You Are The One

Watch the (original) full trailer of Star Cinema's
"You Are The One"
Starring Sam Milby & Toni Gonzaga
Showing on August 30, 2006

Love can't be denied...




You can also support the movie by voting for its theme song's video on MYX!

Simply type:
myx(space)vote(space)songtitle and send to 2366!

Thanks!

See Me Malaya

Today is officially the start of the Cinemalaya Independent Film Festival.

I used to dread the length of time I was made to wait for the results to come out, and now, it's actually here, and I'm part of it.

During the Sinetaktakan last week, when all the film makers involved were asked to discuss their films and the peripheral issues attached to independent filmmaking, I mentioned how nervous (nerbyous, ika nga, to better underscore my emotions) I felt about the coming week. We were asked to rate our films. I gave my own film a 9, saying that I subtracted a point because I was forced to edit out some of the scenes and sequences in order to meet the 20-minute maximum running time the competition rules imposed.

However, I clarified that how I rated "Labada" shouldn't be confused with an objective evaluation of my film. Most people would agree that any creative work can never be evaluated objectively. It's just not possible to quantify the merits of a creative output. I told the audience that with only a week left before the festival, the jitters are worse than ever.

The moderator told us first-timers that based on last year's festival, we'd probably be on automatic pilot mode once the festival starts. The deluge of emotions and the flurry of the events almost guarantee we won't even know what hit us.

It was a welcome thought.

Now that the day has come, I'm not sure how to describe what I'm feeling. There's a part of me that's excited about the good things that may be in store for me and my film. And there's another part that can't wait to see all of this over and done with.

Cinemalaya seems to imply a liberation of sorts. I've yet to see what it will do for me.

Wash And Learn

Watch the trailer of
Raz de la Torre's "LABADA"

The Cinemalaya 2006 Schedule for the Short Feature Finalists

SHORTS PROGRAM A:
1. 10:25 ng Gabi
2. Gee-Gee at Waterina
3. Kwarto
4. Labada by Raz de la Torre
5. No Passport Needed

SCHEDULE FOR PROGRAM A: (which includes Labada)

Tues, July 18 – 12:45pm (CCP Main Theater)
Weds, July 19 – 9:00pm (CCP Main Theater)
Thurs, July 20 – 9:00pm (Multi-Purpose Hall)
Fri, July 21 – 6:15pm (CCP Little Theater)
Sat, July 22 – 12:45pm (CCP Little Theater)


SHORTS PROGRAM B:
1. Orasyon
2. Parang Pelikula
3. Putot
4. Puwang by Anna Isabelle Matutina
5. Sa Silaw

SCHEDULE FOR SHORTS PROGRAM B: (which includes Puwang)

Tues, July 18 – 3:30pm (CCP Main Theatre)
Weds, July 19 – 6:15pm (CCP Little Theatre)
Fri, July 21 – 9:00pm (Multi-Purpose Hall)
Sat, July 22 – 9:00pm (CCP Main Theatre)
Sun, July 23 – 12:45pm (CCP Little Theatre)

Hung Out To Dry

Originally written on 11 April of this year.

I’m still reeling from the excitement.

A few hours ago, I was in the process of reading and cleaning my email inbox. After deleting countless egroup digests, an email that started this way, popped up:



April 11, 2006

MR. RAZ DE LA TORRE
# 38 Kalye Emerald, Tierra Pura VI
Tandang Sora, Quezon City

Dear Mr. de la Torre,



I was instantly curious about the formal salutation and eerily precise address...


In behalf of the Cinemalaya 2006 Organizing Committee, I would like to inform you that your entry to the Short Feature category…



I called out to the high heavens even before I reached the end of the email. I was ecstatic. I didn’t need to finish the email, and it wasn’t after jumping up and down for a good ten minutes did I actually finish reading it. I was hugging Sherlyn, a close friend who happened to be reading my email over my shoulder at that time (a pet peeve I managed to let slide this one time). The email, as it turns out, came from the Competition Director of this year’s Cinemalaya. It bore the news of my short film “Labada” making it to the Cinemalaya’s Short Feature category’s finalists.

It is such an unbelievable feeling.

You wish it would happen. You pray for it to happen. You go over and over the circumstances that could make it happen... but when it does, you still can't believe it’s happening. Being a finalist makes me feel like I’ve already won. I used to think that when Oscar nominees say that during the red carpet interviews, it's just a load of bull. Now I realize they probably mean it, if my own incredulity is any indication.

When I submitted “Labada” as an entry to the Cinemalaya short feature category at the beginning of the year, I kept it to myself and a few members of the crew who worked with me. I’m terribly insecure about things like this and I wanted to shield myself from the potential disappointment of not making it as a finalist. After all, my fears were founded. Last year’s Cinemalaya festival, which produced wonderful works like Mansyon (short feature best picture), Pepot Artista (full-length feature best picture), Big Time and Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros, was groundbreaking. It opened the eyes of many film buffs to the local independent cinema. As a result, more aspiring filmmakers were inspired to venture in independent film making. Myself included. I figured this year’s competition would lure more films. It’s like opening the floodgates.

The truth is, I had confidence in my short digital film. I always tell my friends that as long as I am entertained by my own work, I consider myself accomplished. I usually think this way about the storylines I submit to Star Cinema. Nevermind if the core group (the elite circle of power-wielders in the company) doesn't find my storyline good enough. Long as I'm happy with it, the pain of rejection becomes more bearable.

That's also true for “Labada.” However, I felt that in Cinemalaya, it’s just not enough that you like your work. The competition committee must like it too. And considering the subjective nature of film viewing, and the number of entries they must have received (36 short films this year, I heard, unless I'm mistaken), I couldn’t help but think there’s bound to be 10 other films better than mine. I believe in the wealth of undiscovered, unrecognized talent out there, and despite my desire to be included in their ranks, as most struggling artists are usually predisposed, I just didn't believe in myself enough.

Thus my reaction to the email that I just received.


* * *

Almost three months after receiving that email, I'm still reeling from the excitement.

In an effort not to preempt the news and jinx my good fortune, I put the publication of this entry on the back burner. I finally managed to write about it after the press conference last July 5. That, and a few newspaper articles that featured my name as finalist, finally legitimized the deal. I just submitted the miniDV copies for the Jury. Prior to that, I kept going back to the 'cutting board,' desperately figuring out other ways to improve the film before finally leaving it at the mercy of the viewing public. I'm done with the washing, it's time to hang it out to dry.

The excitement has been laced with an anxiety borne by the thought that no one might watch it, or conversely, that people might and wonder why Labada was included. God knows I've felt that way about a lot of films featured in various festivals (last year's Cinemalaya included). Anticipating being at the receiving end of all those criticisms scares the hell out of me. I can't help but feel personal about it. Like my film, I feel like I, too, have been hung out to dry.

It's a realm of emotions I'm willing to tread, however frightening it might be. I just comfort myself that if all else fails, I at least have my own sense of fulfillment to retreat to.

Ságada, Ságada't Su Dóku

Su Doku is my latest obsession. It is a game that involves filling in a 9x9 grid with numbers so that every row, column and 3x3 box contains numbers 1-9.

I was first introduced to it last December by my Singaporean friend Ben when we went on a trip to Sagada with Richard and Gerald, another friend from Singapore. As we were about to leave the Dangwa terminal, Ben whipped out his copy of the Straits Times (a Singaporean newspaper) and started working on the Su Doku. I was curious. He told me it's the latest craze in Singapore. Gerald got a piece of paper, copied the puzzle from the Straits, and started working on it as well. Both figured it'll be a great way to kill time during the long drive to Mountain Province. I wasn't instantly interested. I would much rather take in the sceneries. Later on, they couldn't take anymore of the puzzle and decided to sleep through the rest of the bus ride.

We got to Sagada late into the afternoon. We spent the first night resting in preparation for the hectic day that followed. After breakfast, we immediately headed to the big falls, known as Bumod'oc to the locals. I started getting cramps on our trek back from the falls. I fell behind the others just to keep my legs from giving out and collapsing altogether. I wanted to beg off the Sumaguing adventure but I didn't want the group to feel like I was being a kill joy so I sucked it up and went with them anyway. The cramps started acting up again, but I managed. As if the first wasn't torture enough, they insisted in going to the Sumaguing caves that same day. I originally scheduled a more relaxed, scenic trip to a spot overlooking the Sagada Rice Terraces. That meant we only had to sit, chill, take pictures and enjoy the view. But they wanted the caves, so I caved in. We barely made the cut off time for the cave excursions (sayang). That's no mean feat, considering we had to descend from from the top of a mountain to get to Bumod'oc, hike back up again going home (the whole episode was like reverse mountain climbing, which was much harder!), go back down again, this time for the caves, then finally climb back up from underground.

After our dinner at The Yoghurt House (where we had lunch earlier, and where we were to have breakfast the next day), we went back home. The inexistent night life, languid pace and distance of the inn from the town center kept us indoors as early as 7PM. With nothing much to do (the television was being hogged by another group of people who outnumbered us), Richard and I looked for clean sheets of paper and started working on the Su Doku as well.

The fulfillment brought about by filling the boxes with the right numbers is very addictive. I never finished the puzzle (we had to leave the following day), but I've always been curious if I could.

A month or so ago, I saw in Newsbreak (the magazine) a notice saying they were going to feature Su Doku in their bimonthly issue. Sometime at the beginning of June, I saw a similar notice in the Philippine Daily Inquirer.

It wasn't until this week that I decided to check out the Su Doku puzzles. Now, it's one of the first things I look for when I read the papers. I'm proud to say that since I started answering the puzzles four days ago, I haven't failed at completing the boxes correctly. The Newsbreak Su Doku's are much harder though. I tried two of them and both times, I've been stumped. But I haven't given up.

I just feel so accomplished cause I never, ever, complete crossword puzzles. (I've to cut me self some slack though, crosswords are harder). Finally, I've succeeded in finishing a puzzle featured in a daily. For a difficulty rating of three stars, I'm now able to solve a puzzle in as quick as five minutes. Pretty good, I think.

Security

Last week, after watching "The Lakehouse" (starring Sandra and the ageing Keanu) and dropping off Che, I met up with my friend Jarell and decided to have a round of beers in Kalye Juan (Tomas Morato). We were sharing work angsts. He was contemplating leaving his job in Maalaala Mo Kaya (MMK), and he wanted to unload on someone lest he commit to a decision with nary a thought and end up regretting it. I gladly obliged, and took the opportunity to unload some of the work baggage that's been weighing down my shoulders. Indeed, misery loves company. And San Mig Light.

Jarell has been working for MMK for almost as long as I've been with Star Cinema. He started as a researcher, and now works as the show's head researcher. It doesn't sound like it's a big step up, but it actually is. For weeks now, he's been feeling a little stifled by the work load and the erratic and unstable income. He tried consoling himself by looking ahead, by exploring the possibilities in store for him, only to be disappointed cause there might be none. He looked at his seniors who, in Jarell's words, blew off their youth in this same job he's holding. It took them years to get where they are now, resident writers for MMK. He looks at them and sees how sucked out and wasted they are, and Jarell's suddenly not too sure if all this is truly worth it.

I asked him what his options are if he was to leave MMK. He's thinking about leaving for the Middle East to work in a hotel. His relatives tell him that he only needs to train for six months after which they are sure to find a job for him. It's not like Jarell has been dying to get into the hotel industry, but the hefty pay check the job promises to reward him will at least provide him the security he's been looking for. Being passionate about your job just isn't enough. He'd love to stick around as a writer, but right now, it's just not sensible to do so.

Our conversation corroborated the prevalent restlessness symptomatic of kids my age. Even friends with fatter salaries in other jobs don't feel like they're getting enough. Imagine how much worse it is for us who try to live off creative writing. Jarell thinks I'm lucky cause my mom's well-to-do and there to supplement the unbelievably low compensation writers like me in the Philippines get. But what of the future, when my life's completely my own and there isn't my mom's wealth to rely on anymore?

In writing, there isn't a ladder you can climb up, unlike in corporations. There are no rungs to step or hold on to to pull yourself higher. We're not assured of salary increases every X number of months of service. Rarely are we given the statutory benefits most employees get.

In writing, it's just about you and your work. Years of writing can improve one's craft, but it doesn't guarantee an increase in one's value. Companies (in this case, TV stations or film outfits) may hold you in a particular esteem, but in the end, it's still about your work. If they don't like what you hand to them on your deadline, you're asked to revise or put out of commission altogether. It takes a lot of laborious years to build on a good name, but it only takes one bad draft to be of ill-repute.

In writing, there are no tangible standards for excellence. One cannot be guaranteed a promotion after writing for a certain number of years, or after being published, or after a film you wrote grosses over a hundred million in the box office. For starters, there isn't a higher position to promote a writer to. But more importantly, excellence can't be measured because the whole business of writing, of creation, is subjective.

I feel restless because of the uncertainty. Or perhaps because I've always thought that good things come to those who are patient, to those who deserve it. This epiphany about the nature of writing as a profession tells me that you don't always get what you deserve. I want to do everything I can so I can remain in the industry, scribbling and imagining and creating until my dying breath. But it isn't all up to me, much as I want to be the one in complete control.

On top of that, I want to feel secure. I want to be assured that pursuing this passion will yield to a bright and fulfilled future. That I'll be okay for as long as I work hard and believe in my capabilities. But it isn't all up to me, much as I want it to be.

Jarell admitted that even if he ended up leaving his job, he would still want to return to it. There is still nothing he would rather do than write. He just wants to earn enough so he can focus on what he loves doing in the future.

All of a sudden, our conversation was interrupted by this commotion. A guy whose mouth was bleeding came running down from the bar above Kalye Juan. He was shouting for help, asking the men on the ground floor to block the door and not let his pursuers out. In a few seconds, four other guys appeared. Apparently, they were in an altercation upstairs. Something about the guy with the bleeding mouth being maangas. The ladies from both groups desperately tried to keep them off each other, but the four guys were too inebriated to listen to reason. The girls asked the security guard from the bar we were in to intervene, but the guard said,

"Di po sa amin yan, di ako pwedeng basta makialam."

The customers on the other table immediately fled the scene, afraid they might get involved. I told Jarell to stay put, sure that they wouldn't involve us unless we did anything stupid to call attention to ourselves. So Jarell and I just sat there to watch the ongoing ruckus.

The bleeding guy, in a major blunder, decided to take refuge inside Kalye Juan, where we were drinking (I was thinking, kundi ka ba naman tanga, e di lalo kang na-corner. Dapat nagtatatakbo ka na lang o nag-taxi paalis.) Naturally, the drunken quartet tried to follow him inside. All the Kalye Juan waiters retreated to their kitchen. The girl who was with the bleeding guy stayed outside Kalye Juan, inserted her arm through the door handles to keep it shut, and tearfully begged the drunken quartet to have mercy on her friend. The drunken quartet was relentless. It was a glass door, so they could see their target with his tail between his legs, wailing,

"Tama na, please! Sorry na nga e..."

(comment to self: "Ang yabang yabang kanina, titiklop din pala.")

They were less than a meter away from Jarell and me, who were still lounging on our chairs.

At this point, some of the other original customers from Kalye Juan had started goading the bar's security guard (the same one who washed his hands off of any obligation to get involved) to do something about the disturbance. His earlier excuse had been rendered inadmissible since they were actually inside Kalye Juan already. He was duty bound to protect the bars customers and employees. The guard reluctantly took his gun from its holster. But one of the guys saw him and started shouting at the guard,

"Ano, ipuputok mo yan? Ipuputok mo yan!? Sige nga! Sige, iputok mo!"

The guard just backed off. Obviously, the guard wasn't a believer of sticks and stones hurting the quartet's bones, cause words were enough to hurt him. I then noticed one of the guys pick up an empty glass from the table nearest to them. That's when I finally asked Jarell that we better steer clear of any flying shards or ricocheting bullets. Things were getting out of hand.

The exchange of shouts lasted for a few more minutes before being capped by one of the quartet throwing the glass at the guy when glass doors opened wide enough to allow his hand inside. The glass shattered to pieces, but fortunately hurt no one. And then, the quartet was gone.

The bleeding guy lingered inside the bar for a few more minutes before emerging. By then, the rest of the customers who witnessed the hoopla (us included) were just already talking about how the policemen are always too late the hero. And then there was the security guard! Talk about being useless! We rarely see security guards in action, but I've always had faith in them. This would've been the best time to show his wares, to finally get some piece of the action, to live up to his sworn duty. But he just backed off. Probably more afraid of hurting the our tormentors than potentially getting their innocent patrons hurt.

Which only proves my point that there is no real security in this world. Whether it be in our careers, our future, or in bar brawls. We can only do so much, and the rest, faith will have to account for.

For Take Out

Don't you wish there was a counter
where you could do just that?

Breaking New Ground

A new ranch to park my thoughts in.

Hay, Majayjay

Last Saturday evening, in my desire to make the long weekend my own, I asked three of my friends if they would be interested in going on an impromptu road trip with me. Luckily, they were all game. After rounding up our P388-per-head consumable account in I.O. KTV, Norman, Che and I picked up Anya and some personal stuff, and we headed to Laguna.

It was a tiring drive, however quick it was. We got to our destination in less than three hours. I was looking forward to sleeping, to having the serene Majayjay bounties cradle me to sleep. But such was the beauty of the small town's attractions that I couldn't resist staying up, even if I've been there before (it was my second time and I don't think it will be my last). For 60 bucks per person, and an additional P200 for a cottage, we were pulled out of the personal ruts we were all stuck in. Each person in our clique was complaining of either boredom, stress or frustration. Our spur-of-the-moment decision to leave the city was paying off.

Soon, Che was in the water making up for the summer that slipped by ("Tapos na ang summer, di man lang ako nakapag-beach!"). I'm sure it more than made up for sandy shores she missed frolicking in. We asked the kind manangs of the resort to buy us lunch from the town market, which they kindly agreed to do. I laid my weary body down the picnic table, but the babbling brook just would't let me sleep. I got up, put on my surf shorts, and joined Che in the water.

The water was so cold that I decided to wade in it for a while. It was so pristine it washed way everything we wished to be rid of. I hopped from rock to rock until I was underneath the bridge that connected the parking lot to the other side of the stream, where our cottage was. I thought, maybe I should work myself out a bit. Perhaps sweating it out would enable my body to stand the icy temperature of the water. I picked a spot where the sun could shine on me and relaxed.

Che got enticed and went over to where I was. In my head, I started thinking about how tragic it would be if she slipped on one of the rocks and cracked her skull. I watched keenly and guided her on which trail was the safest.

Then, it was Norman's turn to join in. Anya was more interested in sleeping, so we just let her be. After a few minutes of camera whoring, Norman followed to where Che and I were. It wasn't long before he, too, was in the water.

The water was more bearable by then, but I still couldn't get myself to just swim in. Maybe if I just jumped in, it'd be easier for me. Great idea, I thought.

I walked back to our cottage where Anya was sleeping. It was a bit elevated, providing the necessary height for my jump. I asked Che to swim toward the area I was targeting to jump in to check how deep the water was. The water was a little above her waist from where she was standing, but she said the area right in front of her was deeper. Perfect. That was to be the contact point.

After feigning a few times, off I leapt, like a cannonball, legs tucked in, knees almost to my chin.

It was effective.

Despite the big splash, I didn't feel the cold at all. Instead, what I felt was this terrible pain on both my shins. So painful that I had to hold on to Che, unintentionally dragging her with me. When I surfaced, Che was harping about how she almost fell and drowned. And all I could say was, "Tumama ako."

I haven't even seen my leg yet but I kept telling Che that it was deep. She wanted to see how bad it was. I took a quick peek and saw that it was bad. I told her she won't be able to take it. She insisted. When I showed her, she had to cover her mouth in incredulity. Right below my knee, above my shin, was this gaping wound. It was pasty white, like how your skin looks when you've accidentally shaved off a part of it. Only this was much bigger. Like a portion of my flesh was scooped out. The gentle current was dragging away some of the torn flesh. I thought I even saw the bone at the center of the laceration. It was that big and that deep.

With a limp, I forced my self to get out of the water to fetch my toiletry bag. I fished out a bottle of betadyne and used it to clean the wound. Anya was woken up by the commotion. Upon seeing my wound, then bleeding profusely, she took a small block of ice meant for the Coke, wrapped it in my sarong, and told me to apply it on my swollen wound. Norman and Che asked the resort staff for some first aid materials, and came back with box of gauze and masking tape.

There was a moment before jumping off when I thought, "This could turn ugly." And it did.

I didn't want to spoil the fun by rushing everyone so I can get some medical attention, so I tried to bear the pain. We even had lunch first, feasting on a plate of grilled liempo, eating with our bare hands. (Sobrang sarap niya, Che was craving for that liempo the other night). But I was afraid the injury will get infected if not attended to immediately. It was so painful my leg started to throb. I had to require help in changing into dry clothes.

We left Majayjay a little past noon. We drove all the way to Santa Cruz, Laguna, the provincial capitol, to look for a hospital where they could stitch up my wound. I was convinced I needed one or two stitches, though everyone else thought a simple disinfecting was enough.

I wanted to admit myself to the provincial hospital (past experiences had taught me government hospitals still have the best doctors). After one of the doctors finished attending to a mother whose baby might have been suffering from dengue, she confirmed that I might need one stitch, and that they'll have to inject ATS (which I later learned meant, Anti-Tetanus... something). She said I just had to sign up and wait for my turn, which may take a while because there were a lot of other patients. When I looked around, there were patients on wheelchairs, with bandages on their heads, with tubes running from their wrists. One was even on a gas tank. I felt diminished by my trifling concern (Malayo sa bituka! Samantalang yung iba, dine-dengue na). The doctor said it may take an hour or so, but at least it's free. All I had to pay for was the meds.

I looked at Che, who mirrored the defeated look on my face. Then the doctor offered another option. There were a few private hospitals on the same street where the provincial was. There were probably less patients, but I'd have to spend a bit more. I decided to do that instead.

right in front of the provincial hospital.We drove out of the provincial hospital and looked for one of the hospitals the doctor mentioned. "Holy Family," she said. We drove back and forth only to realize that it was.

When I walked into the emergency room, it was empty. It looked like the hospital was closed for the day. The congenial security guard had to call for the nurse, who eventually called for the doctor. It took him just one look before declaring that I'd need three stitches.


Now, I have this horrendous, frankenstein-like beauty mark on my leg. I still can't walk in a normal pace, and I have to take this capsule every six hours for seven days. That's what I get for not following my gut.

At least I'm bound to remember this trip for eternity. I need only to look at my shin to be reminded of my tragic out-of-town trip that Independence day weekend of '06.

Hay, Majayjay...

Three Questions

Norms did this personality assessment test of sorts on us last week. It's the kind where you're asked questions and your answers are supposed to reflect aspects of your personality. I've always been a sucker for those stuff so I gladly obliged.

It's pretty simple. The three questions:

1) What's your favorite animal, and why?


2) Which animal is for you, okay lang? The one you have no strong feelings for? Yung wala lang? Why?


3) Which animal do you hate, and why?


We were supposed to support our answers by enumerating the traits of that animal that we answered to a particular question.

The first was easy. I answered "Horse." They've always been one of my favorite animals. It was a toss up between a horse and a dolphin.

For the second question, I answered "Dogs." I actually have three dogs: Mutt Li, Reiko, and Mecca (I have a new, fourth one, but I haven't met her - Nixa). I love them to bits. Primarily because they're mine. Because I chose them to be my pets. I've had more dogs as pets than any other animal, but in general, as animals, I don't have strong feelings for dogs. Sila yung 'wala lang.'

The third question was for me, the toughest. Of the gazzillions of animals that existed, it was hard to pick one that I hated the most. Then I remembered this trip to Palawan I had with my friends.

It was in October of 2004. A send-off gimmick for one of our good friends, Ayie, who was leaving for the States for good. Another friend of ours, Joey, is originally from Puerto Princesa, so she invited us over and made us stay in her home for free. She took on the role of our personal tour guide as well.

We went island hopping in Honda Bay (where the famous Dos Palmas island resort is located), visited favorite local destinations in the outskirts of PPrincesa, and checked out the night life (which in PP meant singing with DOMs and giggly girls in a sleazy videoke bar). Of course, there was the perfunctory drinking session till the wee hours of the morning. Half of our group was inebriated beyond recognition. Yung hostess nga namin, si Joey, nung tulugan na, panay

ang dasal. "Lord... Thank you for the sweet watermelons... Thank you for my friends... I pray we won't have hang over tomorrow..."

And then we went to St. Paul Cave, the subterranean river national park that was declared a World Heritage Site. It was a good 3-hour drive north of PPrincesa. I've done the boat tour of the dark cave before, and the novelty of the boatman's spiels and jokes do wear out (pang-one time, big-time lang), so I, along with two other friends, decided to stay in the picnic area and wait for the first timers to return instead, surrounded by humongous monitor lizards and scavenging monkeys.

I was so tired from the night before that I decided to take a nap on the picnic bench while my two other friends munched on the snacks we brought. Slowly, I fell into the land of Nod. I

haven't even started snoring when I was jolted out of sleep by a sudden motion above my head, accompanied by frantic shrieks from my friends.

I shot up and jumped on the table, paranoid and afraid that one of the bayawaks had bitten my leg without me realizing it. I was fine (if you don't count my almost heart-attack). It was then that my friends started pointing at the woods. When I looked, they were actually pointing to the monkey who ran up our picnic table and stole some of the food that we brought - right in front of my friends! As in, hindi man lang natakot. Walang kahiya-hiya, naglulundag siya papunta sa mesa namin, tumalon sa ibabaw ng natutulog kong katawan, at ninakaw ang pagkain sa gitna ng magkatapat at nagkwe-kwentuhan kong mga kaibigan. Ganon ka garapal.

I was so pissed. Not because of the loss, but because I was still shaking and my heart was beating so fast. I felt scared, and one-upped! We kept shouting at the monkey and the rest of his posse, trying to shoo them away, but they just stared right back at us, undaunted. I threw something at them, which sent them scurrying off. But it wasn't long before they were back, surveying our perimeter and eyeing our picnic basket.

So finally, I had an answer to the last question. The animal I hated the most: Monkey.

I said I liked horses the most because they're intelligent and regal. I also think they're strong and loyal. Profound even, if that makes sense. They just have that impression on me. Come to think of it, those are the same traits I like in dolphins.

Norman said the animal we like the most represents how we think people see us. I guess, in effect, it means it's how we hope people see us. Going a step further, I guess it's how we think of ourselves.

I fell silent after he said what that first question meant. It was kinda embarrassing to unintentionally disclose that I think of myself as intelligent, regal, and profound.

Although I believe it, on a certain level. On the intelligent part, I think I've reason to think that I am naman. Lagi ngang biruan namin ng kaibigan ko... Pumasa kaya ako ng UPCAT! Pero yung "regal" at "profound," parang... OA na ata. Feeling na. Feeling deep. Feeling royalty pa.

The second question tells us how people actually see us. Sabi lang naman yan ni Norman. I chose dogs because, "I like them a lot, but they're everywhere. They've lost their novelty. Parang... taken for granted." They're lovable, smart, loyal, reliable... but every other household has one. You go to middle class neighborhoods and you'd see them roaming around. Every member of a breed looks the same. Unless they're temperamental, they're all deemed cute. Kumbaga, unless you're its master, you won't be able to recognize the individuality of one dog from the other. Kaya nga nababale-wala.

That that's how people saw me made me think. And it actually stung. Precisely because I feel taken for granted in a lot of ways. Maybe it's because I don

't have siblings of my own, but I really put a lot of weight on my relationships with friends. Mom ko na lang kasama ko, medyo estranged pa ko sa mga kamag-anak ko. E matampuhin pa ko. Tipong, sana maaalala ako ng kaibigan ko, sana gawin niya to sa kin, pero wala naman akong gagawin para mangyari yon. I'd remember the times they'd look for me because they needed me, and only then. Kahit alam kong di sadya, I put a lot of meaning in actions and events. Not like I'm maudlin, but I admit to being sentimental, though not necessarily expressive. Silent cries for attention. I'm a paradox that way. I usually get over those mild KSP attacks by thinking it's all in my head. OA lang ako at maisip. Most of the time, it really is the case, after all. Such rationalization usually pulls me through.

That my answer to the second question affirms that people do

take me for granted depressed me.

Maybe it's karma. That's how I see dogs because that's how I am with my own dogs. I do take them for granted. There're days when the only time I get to pet Mutt Li, Reiko and Mecca is when I arrive home from work, if at all, and only because their roofed bedspace is strategically located in front of my garage. Kung hindi pa siguro, baka nga di ko pa sila maaalala. I even feel - no, I know for a fact - they're closer to my helper. They just look out to me when I I go to my car to leave. But when Dora, my helper, comes out to open the gate for me, they'd bark their lungs off for attention. If it really were karma, isn't it a little hyperbolic a retribution?

Finally, the Monkey. I know that they're man's closest relative. They're intelligent and clever, but I hate them the most because like Darth Vader, it's like they turned to the dark side. Like they're using they're intelligence for selfis

h reasons. They're rude and shrewd. Stubborn and unpredictable. Loud, annoying. You know how some kids look like they're small adults? Well monkeys are like small lolo's. At least all the other animals look like animals. Monkeys look like they're bad effigies of human beings. Man when disproportionate and mentally regressed. Freaky. Freaks.

Then Norman said, they represent who we really are.

Ayun na. That's when I knew all this was bullshit. Napaisip-isip pa ko. Nadepress-depress pa ko. Pucha.

Ako, unggoy!?