I am a victim of my own good memory.
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Mohan Gumatay (DJ Mo Twister) via www.twitter.com

It was a moist Saturday evening that was the milieu of a gathering I was surprisingly invited to. Being of a socially awkward nature, anxiety crept across the whole day imagining scenarios of unspeakable nature. How I am not fit to be in this situation, how my defeatist inclinations would leave me vulnerable, and ultimately downtrodden. But I knew for sure that missing it would be failing. For one only fails when attempts are ceased irrevocably.

So I went. And there, amidst the altitudes of Ortigas, was a sight to behold. Bloggers and friends, lovers and acquaintances, people whom I’ve previously known, and some I have yet to encounter, melded and mixed, mingled and moved in a hodgepodge of inebriated abandon, of animated discourse, of sensual fragilities, and social serenades. Most of them I didn’t have the courage to introduce myself to, some of them I was uneasy because of a certain histories, others felt like strangers from a different lifetime, vaguely familiar yet blatantly distant. But I was reminded that the choice to be happy is a daily struggle, a decision that must be spelled for oneself, despite the encumbrances of circumstance.

To speak, I would imagine, must be a challenge for me. And a challenge to those I would converse with, for too often I find my words too distant and precise for social rapport to grow. So I listened, and observed. To touch would be tantamount to suicide. For the mere brushing of skin leaves me breathless, and that connection rarely comes along in requited form. So I danced.

And dance I did.

For when I dance, the world feels right. The music becoming my pacemaker. When I dance, I go beyond what my physiological morphology lacks. I transcend my definition. I feel taller, in shape, and great looking. All the attributes I do not possess, I achieve. When I am one with the dance floor, the rhythm takes my insecurity. It is cathartic and divine, pure and empowering. With strangers as audience, and newfound friends as my steady ledge to cling to, I danced. As if I was 23 again.

Memory is a curious thing. It stretches its double-edged blade across one’s heart like the strings suspending from a grand puppeteer’s scaffold. Any attempt to make sense of its capacity to cull emotions long considered abysmal and lost to oblivion would be surprised how it can just as easily remind us of the exquisite as if it just occurred moments ago. Strong memories latch on with the sensual, from the scent of musk, to the thudding of a house beat, these sensory cues become longstanding catalysts that allow memories to resurface, awaiting that crevice in one’s composure as an opportunity to flood, and from footnotes of a long-lived reality to become the melody of the present once again.

Once, a long arcane time ago, in a different life and in the shell of a different person, I was a social butterfly. Hidden beneath layers of insecurity and unrest, seething anxiety and rebellious dispositions, I redefined myself as the epitome of a party animal. That singular individual that thrives in the superficiality of attention, and that unquenchable thirst for validation by assigning the conception of self-worth against the yardstick of other people’s perceptions. I was young then, possessing of a good physique, and an audacity that fails my better judgment. The dance floor was my kingdom, and my body my tool, to elicit the reaction I wanted, and feed an insecurity with hollow sustenance.

I was naïve. To think that human touch is the proof of emotion, and I pried upon touch to define what emotions I can feign or gain, in the end obfuscating my own conception of worth. And dignity. Frail against the labyrinthine travails of a travesty of my own weaving.

Years passed, heartache and rejection have enveloped that lingering insecurity into physical manifestations of my failed attempts at love. Growing adamantine and stern beyond the socially acceptable, I dwelt on the cambered belief that to be detached is to be strong. How gravely erroneous I was.

That night when the music took me into her womb, the melody became my mettle, and I was once again new. Like that young design student in awe of the possibilities of life. But there’s a difference, for then when I danced, the objective was to find another. To seduce, and elicit, to attract and appeal. This time, it was to find myself. To rediscover who I am, by the language of my motions, and the sentences of the beats, I was speaking again. Not by words, and phrases, but by grinds and segues. And I never felt more eloquent, and honest.

Soon people started calming down. The music mellowed to a softer lullaby of ballads. Couples found their corners to settle into the night, friends found themselves reminiscing and conversant, others found their way home from this place. And there I was. Alone again, strewn across the dado rail that presented the expanse of Pasig, I waited for dawn to arrive, and bask in its brilliant glow.

Memory is a curious thing. How it can remind us, and forgive us, how it can spite us and comfort us. And how, by the action of memory, we learn. That life changes as we do. And that our humanity resides in the memories we keep.

It was past 7am when I alighted the elevator. After saying a quick farewell to one of the celebrants, I found myself walking along the streets of Ortigas restless, yet euphoric, exhausted yet alive. Just like how I was back then. A dancer. It is a reminder that one evening of dance can leave me breathless and thankful. For that memory, and for this new one.

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To Odin, for allowing me to discover that common ground can exist in the most surprising places. To Poi, for inviting me, and reminding me that to be human is to be connected, and that sincerity goes a long way, that we are not books, but manuscripts, pages are drafts to an unending tale, and that connection can come not from its covers, but by its footnotes.. To Moi, for being proof that it is possible, and that patience and honesty makes it all worth while. To Ewik, for showing how intellect and wit can coexist beautifully, and in such an amiable engaging form.

And to my dance floor co-habitants, for allowing me that small real estate of floor to share with you, even for just that evening. I am deeply indebted.



Image from here.

The definition of a good space is a sentient equilibrium between various aspects of the sensorial realm. For a space to be effective, without delving into the binomial paradigm of form and function (of which varieties are as kaleidoscopic as the vocabulary of the practice), it must be a balance of tectonic elegance, esthetic honesty and appropriate style. This is without saying that all three prerequisites a sincerity that is reflective of the intentions of the design, and responsive to the nuances of the purpose of the space. Too often design, in its modernist sense, tends to objectify methods and elements as superficial, and even superfluous conglomerations, and design professions become assimilative in their attempts to use thematic, trendy and outright out-of-context manners of eliciting curiosity, pulling from their vocabulary of morphologies and techniques with a singular objective. This translates into a veritable shock-and-awe bacchanalia for the sake of achieving that catch-all definition, iconic.

But true, mindful and coherent design comes not from the wordsmithery of forms and palettes, but a deeper intelligent understanding of the nuanced experience of space. The aspects of this process, although in no way absolute or dictatorial; is better comprehended with an outlining. Design must be fertilized with a philosophy, that lofty and intangible idea that becomes the seminal vector of any process. This philosophy should be made relevant by a concept, translated by the esthetic and consequently expounded by style.

Alacrity often leads to an overzealous usage of elements when the wielder of the palette fails to recognize the relevance of a grounded conviction to design. To envision a space, whether it is a room, a building, or a city, requires a depth of confidence with one’s craft and the fortitude to choose the design language with economy. To better understand this proposition, I must first establish the definitions and differences of the abovementioned aspects.

A philosophy is a guiding mark, the designer’s compass by which his visions find meaning and voice from, it’s the metronome to which his taste and language beats in synchronicity with. The philosophy could be self-apparent; such as the adage less is more or the more ubiquitous form follows function, or it could be more indefinite and does not easily relate to space; such as the Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi or the celebration of the degradation of things, simply put allowing nature to run its course. Ultimately, a philosophy is the belief that is reverberating in spite of the designer’s plethora of outputs and ideas. This is akin to the aesthetic, or the philosophy of beauty in nature, art and science, not to be confused with esthetic.

The concept is the point of inspiration, that moving idea that becomes an impetus to translate the vision into form, and experience. For most it could be any number of things sensory from the lanceolate of a leaf, to the foaming of the littoral waves, for some it could an intangible such as balance, or linearity, or even the random ambiguity of simulated chaos. Whatever the concept is, it finds rhythm in the opus of the translation. The esthetic thus becomes a measure of the honesty of this translation, if by the final experience the concept can be deduced, the concept can either be strong and resilient, or the esthetic too superficial to elaborate its depth into meaning.

The esthetic is the designer’s palette. It is the elements and proportions, textures and language of forms that he wields to translate the concept into space. It is his box of crayons, his vocabulary; the syntax by which vision achieves structure. It is usually categorized as stylistic genres (such as brutalist, streamline moderne, industrial) or periodic mannerisms (such as mannerist, gothic revival, or art deco), but I consider these terminologies and definitions, although lends easily to the layman or uninitiated, inadequate to grasp the totality of what an esthetic is. It is, simply put, the genius loci by which a space can be identified, pulling from the designer’s far-reaching experience, exposure and training.

The style is that definitive mark, the cherry of the spatial baked good by which a place can be a memory, and an experience a moving, impressing one. It takes the elements of the esthetic and re-invents, adapts and reconfigures it to suit the purposes of design, function and economy. It is the finishing touch that establishes a space as complete, coherent and legible to the user.

The interplay and relations of these four – philosophy, concept, esthetic, and style, is the bloodline of a design, the hemoglobin that carries the intent into imagery, from imagination to experience. A good designer then must effectively, and with much humility and honesty, muster these to weave his vision. Theoretically, the possible combinatorics of these aspects are infinite and inexplicable, a notion that becomes most daunting especially for those whose basic idea of aesthetic is neither defined nor consistent.

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To demonstrate this, allow me to provide an exemplar. The philosophy is honesty in design, the concept is blending in, the esthetic is Greek revivalist, and the style contemporary. Imagine a building done like a Grecian temple, complete with friezes and cornices, doric columnation and patio steps, embedded in the urban fabric, built with the correct materials and proportions, yet in stark and pristine white (of course the original Parthenon was a florid and colorful beacon of religiosity meant to please the gods). What becomes translated is a space, although defined by historic language, is read as contemporary, albeit simplistic. Its subtle spirituality gained not from the dictation of purpose (as the original temples were) but by a modern interpretation of the same elements.

[The image above, a possible translation of this, is actually an office building at Brest Harbor in France]
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Although not entirely linear, as design progresses through these four aspects eventually being translated into the final spatial extant, the tangibility of the idea becomes more apparent. Thus, from the ideological philosophy of the auteur to the obsessive hardware of style, the layers create and enrich the space with a meaning beyond the semantic and iconographic.

To achieve great spaces, and great design, does not necessitate that all of the aspects be represented and legible in equal value and strength, for it would lead to a rather stale translation. What the objective must be is to create equilibrium in that all aspects relate to each other, with possibly one with a dominant gesture resonant in all layers of this output. A tensegrity is accomplished, precarious but elegant, between sensory forms and experiential value, between creativity and usability, and between purpose and pulchritude.

Creating an experience that germinates not from decisions of taste, but discretions of intent, becoming a symphony of idea and imagery, by the haptic and heuristic, of the sensory and cerebral. When done correctly and elegantly, esthetic beauty goes beyond the definitions of it being a function of the senses, transcending experience into intellect and proving that esthetics also resides in the idea.

The challenge is to achieve this elegance without the ruminations of effort, or the remnants of experimentation. When this is attained, the space moves one to emotion. And beauty transcends the physical, into the spiritual, from the astute to the awesome.



Next Fallacy of Form: Economics of Creativity
Image from here.
The first Fallacy of Form is here.
Fallacy of Form - Verdant Voice is here.

The reflection etched on the cracked surface
is fading into the ether of day
Imperfections of a broken dream as I lay
motionless. The words
left unsaid. Screaming into my eyes.

I would take the pieces
shriveled and soiled from the memory of rain
and unfold them, page by page
unto my warm bed to desiccate.
To discover the ink as blank as the words.

My fingers curl at the thought of
it. How a future of solitude can spell
my consciousness explicitly. But I digress.
Because possibility is unfettered. Undefined.
To think otherwise would be defeatist.

Memory would be my salvation, and history
my proof. That giving what I could, offered.
What I could. What I can. What I wanted.
Is all that my capacities can
afford and provide.

Yet, sometimes, is inadequate.
A knowledge that must be experienced,
a comprehension needing to be felt.
To know that I am worth the while,
and that loss is not a constant. But a catalyst.



Image from here.

Dreams feel real while we're in them. It's only when we wake up that we realize something was actually strange.



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Cobb
Inception
2010 Warner Bros. Pictures

Image from here.

We turn not older by years, but newer everyday.
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Emily Dickinson

Image from here.

It is the pinnacle of being a writer to be published. To have the words that one’s mind has birthed printed and experienced in material form. And for a blogger to be published is an even greater achievement. For the digital medium have often been relegated a credibility undermining the potential of this medium. Blogging is generally perceived with the same respect that entertainment weeklies might beckon, only because for most to blog is a mere reflection of one’s passing inclinations, a voicing of opinions, and often, nothing more. But for those few whose words have become more than their apparent significations, and have grown into a following of communities transcending what the entries profess, goes beyond what blogging is, to what it can be. It becomes dialectic, a cross section of the human consciousness, and a testament to the democracy of the medium.

To be a published blogger is the evidence that it is beyond the medium that value is created, but by the content that meaning can be derived. It is the solemn proof that writing, in all its myriad manifestations, blogging being no less a form of this, has the capacity to affect change. To lead narratives, change perceptions, and open the mind.

To write that the Threesome: Three Books to Break the Rules Launch was a success would be a gross misrepresentation, and a grave understatement. The support it garnered is overwhelming. A literal microcosm of the kaleidoscopic world the medium has expounded. From the uber-cool to the understated, from the eccentric to the eclectic, the audience that graced the launch is a spectrum of inclinations and dispositions, leanings and loyalties that show how strong this medium has become. And The White Room, being a perfect canvass to this spectrum.

To E, for the courage to bare your heart and speak the explicit few would dare thread and attempt to verbalize, to McVie for taking each bath house visit with a grain of salt and the optimism that life should be enjoyed despite all circumstances, and to Migs for the open-minded embracing of the culture we inhabit and the willingness to connect and learn and teach to those who are but neophytes in this milieu; thank you. For your words and your entries, for the dialogues you have inspired and the friendships you have birthed. How a test result can be a fulcrum of belief, or how a comic yet raunchy incident can be a thespian’s triumph, or how a simple letter can empower the understanding and love of the parents of this new generation.

To be published is not the end, but the beginning. Continue to break the barriers of ignorance and dispute, discrimination and myopia. For the life of a writer only begins when the last period is typed. The words become more than its authors, they take a life of their own, and us, readers, take pieces of this literature and make it our own. Own stories, and narratives, own opinions and beliefs. Let your books be our blank page, on which lives can be written and rewritten.

Because to write is not a mere threesome, but an orgy of minds.

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Image from here.
All three books can be purchased at MyBookstore.ph
The titles in the Threesome: Three Books to Break the Rules series include:
The Chronicles of E
The Wetbook: Stories from the Bathhouse
Dear Migs: Letters to Manila Gay Guy

I am a clean slate.

A blank canvass to the inspired painter. Whose gestures with the worn brush distill emotion into imagery, sentiment into sentient scenery. His strokes define and expound on affections, from the minutest of nuances, to the expanse of my skin. He will draw upon his own actions to discover the curvature of my consciousness. And I will be his willing plate, for the feast of his senses.

I come to him pristine and birthed, from a frugality of experience and the washed out ebbing of my beating chest. He will weave his stories through my stretched linen plateaus, from the Indian ink he drips, to the vivid colors he conjures. He will awaken me to his touch, and I by my eyes.

And I will be his masterpiece, and he will be mine.



Image from here.

When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.
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Ansel Adams

Image from here.