The Metro Manila Film Festival (MMFF) was established with the best of intentions – invigorate the local cinema industry by providing a venue for film makers, writers, and producers to showcase exemplary work that captures the spirit of Philippine culture, the interest and fancy of the local audience, and to push the envelope of Philippine cinema. But over the decades, it has lost sight of this mandate and objective and has become a parody of formulaic and uninspired output.

The trend towards independently-produced and curated films over the past few years have birthed some of the most exciting (and, once in a while, dismal) film festivals in the country. With a carte blanche of inspiration as its impetus; writers, producers, directors, and filmmakers have come-up with some of the most memorable films in the last two decades – the Cinemalaya and CinemaOne Originals being two of the most notable stalwarts of the movement.

In the end, the MMFF has lost both its meaning, relevance, and mandate to represent quality local films. Its yearly roster of re-hashed, regurgitated, and humdrum films indicates a lack of insight into the audience’s interest. Banking on its unquestioned monopoly over the cinema houses throughout the holiday season, this absence of healthy competition have left the big-name and big-ticket production houses to annually churn out one of the following blasé themes: a triptych horror series or some form of supernatural terror fest, a tongue-in-cheek rom-com with the most recent and popular love-team as its top-billers, some form of adventure-format or magical sojourn based on a superficial premise, the classic struggle of good versus evil, a farcical slapstick comedy, a semi-biographical action flick, or some gritty drama with the un-evolving theme of third-world struggles.

It’s no wonder and surprise then that discerning moviegoers respond more to indie-films and film fests than they do to the MMFF. Primarily because patronizing the sort of films they have released lately borders on insulting the capacity of their audience to accept, digest, and appreciate more complex, uncomfortable, or extreme themes.

It’s a challenge, then, to the MMFF organizers; and indirectly to the producers, to push the boundaries of film-making in the future, and produce content that is truly a zeitgeist of Philippine culture, a tranche de vie of the sentiments of a more and more discerning, vocal, and discriminating public.

The premise of every artform and medium is insight, perspective. Without this, it is nothing more than glorified nonsense.

Cinéma vérité (/ˈsɪnɨmə vɛrɨˈteɪ/; French: [sinema veʁite], truthful cinema) is a style of documentary filmmaking, invented by Jean Rouch, inspired by Dziga Vertov's theory about Kino-Pravda and influenced by Robert Flaherty’s films. It combines improvisation with the use of the camera to unveil truth or highlight subjects hidden behind crude reality.

We’re all damaged, you and I. No matter how sheltered or unkind fate has been with you; we all have missing pieces, minute cracks and fissures that pepper our self. You might be unaware of it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. The broken shards, held together by the social graces; the composed demeanor masking the silent screams, that awkward laughter that hides the anxious fumbling. We can’t be alive, and not be broken. But being broken isn’t the problem. Humanity’s injured consciousness is the price we pay for free will. Because free will precludes conflict and contradiction; we cannot be free without affording the same liberty to others. So you learn, along the way that being free means being disappointed.

resume rubbored reading...

Dear Blog,

I would like to apologize for my protracted absence. It has been a while since I’ve last posted anything noteworthy for you. For all its worth, this negligence has been primarily unintentional. I wish I could expound on the reasons more, but the cloud of doubt, uncertainty and anxiety looms over me like a shadow. A very large, menacing, and amorphous shadow.

resume rubbored reading...

I recently passed the Licensure Examination for Architects (more on this later on) and amidst the fanfare, debacle, and confusion on what transpired during the examination, an outpouring of congratulatory sentiment permeated the online communities. This may be rather quotidian and ordinary for most, but for those who do not subscribe to the typical social media platforms, Facebook in particular, this sort of emotional projected self-promotion became rather curious.

resume rubbored reading...

Underneath the Atlas of immediate expectations,
Of pending papers, incumbent examinations,
Bearing and bursting tattered seams of discipline,
Tick-tocking verily, a veritable exhaustive end.

resume rubbored reading...

The landscape of geige, sprawling and derelict, of pock-marked outlines lineated with age, bunkers and warehouses, hangars and Quonset huts, parade abandoned and forgotten in the passing of time. Like burlap and kraft upon emptying its contents, they sway vacuous in the silence that lulls the deep evening. I see their silhouettes crisp against the glow of lady la luna, veiled in the dank mists descendant from Siberia. They are my brethren, once titans that dotted the landscape of industry, of progress, of movement, now laid to waste by their inescapable oblivion. Barren, motionless, and timid against a time that refuses to look back, contemplative on their forsaken state, of various degrees of disarray, disrepair, squalor and destitute dereliction.

resume rubbored reading...

His smile was quickly-given. It was beaming, dentally-proud, overflowing like glinting shards begging for flesh. The knives were sharpened and ever-ready, to present, to perform for his captive audience. It was, after all, a Pan-American one. It may seem duchenne, but it is half-meant and wholly fallacious. Like a pat without pressure, or an embrace without pull. He knew this, and kept this knowledge akin to a trade secret.

His composure was perfection, his words precise, an ensnaring spiel practiced to every nuance, flection and manner. This was the only way he knew, to parade and haggle by the sweetness of his promises, through the cunning of his misdirections. He was singular in may respects, poised and elegant, with a slight awkwardness approximated for good measure.

resume rubbored reading...

Beloved Lady Rust,

You perplex me. How your beauty is defined with your chocolate-colored pelt of crusty, flaky, aged quality, and how patches peel to unfold the tarnished element beneath. How the strongest fall prey and succumb to the creeping, contemplating, patient caress of your prowess, slowly by age and tenderly by weather. How you disregard my sheath of robust sheen, and crack it open in your own time.

resume rubbored reading...

Yesterday, 30 June 2011, my subscriber identity module (SIM) card was damaged. Partly from old age, as the SIM has been with me for over 8 years, and partly from carelessness on my part. I requested a replacement from Globe Telecoms (yes, that gleaming beacon of efficient customer service and after-sales support), and they obliged with speedy and swift action (two hours waiting time, and the actual replacement only took about 5 minutes tops).

resume rubbored reading...

The frigid zephyr shrouds my dermis, unencumbered by the hypertension of my varicosity. Analogous to cinder-heated lumbar puncture needles, the cold caresses my physiognomy with the fervor of a parasitic strain, held dormant from fresh hosts for millennia. It intoxicates, birthing interstitial recidivist flashes of prickly pestering pain. A causalgia ensues, metastasizing and malignant, a clandestine crenation activated by soliloquy. Resilient, resistant, and recalcitrant.

I twitch.

resume rubbored reading...

Which do you pick?

The absolute irrevocability of confrontation, or the amorphous conviction of circumspection? The complete and exacting full stop, or the contemplative prolonged limbo?

Is it more masculine to own up to one's feelings, or to respect boundaries? Will it still be a gift when the receiver refuses its translation? Will transcending the lines validate the emotion, or will it only create the breach that seals its downfall?

resume rubbored reading...

Exactly a month from now, I will be officially unemployed.

The repercussions are overwhelming at the moment, and my options are pretty much close to nil. The novel Things Fall Apart comes to mind. The firm that I am currently working for will most probably be folding, as no new projects are coming in. Which means, most of the staff here have been loitering and gossiping among themselves for the past couple of months. The projects that I'm currently handling are the last ones the firm has. Beyond this, when these projects are done, so is the firm.

resume rubbored reading...

Carry me into the night
Vesper and vengeful, black as oil
Soothe my exhaustion and pallor
Within your sinewy fenestrated foil

Because I invoke your pained facade
As I contemplate mine, mourning and demented
In the solitude of sublime sorrows
Branded and calloused

A clean slate blank with envy
I beseech your genuflection and apathy
Indulge my desperation and despair
Find me in the dawn’s glare

Time accompany me
In the vicissitudes of your vaporous presence
That I may forget my humanity, frailty, enmity
Awakening rebirth from his ashen absence



Image from here.

Azure and ostentatious, she sways her hips ravenous and selfish for the attention of those who would soon forget. Nameless, faceless, emotionless. Held back by a restraint spelled by morality, yet their traitor eyes defeat this sordid futility.

The night was embracing her every curve with a sultry aura, in the poetry of motion both graceful and burlesque. She cared not. She was queen, if only momentarily, gone into oblivion by the end of the song, returning to her domicile of despotic poverty.

She knew of this temporal nature, yet she continually returns, every night. To taste that adulation that she so willingly despises, to feel the pain of subservience engulfing her, empowering her, into the pockets of men, and sometimes women, craving for a distraction her agile thighs can draw. She knew it like the wails of a child, or the desperation of a mother, the tempestuousness of a scarlet, and the credibility of a harlot. She knew it like the fingers that glide her every line, the curvature flickering in the electric stars of this urban urbane hell.

They flock to her, giddy palms aching to touch her cold breasts, to sit at her lap and lavish in the debauched claustrophobia of her sullen scent. Every man turned into a limping child, every woman into a ranting whore, and every child lost in the bowels of her livid clenching crowd. She is here for all, and she must return here every night, every cycle, to feed those whose hunger to forget cannot be warded. Those who wish to move in the elegance of her dance, quick, upbeat and blindingly erotic. Sometimes sluggish and slothful, thirsty for a tip.

She returns, in pristine soiled sheets and pungent perfume. Worn-out plastic seats await her avid audience. She spreads out, they will come. Any moment now. They will come in riotous laughter, in inebriated stupor, they will come in bitter hurried strides, and catatonic contemplations. They will come, because they cannot deny me, and I them. They are my audience, I am their goddess, and yet I must crawl on my back to earn their spare change.

For they must pay. I need them to. No dance. No pay.

She is tired, yet her ardent smile denies this. The crests of her heaving breath weak yet warm, the day comes to a close, and she must renew her segue. This time will be the last. A fallacy she willingly accepts. If only to suspend her reality. To forget, as they will too, once she has given her performance.

She crawls on the pavement, tasting the pain and feeling the heat. The asphalt burning her skin, the gravel scorching her flesh.

She must dance, it is time. The music starts again. A song she cannot deny.

Next stop Boni Avenue Station. Thank you for riding the Metro Star Express.



Image from here.

Do you wonder? Across sultry evenings
in the consolation of your sheets,
alone and warm yet piercingly bare,
that another longs for the same
space between
your skin and the waifs and wafts of your blanket?

Do you worry? That his perplexing gaze
portends no more than the amusement of a man.
Childish and uneventful, appraising
yet uninterested.

A transitory glance that will be forgotten
in the next minute, but will haunt you for days to come.
In stupefaction of an enthralled imagination caught
in the florid kiss of longing.

Desperate for touch.
Delusional for a connection.

Do you comprehend? That
meaning does not equate with motion.
That actions are mere translations of an underlying alacrity,
or lack thereof.
And you are a pawn in the chessboard of your own doing,
shortchanging by solitude, overshadowed by overzealousness.

Because we seek
what we cannot waver, and sought that will falter.
The anarchical machinations of a distressed
freefalling existence. Latent
of capitulations set by our own karmic gestures.

Clandestine caresses of a deceptive delirium,
Distraught. Deranged. Despotic.

A closure creating chaos.
When the stubborn psyche refuses rejection.

Image from here.

In the prevalent solitude of my existence, often I find myself speculating the possible against the probable. The silence of the consciousness would yield machinations beyond what my heart can easily comprehend. And often emotionality becomes a theme permeating my solitary confinement. To transcend this state, distractions aside, would entail braving what most would be reticent from. Confrontation is never one of my better traits, and an inner turmoil commands a plethora of methodologies to beset against the rational. Shifting from anxiety to fear, to loathing, to depression, to desperation.

So, if I may propound, what alarms you more?

Opening your heart again, that vulnerability that begs to be betrayed, only to be whipped once more beneath a game you prefer not to play, and to lose with such consuming gravity that the pain becomes a brand, keloidal and lasting?

Or to wake up one day devoid of any fragility? To realize that you have descended from romanticism so deep into the abyss of jaded convictions that the game is now your ally. A companion. The wingman that aids in the ploy to hunt. That no amount of rejection can ever be enough to pull you from the depths of indifference, that myopic belief that so long as objectives are met, usually to get laid, all manners of pretenses are fair game.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The consuming sting of a cut that never bleeds, waiting and yearning that the next one will finally let it heal. When history prescribes the administering of cyclical suffering as the basis by which arduous ecstasy and ardor elevation can be achieved? That love cannot exist without the threat of dissolution, and to hope beyond reason that that very same terminus never arrives, only to wake up to it at the crack of dawn? That one cannot exist without the other? And that to love truly would mean to hurt genuinely as well?

Or to be culled from the depths of romance’s chasms into a life devoid of emotionality. When physical attraction becomes the superficial yardstick by which you measure your worth. Of how many and varied conquests can be had, with no regard to the repercussions it entails. That objectification of a human being, resulting to an objectification of oneself as well, is the only means by which a semblance of feeling can be achieved. A sensuality explosive yet barren, unbridled yet meaningless.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Would you open a wounded spirit half-bled and half-healed to another for that promising chance that serendipity coincides with fate’s masterplan? A reality birthed from dreams cast ashore across the waves of aspirations. A desire to connect with another in a level transcending rhyme and reason, social norms and sexuality, morality and mortality. A serenity momentary yet so succulent that the nuisance of defeat is denied, and consequently ignored.

Or would you concede to the totalitarianism of the game. To subdue and repress the dreams of the heart for the urges of the loins. Where flesh becomes your canvass, drawing lines sinuous and beautiful, sublimely arresting. Convulsive and picturesque scenes across the montage of faceless bodies. Climaxing in every heave, minute deaths released. Primal and violent. Utterly senseless. When you replace your humanity, and the capacity to comprehend and emphatise for the opportunity to use, and be used.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I would choose the former. For in it we are reminded of our humanity, and the fact that love cannot be felt without the knowledge of how it is in its absence. Not to be cynic, or worse pessimistic, for affection is, and will always be, victorious over both. Because life is fragile and too precious to waste it in the void of debauched wanton frolicking.

The flesh is strong, for we are animals still, underneath all our civilized mannerisms and attempts to assert ascension. But we are capable of much more, beyond the physiological and gustatory, the call of the loins and the lures of the lips.

We are capable of care, understanding, and compassion. That is what defines our humanity. Not logic. Not even free will. To choose to bridge that vastness between hearts and minds, in an embrace complete and fulfilling, even when we are well aware of its transitory nature.

Because hate is not the opposite of love. Indifference is.

Image from here.

In my plight to seek a possible long-term partner, or in moments of weakness and the lapses of judgment a potential short-term lay, I have come too often across people whose brand of self-entitlement and ego transcend what could generally be accepted humane. We seek people whose wavelength and intellectual acuity, or physical and emotional compatibility flow in congruence to our own. In every opportunity that presents to reach out to another human being, we sift through the rubbish of those whose intentions only seek a momentary answer to their physical needs, or the boosting of their egos in the consummation of a conquest. We take effort and time to present ourselves in the most agreeable and respectful manner, may it be for a possible friend whose online travails and communications provide us but a mere glimpse to their actual sentiments. Yet we push through, headstrong and hopeful. That maybe we'll get along with this one, if only for a change.

But alas, luck is usually not on my side. And the oft friendly banter you established beforehand quickly turns into selfish egotism once the meeting has been actuated. What you nurtured as a possible friendship quickly takes a wrong turn into one that is physically-motivated and sexually-driven for the other party. Rejection becomes the tenet of the one whom you have mistaken to have made an honest connection with. And in this cycle of rejection and disappointment I have come across a plethora of excuses whose well-meaning intentions been thwarted by motives formerly kept at bay, despite the honesty I have provided in terms of my physiological standings and amiable intentions. To the numerous people who have betrayed the trust I have so willingly entrusted, this is for you.

Hindi na kita mami-meet. Kasama ko boyfriend ko eh. Umalis ka na lang.

May emergency pala ako, next time na lang.

Nakita na kita, sige lakad na ako. Your not my type.

I saw you. Sorry, lumakad na ako.

Nakita na kita, mataba ka pala. Sorry. Hindi na ako magpapakita sa iyo, hindi kita bet dude. At huwag ka na ring mag-text dahil I will NEVER meet up with you again.

Saw you, sige.

Magkita na lang tayo kapag payat ka na.

You're not want I'm looking for.

(and the best so far) Bye.

Despite these, and so numerous others, I shall keep my hope up that there are still good-natured souls out there, whose intentions are laid out in the honesty of their words. These few are precious gems amidst the fake brilliance of our superficial generation, and the decrepit meanderings of social vultures that inhabit our urban consciousness. May there be more like them. And when you do meet one of them, be sure to wear your heart on your sleeve, and reciprocate the honesty and sincerity they offer. The genuine will never tarnish.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

To him who did not betray my trust, and who have quite surprisingly been a beacon of reason and understanding that has shed light on my dimming existence. Beyond what you have experienced, your lack of jadedness is a breath of fresh air that invigorates my spirit, negating my weary disillusionment. Thank you.

27 July 2009 9:36 PM
The multitude of characters I come across during my daily commute is a veritable microcosm of our social disparities. From the amiable to the pretentious, from the hurried to the catatonic, from the verbal and ostentatious to reserved indifference, a spectra of personalities inhabit the four corners of public transportation.


The bubbly girl whose endless banter never ceases to render you oblivious to the traffic, or the brooding guy whose eyes cannot deny a broken heart yet attempts his earnest to feign strength and a firm control of his emotions. The social-climber that perplexes by her unending rant of expletives against the inconveniences of commuting, yet refuses to either take her car out or shell out for a cab. Every commute presents a plethora of characters that keeps me entertained throughout my daily diaspora. There are a few, however, that never fail to either irk, irritate, disappoint or infuriate me: the nudgers who continually pushes you away whenever even a sliver of the clothing you wear touches them; the spread-eagle who will not, under any circumstances, move his legs together for fear of (1) diminishing his masculinity, (2) crushing his oversized sacs, or (3) lest he feels he's not getting his money's worth; the clinger who refuses to respect personal space and either pushes himself to you, crosses his arms effectively pinning down yours, or rests parts of his body in the depth of slumber (this of course does not apply to guys who have other intentions, may it be sexual or pecuniary in nature). But last night I met a guy who was actually all three.

He sat with his legs way beyond his space in the seat. I would've forgiven him if he was tall which makes sitting upright a challenge in a cramped bus seat, but he wasn't. He was my height. The bus was packed so tight that a can of tuna would be ashamed. So I figured, I better ask him to allow me some of the space which I actually paid for. I asked "Pare, pwedeng maki-usog?" To which he replied with an indifferent stare, gave me a look-up-down, and proceeded with his current obliviousness. I had two choices: (1) repeat my request, and (2) concede to his retardation. Of course, being the passive non-confrontational sort, I chose the latter.

So there I was, in a cramped bus with but a morsel of my derriere hanging on the seat and was only prevented from falling off of it by the multitude of people standing along the aisle. Of course, the road to the south is replete with potholes and various road faults that the bus cannot help but sway in its navigation. He, being a retard, disregarded this and incessantly shoved me whenever the bus tilted by arm towards him. Of course, this too I forgave in lieu of his apparent idiocy.

He finally fell asleep, and to add insult to injury proceeded to rest his shoulder on my arm. This, I tried to nudge since I was already uncomfortable in my current position, which he ignored and continued to make a comforter out of my triceps. I was enraged. But I contemplated the repercussions of inciting an argument in a cramped bus. So I sat still.

Sometimes life throws us such complexly overwhelming circumstances just to test how far our understanding can go. I detested the guy's lack of manners. But it would be disrespectful to those standing if I argue over the question of proper seating space. Maybe someday he'd meet someone who did not have the composure, understanding and passivity that I mustered that night. Let him teach this guy a lesson. But for now, I resolve to being an observer.

We are afforded a glimpse to our own psyche when we learn to every once in a while choose only to observe those who surround us. Men are the mirrors to our own consciousness, and it is in the attempt to comprehend the actions of your brothers that you gain an understanding of your own.