummy they may be. It actually makes me want to grab another mug
4. Looking at food blogs at night is a very, very, very bad idea. I do it, still. And speaking of food blogs, these three are my current favorites:

• Food Porn -- I've been following Food Porn for a long time. It never fails to make my mouth water. Ever.
• Grilled Cheese Social -- Been looking through Blogs of Note last night, and discovered this. I love cheese, though I'm only familiar (taste-wise) with a handful. I love how doable these recipes are and how you can substitute ingredients for what's readily available. I tried this this afternoon and though I used pandesal and lack herbs, it was delish!
• Breakfast -- Found this just now through Food Porn. I was just telling a friend last night how I love breakfast food and ta-dah! Here is a food blog that can leave me dehydrated due to excessive salivating (that's just gross hahaha). It's destiny, I tell you.
• Salad Pride -- I don't visit this blog often, but might as well add it here. For healthier picks, here's one for you. I love salad as well! Tumblr for photos, Blogspot for complete recipes.

Go ahead and browse through these wonderful blogs. It can last you a lifetime. 

Small things to smile about

1. preparing grahams cake at 3am
2. slicing peaches thinly and not cutting yourself
3. small gatherings
4. cute babies/kids
5. homemade food (yum!)
6. stuffing your face without a care in the world
7. the golden hour
8. taking pictures of sunlight seeping through the windows
9. reading and enjoying a never-heard book that you impulsively bought
10. learning something new in Photoshop (heh)

ETA:  11. funny kitty videos on YouTube

Sad eyes never lie

It was December, and as the holidays drew nearer, the crowd grew thicker. I stood alone in a relatively quiet corner of this well-lit park (too bright, if you ask me), hands in my jacket pockets, practically freezing. I was extremely nervous, but more excited to tell you the good news. I would finally be free for a week and we could go anywhere we wanted. Five glorious days of nothing but you and me.

I looked up and saw you walking straight to where I was and I swear I could feel beads of sweat building up my forehead. I willed myself to smile, but alas, I can’t even move my mouth. Was it the cold or my edginess creeping in the surface? I couldn’t tell. Not that smiling mattered; you walked with your head down. That’s new.

By the time you were in front of me, I was virtually speechless. A simple touch can sometimes say more than a flurry of words, I believe. With that in mind and an immense longing to feel your warmth, I immediately reached for your hand, which you unexpectedly and, dare I say, mechanically drew away, as if you’re disgusted by even the thought of us holding hands. Looking up, I frantically searched your face for an explanation. With you still looking at the damp ground and I still at a loss for words, I waited. I think we both did. When you finally looked up though, I wished I knew better to avoid your gaze.

I saw the answer in your eyes.

It was a cold December night, and people poured in from every direction, as if being thrown up by the busy streets. I walked aimlessly through the maze of exuberant adults and children, hands tucked in my pockets, heart frozen.

If your pictures aren't good enough, you are not close enough.

This entry's title are words from Robert Capa. These same words are the ones you'll see on the opening of the documentary film War Photographer. 

  

The film follows the life of photojournalist James Nachtwey on the field. From the first scenes to the very last part of the movie, you will see him in action: camera at hand, photographing away. It shows scenes from several of his assignments, what he does post-assignment, as well as interviews with some of the people he worked with.

I had some questions in my mind while watching the film. A lot of the images shot were those of people grieving about lost homes and lives of their loved ones. It was a bit uncomfortable watching him taking pictures of these people crying and in despair. There were times when he was inches from their faces. Don’t these people feel violated or something?

There was another thing on my mind regarding photojournalists, media people in general. What is their intention? Is it to get stories that would get them up their career ladder? It is for the awards and recognition? Is it pure documentation? For the love of gathering and disseminating information? Isn’t it disturbing to be paid documenting other people’s suffering? Then I thought to myself, doesn’t everybody in any field want even a bit of recognition? It is their livelihood, so naturally they’d get paid. Nachtwey addressed these in the film.

Seeing this movie opened my eyes to the real dangers of such occupation. I find myself asking "How do you do it?" How does one operate with poverty, starvation, chaos, death right in front of you? I really like this film for it addresses this concerns, it answered every question that popped in my head.

I watched this for the fifth time today, I guess. It struck me just the same as the first time. It was just plain powerful, honest, true. I admire you, Mr. Nachtwey. I admire you for your work and for your words. You are one brave, compassionate, determined soul. May you continue to inspire and help people with your photographs.

This is one man who got close enough, don't you think Mr. Capa?

The worst thing is to feel that as a photographer, I am benefiting from someone else’s tragedy. This idea haunts me. It’s something I have to reckon with everyday because I know that if I ever allowed genuine compassion to be overtaken by personal ambition, I would have sold my soul. The only way I could justify my role is to have respect for the other person’s predicament. The extent to which I do that is the extent to which I become accepted by the other. And to that extent, I can accept myself.

###

All images are screenshots from the movie.

Baby it's cold outside

...as well as indoors. It's been raining for a few days now, and I need someone to cuddle with. *cough

A few random thoughts:

I want these. All four. I'm not certain if these will suit me, but it seems to look good on everyone, "everyone" being pictures of people (of varying shapes and sizes) over the interwebs.

 There's a faint blue marking on this canvas backpack that I wanted to cover up. It says "Joyce," which is the name of my aunt, and the original owner of this bag. I literally cannot wait to get my hands on some fabric markers (I'm thinking Stained by Sharpie, which I couldn't find anywhere), so I grabbed some of my water-based pens and hastily drew on it. Must not let this bag get wet.

New books! Coraline crossed out of my to-buy list. Yey! I loved the movie, and I loved the book as well! I think I'll watch the movie again later, yes? I have an e-book of McEwan's, but I never got past the first chapter. I'm still not comfortable with reading novels on a computer screen. I don't think I'll ever be. Real books are just so much more fun! And oh, these are secondhand. I can't remember the last time I bought a brand new book. Don't you just love inexpensive books? :)

Sometimes, I just sit and stare at my books. And I don't even have a lot. I think I own more "okay" books than good ones, not happy about it. Must rethink book choices.

Random post is random. Bye!

Eternal daydreamer

Always dreaming and daydreaming of:

doing something awesome
writing something great
saying something important
making beautiful things
capturing magical moments

For now, I can only dream.

Coffee and some good music

My sister sent me a link to an online contest in line with Nikon's I am Nikon campaign. That video introduced me to Radical Face and their lovely song "Welcome Home." I've been listening to it since last night. It's beautiful.

Watched Cruel Intentions and got reacquainted with this song because of it. I always liked "Colorblind" by Counting Crows and immediately searched my computer if I have it, and I do.

Listening to these two, on repeat.

Birth days and birth mothers

If my mother's still here with us, she would've been 53 years young (heh) today. But she isn't, and she'll remain 40 forever. People always said she was still so young. For the eight-year-old me, 40 was a bit old. But looking at my younger siblings, and how young they (actually, all of us) were, perhaps they're right. Of course they are.

Thirteen years, oh my. I can still recall the day I last saw her breathing: she was sleeping peacefully, albeit a bit noisily. There wouldn't be anything wrong with it, except that she wouldn't wake up. Long story short, she was brought to the hospital and after a few days, my father talked to us, one at a time. Looking back now, I wonder what he told the younger ones. What could he possibly say to a three- and one-year-old?

I always think about how our lives would've been different if she were still here. I know it would be different. For starters, I would probably still be living in our house. (I now live in my grandma's house, as with my older sister.)

She would quite possibly cry when she learns about my winning first place in a quiz bee, or when I graduated high school with honors, or when I got accepted in the country's top university, as she had when I won first place in a spelling bee waaaaaay back. Which is a bit embarrassing actually, especially because she was there, watching.

What would she say when she learns I withdrew from the university? Would she say the same words my father told me? I probably won't even have the chance to entertain the thought of withdrawing. What would she say about my transferring to a college I didn't even like, taking up a course I couldn't care less about? Would she roll her eyes? Scold me? And what would she do, when she learns I didn't graduate on time? And how about when I did graduate, finally?

All these questions, and a whole lot more remains and will always be unanswered.

I feel weird sometimes how when I feel bad about my life and myself, I think about how she can make things different from the way they are. You know, that mothers fix things and makes things better for their children. It's childish and selfish thinking, but totally normal, if you'd ask me. And when good things happen, I would also think of what she would have to say about it.

Thank God for pictures, I can always be reminded of how she looked like. I can't remember much about her, though. How she moves, how she talks, how her touch feels, her habits and mannerisms, if any. Most especially, her voice. That's the saddest part of losing someone, I guess--forgetting.

This is pretty much a messy post, forgive me. I'm just throwing thought after thought without any care about cohesion and all that. I'll just end this with something I wrote for and about her, and mothers in general. B, here it is yet again hahaha--

Do not forget the face of your mother, for she was the one who bore you, all nine months of your pre-natal development.
Do not forget the face of your mother, for she is the one who first held you, with the love you will never get from anyone else, not even a lover.
Do not forget the face of your mother, for each time you get yourself hurt, wounded, and weakened, her pain is ten times more than yours.
Do not forget the face of your mother, for whatever you do or become, rest assured that she will love you no matter what other people say.
Do not forget the face of your mother, for she trusts and believes in you more than anyone else, yourself included.
Do not forget the face of your mother, for when the world turns its back on you, not only will she remain by your side, she will move mountains just so you can experience the world again.
Do not forget the face of your mother, for every time your heart breaks, deep inside she dies.
Do not forget the face of your mother, for even if you give up on yourself, never will she think of giving up on you.
Do not forget the face of your mother, for she will never, ever forget you.

I love you Mama. I will always miss you and think about you. Happy birthday! :)

Pee not

Happy peanuts make me happy.

Unfortunately, I forgot to keep it somewhere safe from predators (i.e., other people haha) when I left the house. Needless to say, it was gone when I got back, which is okay really; it's not mine in the first place :p

I wonder who took this, and if there's any left. Hmm.

Not quite right (yet)

I started reading a book the previous week entitled It's All Right Now by Charles Chadwick. I abandoned it after a few pages, not because I didn't like it (though I thought it to be a bit wordy) but because I'm not in a reading mood, so to speak.

I quite like the phrase: It's all right now. Simple, but can be interpreted in several ways (or so I say). Does it mean "it's okay/fine now," "everything's happening right now," or "everything is how it should be?" Am I even making sense? Haha.

I don't know. I like it to the extent that I'm contemplating whether to rename this blog or not. It sounds more of a tagline though, and doesn't have the slightest possible connection to my current title. Will think of some other way to use this phrase. Plus, it doesn't fit my current state, all three interpretations.

Yes, I can be extremely shallow sometimes.


- - - - -
I'll get back to reading the book some other time, as I've picked up a previously abandoned one: Les Miserables.

Seconds, please

I've always thought of taking up a second course even before I graduated but this is the first time I seriously consider pushing through with it.

I've been restless. God, I've been restless for as long as I can remember (well, around five+ years and counting). I won't go into detail about that anymore, as I've already done so profusely in previous blogs. I have this feeling of discontent. As if I know nothing and I have nowhere to go, no direction and clear paths to follow.

As much as I like to study again, I know that I can't for, you know, certain reasons. No, I'm not 100% sure if the course I want to take is the right one. But it's the closest to whatever it is that I want, or at least I believe I want. The thing is, I'm pretty much willing to take that risk. I'm not known for taking risks, fact is, I'm scared as hell with the whole business of taking risks and facing changes. So I guess it's a big thing, or at least worth noting that this time, I think I can. Funny how when your mind's (partially) made up about something, you can't really push through and act upon it.


Mistake upon mistake . . .


I know I have to make do with what I have. This is where I am now, and I can't go back, I can only move forward. I'm just tired with this feeling. And no, you can't really shut out these so-called feelings (at least I can't), you can only cover them up. It's freaking me out, how when I finally have something I think can make things different, and hopefully better, there's really no way of going on with it.

Let's try again, shall we?

There are books you read a thousand times over because you love them. Then, there's those you wouldn't even think of picking up again. But, there's also some you would want to give a second chance. Books that you didn't fully appreciate the first time you've read them (maybe my expectations were too high?), but are willing to spend time with again in hopes of having a different (preferably favorable) feeling towards them. Such is the case with the following:

• The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood
• A Spot of Bother, Mark Haddon
• The Pillars of the Earth, Ken Follett
• The Painter of Battles, Arturo Perez, Reverte

I see a lot of people who really like the first and third. As for me, I don't know. Follett is nice, but I didn't like it as much as I hoped I would, as with Atwood. I've been wanting to buy Haddon for months and received it as a present during college, I liked it enough, but I didn't really enjoy reading it. I want to like and enjoy these books, so some time (maybe next year), I'll give 'em a shot once more.