Buhbye Persephone II

To all those concerned, I lost my phone today. That big bulky china phone. It was in my bag when I went to sleep on the boat, and it wasn't there when I woke up. I turned my stuff topsy turvy looking for it.

I hated that phone. Because it was so inconvenient to use. The keypad didn't work, so the only way I could text was through the touchscreen. Did I mention I lost my stylus a while ago?

The only redeeming values of that phone was the fact that the sound recorder worked like a charm; and that the speakers were relatively loud.

The TV; the camera; and the radio were relatively useless to me.

The sucky part is that I lose all the messages; the sound files for new songs; the pictures; the scandalous videos(!!!) and all the numbers.

Meh. Oh well.

~~~

In other news, I'm back in Biliran. I've been told there were horses. I'm being picked on by a grandaunt for being skinny, and I realize this isn't where one goes to get a vacation. Well not for me at least.

I'm on a vacation because I'm tired of the world again. There's very little motivating me at the moment but the future. And the future's always painfully out of arm's reach. I can think of a few things that I would like to have within arm's reach but the only thing near enough at the moment is a song. One more sad song is one too many, but it's expression.

Maybe I do need the extra girth. My heart feels so full it's about to burst. And everybody wants my body but nobody wants my heart.

Those who claim to want my heart don't really know what they're asking for.

And what's the point of asking for something that has somebody else's name on it?

The theme of the day: Selling Out

Someone invited me to sing a demo of a song they were selling to an upcoming pop star today. I picked up a cousin on the way, when we started talking about pop stars. Ate Jean was talking about how Gretchen Espina (Pinoy Idol winner/elementary classmate) resurfaced on local tv just recently with a very different face from last time. I was saying I wouldn't be surprised if she actually had her face done for showbiz, no matter how much you like your own face, if general consensus doesn't agree, it's better to get surgery. It'd been a long time since I last talked to ate Jean, who gave me a look and told me she'd never imagined that kind of sentiment to come from stubborn, naturalist wittle me.

We got to Bigfoot, where the songwriter/composer duo rented a studio. It was the first time I'd done a recording, and even though it wasn't my song, the experience was exciting in itself. As soon as I heard the song, my face fell. It was a fast pop song. The song was basically about how hot the singer was, and that any boy who wanted to get with her should leave their shit at the door. The lulz part was that as a guide, Ben, the writer, recorded the song with his voice first. To me, it sounded very flamboyantly gay. I let the lulz help me through the ordeal. The song was meant for someone with a higher pitched voice, and it was a strain for me to sing, so that whenever I went flat or sharp, I whinced. Jaye, the Count-composer, told me not to worry, since they could easily edit my voice to adjust the sharps and flats and make it sound cleaner.

Ara: O.O you mean...
Ben: Oh you should hear Miley Cyrus before editing, there's really nothing there.

And here I was, pressured to get voice lessons because my voice didn't sound record-perfect, when it turns out half of the people on the airwaves owe their perfection to Cake Walk.

So I sold out. I sang their pop teen song and went home. In the taxi, ate Jean (who had been baptized "Diane" by Ben) asked me if I could still remember the song. I don't. My system flushed it out of me as soon as it could. Heeheehee

Burnt Out

I'm all for self exploration, and for the past years, that's all I've ever been doing. In the beginning of the year, I'd been semi-lectured by a professor about not having decided on a specialization. But it's not like I haven't tried. I'd been trying to get a feel for which communication field I was more attuned to and I can't quite get exactly which field I'd do best in. In fact, I'm starting to feel as if I don't have what it takes to be the best in anything.

Growing up, I'd wanted to be many things, but before everything, I wanted to be a painter. Then I wanted to be a cartoonist, and was always drawings pictures with stories. I'd started painting oil portraits at 7.

And then life happened. I couldn't afford art materials anymore and could only afford pencils. I stopped painting, learned editorial cartooning, but even then, life was still getting to me. There were more critics than support, and the constant nagging by almost everyone that art would get you hungry and that comfort meant a job behind a desk and a steady pay made me give up.

When I was choosing a course, my options were architecture, psychology and masscomm. When people from high school would ask why I didn't take up fine arts, I'd say there wasn't any money in it.

Isn't it unfortunate when you find out that the option you closed off would have been better than the seemingly better option at the time? I'm finishing masscomm in a year and a half, and it's not because I was bad at majors or anything. It's just that I feel as if I'd just learned the basics to everything and not enough to be intermediate at anything. Or maybe my standards are too high.

In arts on the other hand, given the proper training, I could have focused on conceptual art. Drawing, at the very least, is skills-based. You tell me what to draw and I'll draw it for you. As long as I know how to draw. But I dropped my pencil a long time ago. I'd stopped rabidly drawing from days on end as if that was the only thing I could do. I figured if I had taken up an art course, I could have gone back. The pressure from a school environment would have prompted me to hone my skills, inspiration or no, the way warmages are taught to wear armor while casting spells. The weight would be difficult in the beginning, but it would breed discipline.

But then again, would doing Concept Art for a living pay? My art-school dean friend says it does. As long as you were willing to please the customer (learning to sell your skills and not your soul). And as long as you don't hope for work in this country, because we're going hungry, and the people actually earning here are in the business of the living and the dead. It's too late to find out if I have any leanings towards medical courses, I'm not about to become an embalmer, and there's too much competition in the food business. Blah, everything's a gamble, but that's another story.

But what are my other options? Or what options do I still really have now that independence is breathing down my neck?

There's also film, but even that seems bleak. The Philippines' movie scene is terribly dark. If you aren't making easy to swallow-escapist movies, you go nowhere. Im an escapist, but Im told my concepts are too cerebral for the masses. And film is a collaborative medium. If you can't work with people, you're doomed. I'm semi antisocial. And my experiences with Bida Complex, though far too little for me to actually judge, kinda tell me Im going to find it difficult to adjust.

I feel blind. I know there are difficulties whatever path I choose, but one can't help wanting to figure out where one would least suck, and try hard enough NOT to suck, so that in the end, you can say that you at least tried your best, despite your best not being enough.

These are times I curse my artistic forebearers and wish I'd been more left-brained.

Fly Pancakes and a potentially popped vein

I have not slept a wink. My right eye looks like it's popped a vein, and it may have. And now that it's been mentioned, it's beginning to manifest. Ouch.

I was up late, drawn into a world of demons and angels, of gods and demigods, of esoteric banality (blashpemy isn't necessarily synonymous. Isn't that why I enjoy Gaiman?). And it's usually due to being sucked into fantasy worlds that I lose sleep. Even with my eyes closed.

I find it a little disconcerting how comfortable I am in pastiche. How I can easily settle with suspesion of disbelief because I am shown things familiar to me - my own meanderings. I am aware of the pull of seduction. But I don't doubt my lack of it any longer. I nitpick tho. Why are his secondary heroes always either fierce women or spineless dipshits? Why are his usual main protagonists self-serving assholes? I also can't help but notice that in Gaiman's stories, domestic tragedies are usually irrelevant, unless you were some immortal's spit borne.

Which leads me back to the reason for my escapism, from the fire back to the pan.

To my own little domestic tragedy and a realization. We let our tragedies slick off our shiny little bodies or e turn out lives upside down for conclusion. It's all we have. Aren't we all just flies after all?

And Im a fly pancake, if you've ever seen one.

(I'm on volume 56 of Lucifer)

The Proverbial Popped Cherry (Outpost, first gig journal)

I'm going to try telling it in reverse.

I woke up at noon today. We have another gig later this evening at UP, Prequel to Cook Out. We're not playing for Cook Out itself tho.

I went to bed at 2am, after coming from McDo escario to hang out with my gaming buddies, CORPSE, post-gig.

Sam went home at 1am, c/o Jan, who completely missed the show. Isorayt Jan, you get first dibs on the video once it's uploaded :) And there'll be other gigs.

At 12 midnight, Karl, cousin/cam holder/ and all around amazing kid went home to go beddybye. Anton arrived, who also completely missed the show. He caught up at McDo where Baisac and Jan turned paparazzi.

At 11ish, we played. It was so much different from playing for Dama. Like I'd told Sam earlier that night, Dama felt like Theater. This, on the other hand, felt like rock and roll.

The last song, If I can, was written by Ate Yan Redoble, some 8 years ago, but ti was only recently when I became the Hastang banshee that it had been arranged the way it is now. it is far shorter than the original version, and not as heart-rending. Imma be posting it one of these days so that you know what I mean. I loved performing it. I hope we accomplish something like this again.

The second to the last song was Ode, based off a poem I had written late last year (The Ode to the Half Moon) The chorus was written in a couple of weeks ago, after Gaw gave me riffs for it.

The 4th song was Taming of the Shrew. When we were making this one, we had meant to just turn another one of my poems into a song, but the words didnt fit the riffs. Guile and Gaw prolly shit melody every day it wouldnt matter to them, but I liked the riffs too much to throw them away. The verses were done in an hour, and the chorus came to me a day after, also in an hour. This song just came together so fast it was unbelievable. Playing it was just fun. xD

The third song was a cover of Stone Temple Pilot's Vasoline. The song was more relaxing on my part (no pressure on the vocal chords at all), but I really liked the underlying meaning. I guess everyone gets those days when you feel like a trapped fly. So much for wings and sth. Oh well.

The second was an older original, When Misery Speaks, which was set lower than the original key to accomodate my voice. When i first auditioned for Hastang, they made me learn two pre-recorded original songs of theirs. The other was Oblivion, and I was free to choose whatever I wanted from their website. I chose When Misery Speaks because it had a lot of promise.

The first was a cover of Audioslave's Cochise, my original audition piece for Hastang. I have to admit that I knew very little about Hastang. I admittedly knew near nothing about the local band scene, but I'd wanted to play Cochise before, back when I was still with Dama. On the phone with Boss Mark for the first time, I remember him stopping short after I asked them if I could sing Cochise. Then he laughed and said yes. Much later, I found out they were big Audioslave fans, and that they'd always wanted to do music much like Audioslave, except their old vocalist couldn't do Rock and Roll.

We were supposed to be third to play. A mix up happened with the emcee, who introduced us second. But what the heck. We started playing.

Outpost was almost packed when we got there, I'm sure, mostly with Missing Filemon and Sheila and the Insects fans. There were a couple of familiar faces, and a sea of people who made me feel... to put it simply... young.

Before heading to the outpost, I spent the entire day in bed, sporadically logging on to read webcomics and check mail.

Because the world is round, it turns me on

Over Persian food and yogurt last night, I put my life into perspective. I rehashed what was worth mulling over and what was worth letting slip if I don't want to further fuss up life.

Today in math class, I couldn't pay attention to what the teacher was talking about, so I played a game with myself. I made a little ball in my mind, of all the things I was mulling over, made it a little ball, and let it fall out the window.

And now I know how to make parabolas and circles. I'm fine.

In fact I was so fine I consumed most of the grande I was sharing with Eds Pax and Pangs. I wrote it out and let whatever remained go.

Afterwards I was lucid and so much better. I also managed to write a new song. Imaginary ewoks and silent "friends" be damned.

Speaking of friends, I'm friends with Epot again. We caught up a bit. Turns out he had still been reading my private blog a couple of months ago, so I didn't have to talk much, which was great. He talked about how he'd patched things up with his family, but was enjoying independence too much to go back to living with them. He asked about old friends, talked about work, geekery, this and that...

And then Eds finished a new song stanza and Pangs and Epot started talking warhammer. I wandered off to find coffee to sober up.

And if all goes well tomorrow, Ill manage to patch things up with my family as well. Kapoy na'g emo emo.

which reminds me, that Anton reminded me last night that I haven't been really talking about the Outpost gig.

So to those who dunno, I'm the new Hastang banshee. We're playing for the technical first time tomorrow at the Outpost, at around 10pm with Missing Filemon, Sheila and the Insects, Happy Hours, and Julia. See you when I see you (given the lights don't blind me) ^_^

The Strange Hair Day

The day started off well enough. I'd gotten money someone owed me, with which I bought a shirt a friend designed, which turned out to be the very last one, and on top of that, I'd managed to make a costume prop out of random stuff I bought at the mall. I'd reminded the girl I'd rented a wig from that morning that I was using it that night instead of yesterday like I'd told her when we last saw each other, so I asked if I could get it. Apparently, she hadn't taken it from the girl who rented it before me yet. Later, she texted that the girl couldn't be reached.

This lead to a series of unanswered phone calls, phones being shut off, weird text messages, hurried jeepney rides, would-have-been taxi rides, a potentially empty wallet, etc etc etc

I needed the wig for a shoot I was doing. I'd already paid for the wig, excited that I didn't have to cut my hair (that I'd been growing so paintakingly for several months).

But by 3pm, both renter AND rentee turned their phones off and I was left extremely frustrated and angry and left with no other choice than to cut my hair. I was thinking, if you want something done properly, there are things you have to give up.

Calltime was at 5pm, so I went off to ayala to find a hairdresser who could do the hairstyle. It was one suited for straight hair. I had wavy poofy hair, and I needed to know what sort of temporary treatment my hair would have to undergo to get the hairstyle I wanted. Most salons had waitlists, except for David's. So off I went, to wait for the stylist they called Mr. Collins (or something that began with a "c" and sounded english). The dude was bald and asian, and he started talking to me in a strange accent in english, so i thought he couldve been Singaporean or something non-filipino, like Bridges' stylist. So I responded in english. I told him I wanted a duck tail at the back, and bangs that framed my face.

He didn't understand what I meant. He suggested I get a semi-rebond. When I said I wasn't getting one, he frowned and walked off. Another hairdresser came up to me and said we could just set my hair for the meantime, and then cut it the way I wanted, etc etc. I said okay, and sat down. Mr C came back to cut my bangs, and then left.

I was waiting for him to come back to do the ducktail. But he didn't. I asked the attendant about it when Mr C came back, insisting in tagalog that my hair was curly, there was no way he could cut my hair short etc etc etc.

We had a little argument in the store, where he started speaking Cebuano. If you're a hairdresser and you're reading this, please don't be condescending to your customers, and if you don't understand what they want, try to talk to them about it instead of pretending as if you do.

I left in a huff, refusing their offer for a shampoo, went to the parlor across the street from my boarding house, and got my hair done exactly the way it should have looked at half the price David's would have asked.

It was of course, one thing to have the hair styled and ironed out, and I was still afraid the hair would turn out into a nightmare once the wax was off. After the shoot was over, I was at a friend's house for a party he threw his daughter. I washed my hair, dried it and let them take pichurs.

I think it looks great. Eat that Mr C :P