If the recent weather conditions could be summarily taken as a portent, the upcoming start of my reviews this week would be nothing less than challenging. I wish I could brush off this foreboding sense of dismay and curdling anxiety, but the fact remains that the review center I opted to enrol in is located at an area renowned for incessant flooding and the persistent presence of criminal activity. Despite the fact that it is in close proximity to one of the most prestigious universities in the country; which I surmise is also a factor why pickpockets, hold-uppers and various sorts of malevolent intent plague the locale, it is also quite remote from where I hold office.

resume rubbored reading...

Is it just me or has the independent film industry fallen prey to an emergent malady of mediocrity? This, of course, is an overly generalized observation; there are a few noteworthy examples and some have even garnered accolades from foreign audiences, but let’s face it – the remarkable ones are few and far in between and is no way indicative of the homogeneity of our prevalent cinematic experience. I don’t fancy myself as a professional critic; and compared to Froyo, am no movie buff. I’ve had a few experiences during my undergraduate years as a student critic, and have graced several lectures and workshops on film and film theory enough to display a capacity to formulate an educated opinion.

I may not have the acute wit of a Pauline Kael, nor the practical sagacity of a Robert Ebert, and to speak of the profundity of cinematic semiotics would be hugely detached, but I’m certain that even the most layman and shallow would notice how the phrases “indie film” and “experimental cinema” have been used too loosely and without concern lately that it dilutes and damages the essence of these lexis, and consequently shedding the more legitimate instances of the genre in insipid light.

resume rubbored reading...

The past is a wilderness before us.
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Sir John Talbot
The Wolfman
2010 Universal Pictures

Image from here.

Darkness falls like the cloak that hides the devious. She comes creeping, subtle and foreboding, unsettling and directed. Focused and intent on a trajectory that will never waive. Thwarted only by the fickle-mindedness of her plot, she slithers in reverse, embalming the horizon beyond. Moment by moment, one ray of sunlight at a time, she veils our visions in her mists of ambiguity. We fall into disarray, men of the night.

And so the hunt proceeds as our eyes adjust to her disarming shade. We frolic and fornicate, fetter our hearts and fester our minds into uncompromising situations. Incoherent in the velvet chasms of her frigid bosom. We wilt in fear, and anticipate danger, lurking in every imperceptible crevasse and alley. Creating paths across the jet black site, we embrace her. Devoid of alternatives, a choice we must repeatedly make as the dusk introduces her every single day. She is absolute and temporal. Persistent and passing. Yet in her abyss of impaired scenery, our consciousness placate reason. Replacing it with uncertainty, fear, anxiety.

I embrace her. The cold winds that soothe my tired skin, her stinging arms calming my troubled spirit, lulling my evenings in the arias of her silence. Across electric stars incandescent and distant, she culls my emotions, veiled in the face of the brilliant sun, and amuses herself in my restraint.

I embrace her, to remind me I am fervent. Vigilant and ever resilient despite the squalor of fate’s tragedies. In her arctic embrace I am human again. Weak yet perseverant. Blinded in her shadows yet ever more perceptive and alert.

I do not fear her. Not because of the promise of day, and that her cyclic nature foretells of an eventual end to madness, but because she is merely misunderstood. By multitudes who have been victimized by those who prey in her midst, and by those who make her presence an excuse for the questionable.

In her darkness, I find solace. An anonymity sunlight seizes upon dawn.




Image from here.

The ineptitude of our urban fabric stems from the obsolescent belief that architects in general, and planners and urban designers in particular, are tasked with the innocuous derivative function of imparting order and establishing a supposed system to the anarchy of sprawl. Thusly, the resultant plan using the classic paradigm would envision the space in situ as either a gridiron applied against an otherwise organic site of nuances and elements, or of grandstanding organic forms enforced on an inherently interesting locale. Logic would preclude that both methodologies occur as an oversimplification of the spatial dimension. Order will never be achieved by geometry and abstraction. Gaudi (that mad-genius hailing from Catalan, Spain) phrased it eloquently in saying that the straight line is to man, as the curve is divine. Yet recent masterplanning trends are evident of a lack of respect to nature and geography, subverting these parameters as simply inspirational in effect.

As planners, we are tasked to understand the space not as lines drafted across the screen or on the printed page, but a space unencumbered by walls. Master-planning would thus entail a masterful planning of the site, a programme that can never be deduced to uni-dimensionality that aggrandizing schemes vend. One cannot enforce order in the poetic chaos of nature, nor genuinely claim to be Gaia-inspired by the superficial application of superfluous sinuosity. Form is not the resultant of an effective masterplan. Function is. No organic form can ever be natural by the mere innovation of adapting without reason, or worse on a planar sense of conceptual gimmickry. But a masterplan that affords the functions to operate in synchronicity, with enough agile and tactility to adapt and evolve as habitation progresses, is one that truly works. Effective in that it achieves its purpose, a plan. Yet flexible enough to respect that the human condition is one replete with change and transgressions, identity-building and idolatry.

When a site presents itself bare and uneventful, let climate, geography and geology be the yardstick by which we measure our proposals. Let culture be the catalyst that will paint the fabric of the place. Let the users define the identity.

It is not the abstract line that instills value into the masterplan. It is the inspired distillation of the datum that nature provides us, filtered through the creative analysis of a disciplined practice, that gives that very line meaning. It is that honest acknowledgment that the Earth provides us well enough, to be favored the capacity to mold it. Because originality means returning to the origin.

Masterplanning is revisiting the site, and uncovering its latent sense of place. The genius loci that we beg our skillful hands may find cadence to compose. That inspired moment when nature enlivens our lines, and meaning is equitable to value. When creation converges with care, and the mind melds with the soil. A return to what is true.

Genius is in the genuine.





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The Fallacy of Form is a new serial contemplating on issues of design, aesthetics, the creative process and identity.

A few days ago I was fortunate enough to observe a preaching on the bus ride en route to our house. The preacher in question is a well-toned colored man in his late 30's whose stature and bearing present a well-to-do lineage. He got on the bus a clear half an hour from my stop and directly proceeded in proclaiming his intended agenda for the night. Being the cynic that I am, I listened intently on his teachings and assertions with regards to faith, salvation and the purpose of life. He had a small leather-bound bible in tow, was dressed in crisp white sleeves that have been ironed patiently, dress pants and the necessary shoes and belt. The absence of a scapular and/ or a rosary, and the characteristic messenger bag made me question if this guy had any pecuniary motives.

He started with aplomb, once I got over his distinctly South African accent I could not help but get mesmerized with his oratorical finesse. Modulations and inflections aside, he had the air of a seasoned public speaker, whose message delivery, regardless of content, will surely illicit attention from his audience. Sure, I had reservations with taking his preachings ad literatum, yet I could not help but consider the validity of his pronouncements by the mere style of his actuations.

The grace of God was given to us by way of His son's death, and we as children of God have the responsibility to spread His word. Rejecting the teachings of Jesus is rejecting the grace of God. And he who refuses to spread His word is falling short of attaining His grace. We must be a nation of preachers and share the teachings in order to achieve grace. Repentance is not enough. The teachings must be followed in all aspects of our lives. Do not ask what my religion is as I will be insulted, religion is not important. What is important is to be a nation of believers.

I am agnostic, that I do not deny. I find nothing overtly revolting with his words but I do object with a few. With no intentions of discrediting his faith or the validity of his convictions, I believe for the sake of enlightenment I must expound on my own opinions. It seems to me that this absolutist view on the scripture is a misguided interpretation of the requisites of faith. Theoretically speaking, salvation is achieved through the actions of repentance and faith. Repentance is the acceptance of one's misgivings, either by the sins of omission or commission. Faith is the belief without seeking proof. This should not be confused with blind faith, whose repercussions entail a superficial understanding of the requisites of believing.

I have always held the scripture in high esteem, but do understand that it is a guide to the manner by which our lives must be lived in commune with our fellowmen. This is not absolute. The words were written by men whose inspiration, although divine, was also open to the interpretations of their age. Translations have both diluted and distorted the meanings of the text. But what I do believe is the distilled virtues the scripture teach, whose learnings are universal values that remain unbound by the definitions of religious affinities. Rejecting the teachings is such a strong statement. But "must be followed in all aspects of our lives" is just as erroneous and extreme.

I started to have doubts with this man. Yes he posed such valid and provocative arguments, but the manner of expounding is tantamount to the condescension of an armchair believer. Being a nation of the faithful is far more effective than a nation of preachers. Sharing the word is a virtuous exercise, but it also requires reciprocity from your flock. Faith is neither learned nor taught from the scripture, it is a virtue gained by personal choice and conviction. Then he took out a wad of envelopes and proceeded to thread the aisles giving out his requests for donations in support of the Nation of Preachers. The punchline came when I was handed my own personal request. It had neither a name of an organization nor the name of the preacher. What it did have was quotations from the scripture coupled by a cellular number and a p.o. box number from Marikina. Which got me thinking, what legitimate religious group would refuse to define their actual affiliation and refuse to give an actual address of worship?

Then the envelope read "Edify His Word." Why chose edify? By edify you mean to define permanence and absolute complete distinction? As in, to put on a pedestal? It was a mere confirmation of my observations. Despite his charismatic delivery, his was a lesson on textbook preaching. Afterwards, while collecting the envelopes from the sleepy crowd of commuters, he proceeded to stop to forgive and pray over every single individual who refused to part with the contents of their wallet. It saddened me how the act of spreading the word has been distorted to this sort of financial propaganda that infuses public embarassment as an effective way of coercing cooperation from the mass' ungiving wallets.

I looked at his searching eyes. Not with hate or irritation, but a quiet sadness that professed my disappointment. I gave back his empty envelope with the firmness of my convictions. Bless you sir. He nodded and quietly moved on to the next passenger.

My distress aside, I tried to sympathise with this man's attempt to brave the recession. It was a double-edged sword, by professing the scripture it afforded a certain momentary hope to the audience, and by parting with a few change we supported this man's plight from financial difficulties. Whether or not his was a legitimate mission and cause, the cynic in me would lightly contemplate that a lesson was still gained here.



Faith is found in the most unlikely of places. There is no formula in its sublime workings. Whether we gain it from the ritualistic canons of structured devotion, or the epiphanies of a life-changing experience, from the friend whose shared lessons give us enlightened insights, or the preachings of a faceless crowd whose words echo the books, faith in all its simplicity is still faith. The manner by which our faith is catalysed is inconsequential and hold little import against the fact of being truly faithful. We are a nation of creative people, our resilience lies on our ability to quickly adapt to the necessities of our time. And the way by which we earn this faith is as varied as the permutations of graft and corruption.

I am thankful to have been a witness to his preaching. And in me it stirred a belief that for long I thought have been sent to oblivion. My faith was renewed, not by the realizations of his teachings, but by the recognition of the knowledge that I have been with faith. Stronger than words gained from another man, or ambiguous text read from a book. I am thankful for him still, for allowing me to find what I've always had.

He departed from the bus with his envelope and book. A few moments later I got off at my stop. I smiled, thankful to God for affording me work that saves me from desperation. Thankful for the safe trip and the opportunity to see His handwork in the most unlikely of methods. God does work in the most inexplicable ways. Oft hard to comprehend, but lyrical and eloquent nonetheless.