Drawing

Ink painting

Sabbatical

I can wait.

I've done it before.

Three months, with no electricity and all that comes with it, only a garlic field, a kerosene lamp, a notebook, a sketchpad, a pen, five pencils, a broken down scooter, two beaches; one full of rocks, the other full of thorns, and stars at night. Lots and lots and lots of stars. And a sharp knife. Two knives.

The farmers' and fishermen's children brought me food: fish, octopus, seaweeds, rice and the odd greens I did not recognize. Sometimes, they would bring me colorful fish they caught, in rusty cans, or wild orchids and ferns that they would tie to the lone tree outside my little house. I would smile, but barely. They would smile back, and then run away. They rarely spoke to me, and it was good, for I had nothing to say.

Once, sometime between the three weeks when I was sleeping twenty-two hours a day, and the nine weeks when I could finally walk around, there was a typhoon. Their mothers and fathers came to check on me. They made sure I had my cigarettes, and that the roof was firmly tied down, and asked if I needed someone to stay with me. I shook my head, and smiled, and they went back to their homes to wait out the typhoon.

After that, they sent their children to go with me while I climbed the lighthouse, or checked my caves, or soaked in the little lagoon off the rocky beach.

I never wrote, because I could barely look at a pen without vomiting. And I never sketched because I could not look at a pencil without thinking of slamming it down, sharpened point first, into my hand, just to see if I would bleed thick or thin. Sometimes I would read, but often, I would just fall asleep.

Most of the time, I waited.

I can wait.

I've done it before.

It has been seven years since the last time.

I am waiting again. But this time will be different.

The waiting will be shorter now: there are fewer wounds to lick.

This time I will keep my pencils with me, and use them, and draw what I see, because my eyes are a little clearer now.

This time, I will write, because I have something to say, whether it be a copy of a prayer found elsewhere, or a few thoughts that occur in my tired, unused brain. The words, or even the thoughts, may not be important, but I will not think they are worthless, because at the very least, they come from me.

This time I will talk to people, because it is not fair to write off all, just because of a few that have hurt me. And even if the few who did hurt me are the ones who come, I will listen, because that is the way it should be.

This time I will not stop working, because I can see the light at the opening of the cave, and have a vague idea of what I am to do, and where I am to go, and the fact that I am alive.

The difference between this time and the last is small, and yet vast: a kinder boss, more friends, a more mature family, a dog.

And me.

Do not give what is holy to the dogs, and do not cast your pearls before swine lest they trample them under their feet, and then turn and rend you to pieces. (Matthew 7:6)

When you go to a home, give it your blessing of peace. 1If the home is deserving, let your blessing remain with them. But if the home isn't deserving, take back your blessing of peace. If someone does not welcome you or listen to your message, leave their home or town. And shake the dust from your feet at them. (Matthew 10: 12-14)

Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that town. If people do not welcome you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave their town, as a testimony against them. (Luke 9:6)

I finally quit my job yesterday. I'll miss my boss. And the widdle Baobao. And the guards. And the accounting people. And...

Hmm... that's it, I think.

I think stupidity is overrated as a sin: It isn't even one. There is no commandment that says "Thou shalt not be stupid, " nor is it in the list of the seven deadlies.

A friend of mine was ranting on and on about the stupidity of some, and I smiled, patted his hand and told him to count his blessings. He was surprised, to say the least. He thinks I've changed. He wondered what happened to the me who "didn't suffer fools gladly."

Not everyone can be a genius, that would wreck the curve. My mom always said, "Anak, kung walang tanga, hindi ka ituturing na matalino." (If no one were stupid, you wouldn't be considered intelligent.)

Foolishness, on the other hand, is different. The bible dictionary defines fools as "scoffers, who act regardless of the consequences of their actions, who do what is wrong and are proud of it. " That's way different from someone who has a low IQ.

So, in answer to my friend's question, no, I still do not suffer fools gladly.

But I do have patience for people who don't know too much.

After all, neither do I.

Libel, Slander and Character Assassination

The one law in media class I took in college taught that the truth, if you can prove it, is a defense against a libel suit.

Which means if you want to write that J.Lo has a big butt, write away. Publish. Big headlines. Take out ads if you want, although, heaven knows why you'd want to spend money just to say something everyone already knows. After all, it is true, perhaps not by aboriginal standards, but all you really have to do is whip out all the fashion and beauty ads in all the fashion and beauty magazines, and there you are. No libel suit there.

Writing that K-Fed is a loser may be a bit harder, because you'll have to prove it, which might mean hours and hours of billable time for lawyers. Besides, if you career is not going as well as his, or if your wife isn't as hot or as rich as his, then you're the loser, which means that the other guy is the winner. Someone has to be.

Slander, on the other hand, does not necessarily have to be factually untrue to be slander. All that is needed is that it be oral, with malicious intent, perhaps a twisting of the facts aimed at damaging the subject's reputation. If you yell out, "Hey, you S.O.B.!" to someone on the street, you could, theoretically be sued for slander, even if that person's mother is indeed a B**** or not.

Character assassination is similar to slander, but it's something of a misnomer, I think. After all, it isn't your character that dies when others try to assassinate it. All that does is reveal a definite lack of it in those rumormongers and gossips and slanderers and namecallers. No amount of gossip can kill your character if it's there and alive. Unless, of course, you decide to just have it lay down and die, in which case, it's suicide.

But that's only my opinion.

There is something about the human mind that rejects the free and the easy. We do not trust it, we do not believe in it, we always wait for the other shoe to drop. I suppose the problem is that we keep thinking of things in pairs of opposites, instead of taking the cycles as they come. When good things happen, we worry about a catch. We think in terms of the monkey's paw, and that's why we just do not see.

Nothing is free, that much is true. Everything is paid for. Take the Christian concept of salvation, for instance. It is free. It is a promo. All you have to do is take it, and it is yours. And that fact alone makes it the hardest to believe in.

But while salvation may be free for us, it's only because Someone already paid. And the fact remains that if you sign up for it, it won't always be that easy. It gets harder later. Then easy. Then hard. It's a cycle, not the Twilight Zone version of the Monkey's Paw. (That's just an example. Or maybe the first sentence of my upcoming opus called "The Zen of Christianity. Yes, I'm kidding. Oh wait, I already said that in a previous post.

Of course, it is a commitment, all promos are. If someone pays your way, there is an obligation. Especially when it is a price you yourself cannot afford. But that's another entry. So is the whys and the wherefores of it, the fine print, the little things the oversimplified tracts don't discuss. Just so you know. Just so you don't cancel your subscription too early and miss out on the rest. But the signing up part, that's easy.

Like my job. It is so easy, it gives me a headache. All I have to do is come in, and that's the hardest part.

The same is true with the job. The hard work was done earlier. Some of it was even done by me. That's why it's easy now. It'll get harder later, but that's not payment for now, it's the prepayment for the next tough time. That is the way of it. That is the way it should be.

Living is a great job, even if there are idiots who try to buy everything in the world and think that world domination includes that bright place in your head where your mind used to be. But the point isn't the wages at the end, or the work at the beginning, or how much more the other guy who was hired (born, to you people who don't get metaphors, you know who you are) after you gets.

The point is just to show up.

Everything else follows.

And the bill, at the end, is never as high as you were afraid it would be. And it always will be a bargain compared to what you got.

And I have no point, really. It's just that earlier, I read this:

"There are many things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises. The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside by a generous hand. But- and this is the point- who gets excited by a mere penny? If you follow one arrow, if you crouch motionless on a bank to watch a tremulous ripple thrill on the water and are rewarded by the sight of a muskrat paddling from its den, will you count that sight a chip of copper only, and go on your rueful way? It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won't stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get."

Annie Dillard, from "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek."

Merry Christmas.

Accusations and Criticism

It occurs to me that internal critics are birthed by external ones.

Accusations are first heard by the ears, before they echo in the mind, magnified in the heart until it deafens the soul, disorienting the spirit .

And disoriented, it wobbles in insecurity, unable to move forward, hindering us from giving and taking our best, and accepting what will bring us joy, even when it is freely given and freely offered.

Even if we have experienced it before and knows what it brings us, it is that belief ithat one is underserving that stops us from walking a path we know leads to away from pain, and into light.

I remember drawing much in the time before a friend looked at my sketchpads and said, " Why is it that we artists can't afford materials, and you can when you're not even an artist?" I do not remember what I answered, I only remember that I stopped drawing.

I suppose it is why I have six blocks of Fabriano watercolor paper, and five of the Arches ones that remain unused, a number of watercolor sets and paints that remain untouched, and three Moleskines that have nothing but my name in them.

And I have noticed of late that I can, indeed, draw, not very well, not as well as when I drew every day; but I am improving with practice. But I can only draw on scratch paper and used office paper or the back pages of my sister's old exercise sketchbook, using ballpoint, or regular office issue pencils and signpens. All of these are cheap' they will not be wasted when a good artist could put them to much better use. Put a piece of "expensive" paper in front of me and I freeze, put artist-grade paints in front of me and the colours turn muddy, put a charcoal pencil in my hand and my palms sweat, which turns the paper into a sheet with blobs and blotches of black and gray.

I cannot even bring myself to sign up for an online class, much less a live one, there is a fear of being told by professionals that I am talentless, and have wasted my money, that I am better off writing because that would be a more productive use of my time.

It would not be so bad if the paralysis did not extend to my writing, because, after all, that is my job and what I have been known to be since I was eight. But it does.

I can only write and draw in the notebooks I make, not in a Moleskine. And while my sisters point out that those notebooks I sew probably cost more than Moleskines in terms of my time, the fact that they were created by me makes them less valuable, and as such, unintimidating and more useable.

But I want to draw. I want to paint. I want to see. And then I remember what I told my copywriter, the one whose previous bosses had asked him if he was sure he was a writer and was thus doubting it himself, "Do you want to write? Then write anyway. Labels are useless."

So I draw anyway, and I paint anyway, despite not being an artist. And the fact that I am surrounded by real ones will not stop me.

After all, I am also not a great chef, but that does not stop me from boiling an egg when I am hungry and must eat.

Perhaps one day I shall try it on a real stove. And perhaps one day I shall use my real art materials.

Perhaps.

The trouble with lazy people is that they rarely have to good sense to be unambitious.

And the trouble with strength and solidity is that it renders you invisible. No one notices concrete posts or brick walls, except until they crack and crumble to pieces, bringing everything down with them..

Wait until they decide to spraypaint their names on you.

This is not what my resignation letter will say. But I'll be thinking it.

am tired again.

I am tired of working with people whose only view of kingdom has to do with protecting their petty little fiefdoms, no matter what, at whatever cost, and to hell with everyone who gets in their way.

I am tired of working with people whose only view of eternity is the installments on their home loan.

I am tired of working with people whose idea of what is right has to do with whoever's voice is arguing the loudest, especially because often, it is merely the sound of their own, ringing in their heads.

I am tired of working with people whose concept of excellence is based on what other people think, founded on the approval of men, and aligned only with the ideals of whoever signs the checks.

I am tired of working for people for whom spirit is something that comes in a bottle, and must be sold to the masses, despite the fact that they cannot afford it.

I am tired of working with people for whom reality is a matter of consensus, and must be voted on by a majority.

I am tired of working with people whose idea of truth is based on what people want to hear.

I am tired of working with people for whom character is a mere concept, based only on talk, not deeds; and for whom ethics is something only imposed by the advertising board list of guidelines.

I am tired of working with people whose idea of trust is keeping you where they can see you and vice versa, and for whom integrity is a matter of how well the firewalls work.

I am tired of working with people who think nothing of sacrificing the health of a sick child, to finish a commercial.

I am tired of working with people who find nothing wrong with selling cigarettes one day, and an anti-smoking campaign the next.

I am tired of working with people for whom pride is a matter of how many other people they have humiliated.

I am tired of working with people for whom friendship and team oneness is based on a united attack on whoever is weak and powerless at the moment.

I am tired of working with people whose idea of strength and leadership is based on force, and for whom discipline is something only found in a memo.

I am tired of working with people for whom gentleness is a sign of weakness, and whose idea of keeping the peace involves the elimination of those who disagree with their point of view.

I am tired of working with people who would hold on with both hands to an unsavory and unprofitable account, but who would drop a teammate at the first sign of weakness.

I am tired of working with people whose idea of promotion is the demotion of others, who judge performance based on time sheets, bundy clocks and agreeable smiles, rather than talent, effort and results.

And most of all, I am tired of working with people whose ambitions far exceed their ability, intelligence or even willingness to work.

This is what happens when you spend 15 years working in an industry founded on misrepresentation.

I am tired.

Again.