Here's something amusing. God's creatures are truly amazing! Just when you thought you know your pet well, they surprise you.
In Russia, a black cat was caught by its owners (and on video) barking like a dog. He's perched on top of a window barking at something below. At first I thought it was some sort of trick until the animal turned to face the camera, and you can almost read a "whoops, busted!" moment in its eyes as he turned back into mewing as cats "should" do.
I wonder how this cat learned this. Maybe it got tired of having the neighbor's dog bark at it, that he thought, "Well, if you can't beat them, join them, but be coy."
Having played a feline recently on stage, well, I learn you can certainly teach an old cat new tricks. I researched and found out that cats can actually make quite a variety of sounds, depending on how they feel.
According to PawsOnline.info, cats can snarl when angry, yowl when afraid, mew when wanting attention, purr when he wants you to approach, and make clicking sounds when it's ready to kill. They even have actual wav files of cats making different sounds.
Interesting, eh? Now why this cat would bark aside from pure "because-I-can" mischief, I have no idea. Have fun watching.
23 June 2011
Whatever it takes
Motivational speaker Bong Saquing said, “Where Christ is, there is no crisis.” Pretty clever play of words, I thought. But could it be true?
On my way to CCF Eastwood for the Sunday Celebration, I passed by homes tall and beautiful and stalwart, even in the storm. Cars of beautiful make and model zoomed pass the taxi I was on. I tried not to notice the radio that blared oldies-but-goodies hits and the cantankerous engine that threatened to die any moment.
It did. The driver cursed; I didn’t. I glanced at my watch. I’ll be late for church. A child rapped at the window, face and hair wet in the rain. I looked into her eyes. The taxi cab lurched, belched out smoke, and suddenly we were cruising again. There were poor people in the streets. Sometimes I fear I might lose my job and become like them. Families living in karitons, the father pushing his wife and kids and wares. All their property, freshly picked from trash bins, are stashed inside the cart, too. Soon, they’ll be gone. When I get to Eastwood, I won’t see them. In Eastwood there are only tall condos and affluence and stressed yuppies working in contact centers. Just the same, they need Christ. We all do.
Pastor Jess taught us that Jesus is the All-Sufficient God. “I am El-Shaddai—‘God Almighty,’” He once told Abraham. Jesus made a great nation out of a centenarian couple. Is there something He cannot do? When God says something, He will do it. We can plant our faith on the promises of the All-Sufficient God. In His Word our faith can take root, grow, bloom and bear fruit. But to find out if my faith is rooted in Him, God tests me. Only I don’t like tests. Tests reveal my ignorance and imperfections. Can’t God use other means?
“The LORD works outside the box. He is never confined by our expectations,” says Pastor Jess. “The All-Sufficient God does not exempt even us from testing.”
When I am tested, do I dig deep into my own resources? Or do I look up to God? I realize God tests us because He wants us to grow in character. God is for us, not against us. I simply need to ask Him for help. He’ll be glad I asked.
A huge crowd of 5,000 men (not counting women and children) once followed Jesus. The disciples, lacking compassion, wanted to send them away. Jesus wanted to feed them. He tested Philip by asking, “Where can we find food to feed all these people?”
Philip dug deep into his own resources. “Even if we worked for months, we wouldn’t have money to feed them."
Andrew looked around for a solution. “There's a young boy here with five barley loaves and two fish. But what good is that with this huge crowd?”
Jesus provided the solution. He took the loaves and fish, and handed them to the disciples to distribute to the people. Amazing. Jesus, full of love for the people, tested the disciples to teach them to depend on God, thereby making them His channels of blessing and compassion to the people. What’s more, He asked the disciples to gather the leftovers, and there were twelve basketsful—one for each of them—so they would remember that where they lacked compassion, that is, love spurred into action, they could look up to the All-Sufficient God.
What’s in your hand? A pen? A calculator? Your laptop? A basketball? Your wallet? What do your fingers grasp that define your occupation, your assets, your person? See, there was once a boy who had five barley loaves and two fish. Barley is the food of the poor, much like our pandesal and galunggong. But no matter how little he had, he chose to surrender it to the All-Sufficient God and as a result, the multitude was fed. How about you? What is in your hand?
Pastor Bong was right. Where Christ the All-Sufficient God is, there’s no crisis. But there will be testing. There will be moments I’d be asked to surrender what I have. And there will always be compassion to experience and to pass on.
There are so many ways. Volunteer for CCF Eastwood. Commit an hour each day to pray for the nation and the church. Keep some crackers in your bag always, so the next time a child knocks at your car window, you can slide it down and have something to give. But when you do give, look into the child’s eyes. Make her know you know she exists. Jesus loves that child and died for her. Pray this most dangerous of prayers: “All-Sufficient God, whatever it takes, by Your grace, use me.”
To Do Everyday.com -- Rico's survival guide
For sustained clarity, guidance and creative energy, fewer things are more effective than these three W's, especially when done everyday.
Walking. "Solvitur Ambulando," said Saint Augustine, and it certainly felt that way reading through his Confessions. It was a life lived one footfall at a time.
Our apartment, when you walk along Araneta Avenue from SM City Sta. Mesa towards Puregold along E. Rodriguez, is right smack in the middle. If you wish to get on the LRT2 that runs along Aurora Boulevard or on a jeep bound to Quiapo and Cubao, you can either ride a jeep or take a walk. When I can, I walk.
I leave home for work at 9:00 p.m. and around that time, there are fewer jeeps. Tricycle rides cost P25.00. I walk all the way to SM City Sta. Mesa and catch a bus and get off at Robinson's Galeria in Pasig. From there, I take another walk to my office building along Emerald Avenue. Usually, by the time I settle down at my desk, I am primed to work. Something about the workout I got from walking sets my mind on a spiritual keel for creativity. Whenever it rains and I have to take a taxi straight from home to work, I feel differently.
When I am stymied in my writing, I walk to Ortigas Park, around the block, to El Pueblo, really anywhere, so I can go deep again and listen for the words.
Writing. "Thoughts disentangle themselves when they pass through your fingertips," wrote Dawson Trotman. I guess that's why Julia Cameron recommends doing it first thing in the morning. Somehow you are gifted throughout the day with a sense of direction and guidance.
How many times have I wanted to yell, "Stop, world! I need to write!" Write I do, but the world goes on. The rain falls because it's the rainy monsoon. The bosses would go on not noticing my work. I still don't have an employment contract. Bills will pile up, deadlines loom nearer and nearer, GLC homeworks and projects remain un-done, morning pages and artist dates are missed... that's why I write. I write to try to make sense out of it. Write to make things "right." Write to make some art out of it, like a flower breaking through a compost pile. I just write, period.
By writing, I own my experience: like how I still feel bad about flaring up at the kids hours before the recital when I know from experience how bad it felt to have been yelled at before a performance. How bad I feel I for turning some kids down from continuing with the workshop for the sake of my sanity because I was outnumbered 54 to 1. How frustrated I am that some Christians can be so selfish and how several times these past few weeks the Lord has told me to love, love, love them. I hold my brothers and sisters in such high esteem that when they disappoint me, I get devastated. But the Lord commands us to love one another, not to put each other up on man-made pedestals.
By writing, my heart is able to tell it as it is, without the meddling of my editorial mind. I used to say that the only reason I'm a writer and an actor because that's the two easiest crafts to learn from among the arts. I now know how wrong I am. Writing and acting do not come so easily to others as it does to me. God gifted me with writing and acting because I wouldn't know who I am and what I am for without these. Without the pen and the stage I would be a worthless worshiper.
Wonder. We are all called to regard this world with wonder. The day we lose that wonder is the day we lose the magical child in each of us. We grow old and die. This was why Antoine de Saint Exupery wrote The Little Prince, so we never lose that sense of wonder. Heck, this was why God created the heavens and the earth. There's not just one star or a thousand. There are billions! There's not just fifty-thousand species of flowers or bugs. Countless! Snowflakes, like us human beings, no two alike!
This is also why God gave me Veck and Dana, so I will always be reminded that on the throne reigns our wonderful God and Savior and I should never ever lose hope in this world.
Angel time
As I write this, it is 4:30 in the morning. The radio is on. I am listening to Bach's Partita No. 2 in D Minor and feeling a bit out of sorts. In a few hours, I am meeting my friend Argel--if he shows up this time--at a favorite bookstore. The malls here open at 10:00 a.m. I can't wait.
I can't wait to get my hands on Anne Rice's Angel Time, to crack open its covers, to smell its pages, and to savor its words. I can't wait to be taken up on wings to where Rice's writings would take me.
For a month now, Metro Manila and other parts of the country has been battered by storms. We have cried out to God in prayer. We have cried out for help.
God answered. Angels became among us. Miracles abound.
Because of the flood, I took my family and fled from our brick home. The water came up neck deep. We saved the books and left behind everything else. We now live on the third floor of a tall apartment, where the view is both horizontal and vertical. Let me talk of both homes.
Our old home was on the basement floor. In it, you stand chest deep into the ground. Except in the nighttime when it's dark and the neighbors' TV sets blare out telenovelas, it always feels like 5:30 in the afternoon. You have to step out to see if it's high noon or early in the morning. Electric fans needed to be always on for ventilation. Like a mole, I secreted myself in this home. Nestled, I wrote. We were content. Dana could scream as loud as she wanted and no one would hear. Veck and I watched DVDs with the volume up and the neighbors couldn't hear.
If our old apartment was a hole in the ground, our new one is like an orchid's pot hanging in the air. The vertical drop is dizzying, standing on the terrace, and when I stand there to catch the morning sun with my daughter in my arms, I embrace her more tightly. I wonder how it would be to fall from this height. On my way to work, the taxi driver turned on the radio for news. A man jumped to his death from his fifth floor apartment. No one knew why. Family and friends claimed he wasn't suicidal in any way. His mother was devastated. "All he complained about was his toothache. He said it was unbearable."
I wonder if he feels any pain where he is now.
Thrust into the sky like that, you are always aware of the weather. The sun streams through the windows and lights up the sofa like an unashamed guest making itself comfortable. When the skies turn grey, so do the walls. When night comes, it becomes very dark. We are like the canvas that the sky fingerpaints.
Two large windows on opposite sides of our new home, one in the living room and the other in the kitchen, open up a vista for me of rooftops, buildings, flowering trees. The breeze flows freely. The air is sweet with the scent of ripe fruit and fresh laundry flapping and drying on clotheslines.
We moved in Saturday. My first impression was, "Too small. Too claustrophobic." Veck's Ninang Lucy and Ninong Junior helped us move the furniture and clean up. I am grateful because it is through their eyes that I saw I had much to be grateful for. They said it's cozy, and with a little trick to furniture arrangement, can actually appear spacious.
Ninang Lucy gazed out the window. "That's an apple mango tree. Not quite bearing fruit yet, but full of flowers. It will have glorious fruit in season."
I began to like the apartment. My mood shifted. The floor plan of this apartment is very horizontal, like the wings in the theater where actors wait for their cues. The curtain rises.
I witnessed the weather just yesterday when, arriving home from work, I opened the door to the terrace to let the sunlight in. "Hello," I said. It rushed into the room enveloping me in a warm embrace. Late in the afternoon the sky became filled with heavy clouds which unloaded heavy rainfall. From the kitchen window, Dana and I enjoyed watching huge raindrops onto the lower roofs.
Later today, I will sit in the terrace, a cup of chocolate nearby, and read Angel Time. Later today I will meet Toby O'Dare, the character that that Facebook Quiz "Which Anne Rice Character Are You" claimed me to be. I can't wait.
Bach's music has died down, giving way to Beethoven's Piano Sonata no. 8, Pathetique, Second Movement. I should get some sleep but can't. I can't wait for the bookstores to open.
I now think of a friend going through a crisis of self. She looks through old emails, trying to find a sense of who she was as told to her by her friends. I fail to tell her that she must move to find who she is as told to her by herself. Her own version of who she is.
But I am wrong. It is God's version--definition, if you will--of who we are that matters most. I AM WHO I AM knows who we really are. He created us.
A friend from Australia, Susan, tells me her life's pursuit is to connect with God. God, as defined by Himself, is "The LORD, the LORD God, compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in lovingkindness and truth; who keeps lovingkindness for thousands, who forgives iniquity, transgression and sin; yet He will by no means leave the guilty unpunished, visiting the iniquity of fathers on the children and on the grandchildren to the third and fourth generations." God knows who He is. He knows who we are. He made the first step. He introduced Himself. "Hi, I am God. This is what I do..." But unlike casual introductions in social parties, an encounter with God leaves one changed, indelibly.
The sky is clear and the air is cool. The sun lights up everything outside. Glazunov - Igor Golovschin's Chant Du Menestrel, Op. 71 now plays in my ears. Like the weather, music changes. But God will always be God. In that we can take comfort.
-=-=-
I was wrong. On TV it said the man hadn't been able to sleep for three nights already, because of toothache. The mom hypothesized that her eldest son jumped seven (not five as I thought I heard) floors because he was still mourning the passing of his father months back. The brother blamed depression due to unemployment. He said he remembered his brother laughing hysterically then suddenly running towards the balcony. Then there were shouts from the neighbors.
The TV news program got a good shot from the balcony from where the victim jumped. Seven stories down, his body lay below, a strange heap, arms and legs in a position that couldn't be comfortable, nor taken out of one's memory once seen. He looked like a human swastika. (Thank you very much, responsible TV news program, for instilling the image in my head.)
Neighbors covered his face with yesterday's papers. Tomorrow he'll be headlines of the tabloids.
The TV news program got a good shot from the balcony from where the victim jumped. Seven stories down, his body lay below, a strange heap, arms and legs in a position that couldn't be comfortable, nor taken out of one's memory once seen. He looked like a human swastika. (Thank you very much, responsible TV news program, for instilling the image in my head.)
Neighbors covered his face with yesterday's papers. Tomorrow he'll be headlines of the tabloids.
The ripple goes on
Pastor Vince Burke taught us some history last Sunday. Let me post the story here as he told it in his own words...
Edward Kimble was a shoe repair man who lived in the 1800s. In 1858, God spoke to his heart and he decided to win his students to Christ. One of the students he went to visit worked in a shoe store, selling shoes. And so he went to this shoe store, paced around nervously for a while, and eventually went in and shared the gospel with this 17-year old young man. This young man got to his knees and prayed to receive Christ. And the ripple began because that young man was D.L. Moody. D.L. Moody became, and went on to become one of the greatest evangelists of all time. He invented the paperback book so he could get more literature out for the gospel sake. He created a school in Chicago that today, even today, still sends out one out of every 18 missionaries around the world. Tremendous impact worldwide! And God used him to speak face-to-face to more people than anyone else in history during his time. Up to that point, Billy Graham has since superseded that.
Years later, a man named Frederick Mayer was deeply stirred by one of D.L. Moody’s messages and he gave himself to the Lord; and he gave himself to preaching the gospel and he himself began a nationwide preaching ministry. A college student attended one of his sessions and came to Christ and began following the Lord, and he himself became a pastor and began holding evangelistic meetings in various parts of the US. And he decided to call a young man alongside to help him. His name was Billy Sunday.
Billy Sunday went on to become one of the most famous evangelists of the 1920s, reaching thousands and thousands for the cause of Jesus Christ in the earliest part of the 20th century. At one such crusade, Billy Sunday was preaching and thousands were coming and it just wasn’t slowing down. Billy Sunday had to leave, so he assigned a guy named Mordecaiham to take over and continue the meetings in Charlotte, North Carolina.
During one of these meetings, a young farm boy known as Billy Frank came – couldn’t get it at first until a very wise usher found some seats for them and this young man went forward, got on his knees and accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior. Billy Frank we now know is Billy Graham. And you know the story, Billy Graham went on to reach millions for Christ throughout modern times.
Talk about a ripple, talk about an impact! And where did it start? With an unknown shoe repair man named Edward Kimble who followed the Lord in obedience, who looked at the little rock in his hand, the rock of our salvation and said, “I need to make a difference through that rock.” And the ripple began.
You’re holding a rock in our hand, and God wants to use you to make an impact. Don’t sell yourself short, don’t put yourself on the shelf before God does. He has a job for you to do until He comes and you can do it, by God’s grace.
We need more Edward Kimble’s, don’t we? Because more Edward Kimble’s mean more D.L. Moody’s, and Billy Sunday’s, and Billy Graham’s.
I wanna share one more ripple that’s much more personal. D.L. Moody was preaching in the southern part of United States and there was a young man who wanted to attend the session but he couldn’t get in, it was too crowded. This 12-year old boy was very dejected. He went outside the stadium and sat down on a rock and put his head between his hands and worried, "Oh, no! What am I gonna tell my dad? I really needed to go to this." And he really genuinely wanted to go but he couldn’t get in.
While he’s sitting there, three or four men walked up; and one of them tapped his shoulder and said, "Son, what’s wrong?"
He said, "I can’t get in, it was too crowded."
And this big, old guy said, "Hey, no problem. Get a hold at the back of my coat and I’ll get you in." So this guy grabbed on the back of his coat and followed him in down the aisle, toward the front, up the platform and he sat right next to D.L. Moody.
And that young man, 12-year old boy, put his faith and trust in Christ that day. His name was Paul Rader. Paul Rader went on to become an evangelist in the city of Chicago in the 30’s, in the tough guy El Capone days, very difficult times. God put His hand in that ministry in a very remarkable way, they held meetings every night for six years attended by thousands. Many ministries were spawned out of Paul Rader’s gospel tabernacle in Chicago, one of them was Youth for Christ, a Christian evangelistic youth organization that’s worldwide in scope, new tribes mission was born in that ministry, Paul Fleming came to Christ under Paul Rader and began that great mission. HCJB, a radio station in Quedo, Ecuador which spawned FEBC, I believe, came out of that ministry. A famous news commentator named Lowell Thomas said, "I taught at Northwestern University in Chicago, I bring my speech class down to hear Paul Rader. I’ve never heard of a communicator as powerful or dynamic as this man, Paul Rader."
Paul Rader had a piano player, his name was Lance B. Latham, affectionately known as Doc Latham, to those who knew him. Doc played piano in the crusades and was infected with the power of God’s work as it was happening in those days and Doc was led by the Lord to start a church in the north side of Chicago. He called it the North side Gospel Center. And in their ministry, they created a very creative youth program called Awana. We have Awana here in the Philippines here at CCF. It’s a worldwide ministry today because Doc had a passion to reach boys and girls for Jesus Christ while they’re still moldable, and reachable and pliable – touch them with the gospel of Jesus Christ. Doc had the heart of Jesus because he knew how important children were. There’s only two times that Jesus got really ticked off. One was when he turned the temple tables over and the other was when the disciples shoo the kids away. He was indignant, He was furious and He spent the whole next chapter, chapter 18 of Matthew talking about how important kids are. And Doc had that passion, he began to reach boys and girls for Jesus Christ and one little boy that he reached he can barely see him up at the top; he’s the kid with his head cut off right under Paul Rader, his name is Jack Connor. Jack Connor came to this club, became a believer; his parents were divorced, he came from a rough background, he was one of that neighborhood punks, and he came to know the Lord and he became Doc’s boy, and Doc discipled him and trained him, and he began to follow the Lord Jesus Christ and became a real leader for the Lord Jesus Christ.
In the 1972, Jack Connor after having been with New Tribe Mission for twenty something years, came to the Philippines. They went to Tara, in Palawan, and began to translate the Scriptures into the Tagbanua tongue. No believers, no churches and they began to share their faith with these tribal people and spent four years there – some rough times, some good times and many came to know the Lord. And you know, today every Holy Week the Tagbanua people gather for a conference. And over one thousand people gather in one of twelve Tagbanua locations to celebrate the gospel of Jesus Christ and they figure out how they’s gonna spread it around the world. The light of God’s glory has come to that place and I was able to go there last Holy Week, not this one, a year ago, and presented the New Testament in Tagbanua and one of the biggest thrills of my life to see God’s work in that regard. They had a daughter, her name was Lorie, she’s the girl in the middle with funny hat. While they were in the Philippines, there was a young guy in Chicago into drugs and Satanism, and gangs and all the rest, and one day was invited into the Northside Gospel Center, and he went and he heard the gospel and put his faith and trust in Jesus Christ and began to follow Jesus and the Lord changed his life. And four years later, he met Lorie Connor and they got married and had kids and came back here. And I could say to you today, I’m so glad for the Ripple.
It’s not about me, it’s about Him; and someday, I’m gonna get to heaven; I’m gonna go find Edward Kimble and probably D.L. Moody, and Billy Graham are gonna be walking behind the sky, trying to touch Him. And I’m gonna say, "Thank you, brother, for throwing that stone in the water. Thank you for starting the ripple. Look how far it’s gone."
Amazing, isn't it? How the ripple Edward Kimble started made such a huge impact that brought Pastor Vince himself to Christ.
Oh, but the ripple hasn't stopped.
In 1993, Pastor Vince stood up in front of a crowd of teenagers in Caliraya Re-Creation Center in Laguna. He told them that Jesus loves them and died to take away their sins. He said Jesus rose up from the dead to prove that He is God and that He has conquered sin and death.
"Picture this," Pastor Vince said. "Imagine all your sins you ever committed... try to remember them, bring them back to mind... the earliest sin you can remember, to the most recent you committed. Okay, now squeeze that sin into a knife. And Jesus on the cross says, 'That knife will kill you. If you ask Me, I will take it away from you.' And you give that knife to Jesus and Jesus dies."
Among the audience was a very sleepy 13-year-old. He was seated at the back, ready to dose off to sleep. But something about what Pastor Vince said made him sit up and pay attention. When he heard the Gospel, he realized for the first time in his life that God loves him and what Jesus' death and resurrection truly meant.
He accepted Jesus as his personal Lord and Savior that day.
That 13-year-old boy was me. I'm now 29 years-old. Married, and father to a one-year-old girl. And the ripple won't stop with me. By God's grace, I will live a life that brings glory to Him, and brings people to Him.
Sa gutom na sikmura
In my dream last night, Kuh Ledesma was singing a song. I haven't heard this song before, but it was talking about poverty or the plight of the poor.
Tetchie Agbayani was doing some presentational acting of the song. She was costumed as a taong grasa. She had a loaf of bread in her hands. She would pull a pinch of the bread, open her mouth, but throw it away. It was that part of the song that talked about how small the portions of food that the poor eat each day.
The taong grasa character wished for more bread, and from "off stage--from the wings" bread of all types were thrown her way, showering her with so much food. She was so happy. Then she wakes up and finds that it really wasn't bread that was thrown away, but dried leaves.
She begins to scold herself for thinking that dried leaves were bread. The song Kuh was singing was still playing, and the lyrics was saying, "Huwag ka nang magtanong. Sa gutom na sikmura ang dahong lanta tinapay ang mistula."
All of these were happening as if on a stage. I wondered about the magic of how the bread was magically transformed into dried leaves while I was "watching the performance live." I thought, "Hey, that's the Theater. Anything is possible." But I thought I ought to find out how exactly that was done just the same. Then the lyrics played again: "Huwak ka nang magtanong. Sa gutom na sikmura... dahong lanta tinapay ang mistula."
*
I went to sleep last night at around 10:30. I woke up at 9:10 a.m. I can't even calculate how long I was conked out. I had several other dreams, aside from the weird one above.
Same night, different dream: Veck and I were walking somewhere in "Caloocan" but the streets were completely unfamiliar and wouldn't look like anything like the real Caloocan. We were on our way to my office, but I knew I haven't showered. Feeling uncomfortable, I told Veck I'll look for a restroom and shower quickly.
We happened upon a house. A car repairman was eying us. I knocked, and two girls with rather homely faces let me in, agreeing to allow me to shower in their bathroom. I left Veck standing outside as I squeezed through an opening under the door (it doesn't open) to get in. I took a last look at Veck standing outside, as the girls pointed where the bathroom is.
Their house turned out to be huge, as in huge. It's like the house was a series of rooms, one connecting to and from another, that stretched on and on. It seemed the house itself covered many blocks in that city.
I asked the homely girls, "Are you rich?"
She said, "Yes."
"Where's the bathroom?"
"It's there. It's there."
They kept leading me, and soon an old woman, who was their nanny, joined us. I slowly realized they were leading me away and away, further into the labyrinthian house. I realized I had to go back to Veck. She must be worried. What if the car repairman did something bad to her?
I made my escape. When I ran out of a window, out through a gate, I realized I was several blocks away from where I left Veck. I ran up the street, trying to remember the route we walked, but my legs felt leaden.
I realized the best way to get to her fast is to drop on all fours and run like a lion. Which I did. I ran like a lion, gaining speed and velocity, trying not to get confused in the streets, to get to where I left Veck, by the entrance into the house--the immovable door.
Dream ends.
Tetchie Agbayani was doing some presentational acting of the song. She was costumed as a taong grasa. She had a loaf of bread in her hands. She would pull a pinch of the bread, open her mouth, but throw it away. It was that part of the song that talked about how small the portions of food that the poor eat each day.
The taong grasa character wished for more bread, and from "off stage--from the wings" bread of all types were thrown her way, showering her with so much food. She was so happy. Then she wakes up and finds that it really wasn't bread that was thrown away, but dried leaves.
She begins to scold herself for thinking that dried leaves were bread. The song Kuh was singing was still playing, and the lyrics was saying, "Huwag ka nang magtanong. Sa gutom na sikmura ang dahong lanta tinapay ang mistula."
All of these were happening as if on a stage. I wondered about the magic of how the bread was magically transformed into dried leaves while I was "watching the performance live." I thought, "Hey, that's the Theater. Anything is possible." But I thought I ought to find out how exactly that was done just the same. Then the lyrics played again: "Huwak ka nang magtanong. Sa gutom na sikmura... dahong lanta tinapay ang mistula."
*
I went to sleep last night at around 10:30. I woke up at 9:10 a.m. I can't even calculate how long I was conked out. I had several other dreams, aside from the weird one above.
Same night, different dream: Veck and I were walking somewhere in "Caloocan" but the streets were completely unfamiliar and wouldn't look like anything like the real Caloocan. We were on our way to my office, but I knew I haven't showered. Feeling uncomfortable, I told Veck I'll look for a restroom and shower quickly.
We happened upon a house. A car repairman was eying us. I knocked, and two girls with rather homely faces let me in, agreeing to allow me to shower in their bathroom. I left Veck standing outside as I squeezed through an opening under the door (it doesn't open) to get in. I took a last look at Veck standing outside, as the girls pointed where the bathroom is.
Their house turned out to be huge, as in huge. It's like the house was a series of rooms, one connecting to and from another, that stretched on and on. It seemed the house itself covered many blocks in that city.
I asked the homely girls, "Are you rich?"
She said, "Yes."
"Where's the bathroom?"
"It's there. It's there."
They kept leading me, and soon an old woman, who was their nanny, joined us. I slowly realized they were leading me away and away, further into the labyrinthian house. I realized I had to go back to Veck. She must be worried. What if the car repairman did something bad to her?
I made my escape. When I ran out of a window, out through a gate, I realized I was several blocks away from where I left Veck. I ran up the street, trying to remember the route we walked, but my legs felt leaden.
I realized the best way to get to her fast is to drop on all fours and run like a lion. Which I did. I ran like a lion, gaining speed and velocity, trying not to get confused in the streets, to get to where I left Veck, by the entrance into the house--the immovable door.
Dream ends.
Zog and the inside joke
Walking home from rehearsals one night, I was with Betty and Opa and I told them the story of Zog. Soon it became a huge, huge inside joke among us.
The picture here is not how I imagined Zog to look like. But why the heck not. I got it from wolfsisters.net and I thought it's very mystical.
Zog, as far as I'm concerned, is the father of theatre. (Okay, I can't stop laughing now.) It was my first ever class in my first ever day as a theatre major in UP. It was Intro to Theatre and Sir Anton asks, "How did theatre begin?"
Hands from classmates shot up in the air. I glanced and they all had hardbound editions of Oscar Brockett's History of the Theater courtesy of photocopy+binding stalls in the Shopping Center. I didn't even know such a book existed! Now I'm so far behind in class! I'll be the dunce. I don't have the textbook. I'll never learn to act. I'll get cinco after cinco. This is so embarrassing. (Yes, these were the neurotic thoughts running through my then modernist brain. I superstitiously believed that for something to be good its beginning should be perfect. Best foot forward means ahead of the race. Back then I didn't know that when God created the heavens and the earth, "the earth was without form and void and darkness was upon the face of the deep" and not yet altogether perfect the way it became when God created Eve.)
All sorts of answers came up. "Sir, from the Greeks." We all heard that Anton Juan received his PhD in the University of Athens and so we were sure this was the correct answer.
"No," he said.
"Sir, from the Egyptians."
"No," he said. "Earlier."
Some students defended their answers. Some searched furiously in their Brocketts. Some shot guesses, which still missed the mark.
I thought, hey, what's there to lose? I raised my hand, trying hard to recall something I read somewhere. Was it "Complete Idiot's Guide to Creative Writing" the chapter on playwriting?
"Sir," I began, "long ago there was this caveman named Zog. He caught a large bull or animal from the forest. So that night, when he came home to his tribe, he told the story around the campfire. That's how theatre began."
Sir Anton's eyes became fiery for a brief moment, as if he were deep in thought, as if there was a campfire right in THY and they were blazing in his eyes. Then he said, "Yes."
My classmates were astounded. I was astounded. I thought, "Wow. Zog is the father of theatre."
Thus began my baptism into theatre. Sir Anton became animated. He became inhabited as if by some ancient spirit. He explained even as he acted what he was speaking: "He uses the skull of the beast as his mask. He dances, prancing about. He tells the community through ritual and dance and song how the spirits of the forest guided him and put the large beast under his power as he smote him with his spear!
"And thus he shows the future generations how to survive. Theatre teaches about life. Theatre is the rehearsal for life!" Then he prances about, graceful as a gazelle. Then he randomly points at a rather chubby classmate and says, "You! You cannot be a gazelle. You are an elephant!" I will never forget for the rest of my life the look of shock on that classmate's face.
Back to the trip home. Betty, Opa and I were laughing our hearts out with this story. Soon, we talked about Zog like he were a common friend. Zog, the source of inspiration and wisdom. Zog, the father of the theater. When a scene goes bad, we say, "Wonder what Zog will say about this." When a scene goes good we look at each and say, "Zog!"
Turns out Brockett really did mention that one of the many theories about the origin of theatre was the ancient tribal rituals of cavesmen. I found out when I got my own copy of the textbook from Shopping Center.
Anyhow, it's 2010 and we stage Griselda Gambaro's Information for Foreigners and believe you me, we did get some members of the audience who acted so backward they behaved like they were at the lowest rung of the evolutionary ladder. Zog was more sophisticated than these homo sapiens, in spite of their modern clothes and shoes. How can a human being be so jaded/heartless/unsympathetic towards fellow humans who are tortured?
I think I shouldn't be surprised. Human beings have been treating fellow humans inhumanely for years. In contrast, Zog hunted an animal to feed his people, continuing life, thanking his God for life-giving meat. Theatre taught Zog and his clan how to live. Our task as actors and playwrights remain the same. We are to teach humans to be human. If some of the audience do not want to learn or to think, then maybe they weren't homo sapiens (Latin for "the wise human") to begin with.
Frozen petroleum jelly
I wish I were a cool gel
Like frozen petroleum jelly.
Someone would take a dollop of me
and dabs on your wound
And then somehow you'll feel it
Even in the numbness.
You'll feel a sense of comfort somehow
You'll feel a "There... there..." whispered, somehow
A gentle breath. A gentle pat.
Not to stop you from crying
Not to stifle your whimper
But to say it's okay
To bawl your eyes out
and wring the tears from your heart.
-- God.
(I have written in the past several versions of this poem. I used different words, but they were of the same sentiment. This is inspired by a poem written by Julia Cameron I read in one of her books. It's such an enduring theme that it keeps cropping up in my head each time I hear of a friend who is going through tough times.)
Actor's nightmare
Last night and tonight, I have been tardy. Two nights in a row. That's news. Two nights ago I called in sick. What's my excuse? Er...
I dreamt I was assigned a dressing room for a show. Only it wasn't exactly a room. Sure, it has four walls, one of which has a huge window with iron grills. If you look out of it you see a sprawling lawn, tall, unmowed grass and calachuchi trees. There is no door, just a doorway to a veranda which also leads to other doorways into other actors' dressing rooms.
A stairway leads up to two more floors of dressing rooms, but I never climbed up them. I went into the veranda, found the dressing room masking-taped "Del Rosario" and was about to go in when I saw there was no roof. In fact, none of the dressing rooms had roofs. We were in the middle of nowhere in a seemingly abandoned hostel and we're given somewhat questionable accomodations. I didn't dare go into my dressing room.
I wanted to make up some story that there's a spirit lurking in my room, and as happens in dreams, a shadowy figure appeared by the doorway. I instiinctively knew that if I dropped my bag in the room someone would steal my wallet and other valuables.
Scary dream, huh? You know what's more scary? The fact that in the dream I had a scene with Tes Jamias and Roeder Camañag and I didn't know any of my lines. Everyone of the actors knew, however. It was a tour of a successful play we did way back, and there's absolutely "no way" I could have forgotten my lines. Only I did.
I reviewed my script, which turned out to be a magazine. There were pictures in vivid colors all over, and my lines are printed magazine-style in neat columns. I tried to memorize much as I could... when I woke up.
It's called actor's nightmares, I heard, and actors get them once in a while. They consist of one or a combination of the following elements: you arrive at your dressing room not realizing you were so late that the show has already started; you step onto the stage ready to do your part when you realize you have no clothes on and your costumes are still neatly hung in your dressing room; or, like the one I described above, you have absolutely no idea what the play or your character is and you're scheduled to go on in a few minutes.
So why have I been late the past two nights? Because I slept so soundly! I slept through my phone's alarm. I had been having vivid dreams I couldn't shake out of. What they meant, I don't know. And who cares! It's fun having vivid dreams and remembering them in your waking hours.
Confucius was noted to have said he once dreamt he was a butterfly. When he woke up, he wasn't sure if he did dream he was a butterfly, or if he was a butterfly dreaming he were a man.
Do you remember your dreams, too?
To be where You are
I am ready to follow wherever You leadJust to be with You is the greatest bliss
Be it it in the deserts or up in the high lands
Be it walking on water, or in the depths of oceans
I want to be where You are, my Lord
For to be with You is my greatest joy
And if life should bring me to carry my cross
I shall remember You were nailed to Yours
So you can be with me; this is Your will
So that I, Your prodigal child, in Your arms be returned.
I am the I AM's relentless pursuit
I am running, relentlessly. I’m in a giant wheel that keeps turning. I am running and getting tired but I’m not getting anywhere. I feel like a rat in a rat race. My energy is spent. My legs can’t keep running but the wheel keeps turning. I need to get out. I try my escape. I hop off the wheel.
I find myself in a maze, a labyrinth of some sort. I need to run again. The path isn’t straight. It winds and turns and twists. The corridors are narrow. I can barely see ahead of me. I hear water. Somewhere… I don’t know where. I realize I am thirsty.
I am lost in the maze. I can’t find my way back. There are two pathways ahead. One says “Money.” The other says “I AM.” What is “I AM”? I take the path to Money. Money is what I need. Money will quench my thirst.
Again I run. I hear footsteps behind me, running. Is someone after the money, too? I run faster. The footsteps behind me begin to run faster, too. I stop and try to listen. The footsteps get nearer and nearer. Maybe that someone isn’t after the money. Maybe he’s after me.
I speed up. I hit a dead-end. The path to money didn’t get me anywhere. I am thirstier than before. I still hear the water from far off. There must be a fountain here somewhere. Help! If I don’t drink, I’ll die.
I turn and see more pathways! Career. Relationships. Religion. Alcohol. Drugs. And curiously, the pathway marked the “I AM” is still here. That someone is still chasing me, in relentless pursuit. I need to make a decision, and fast.
I try the path marked “Relationships.” On the walls is etched a story told in pictures. It’s about a woman who has been here before. She was a Samaritan, one of the filthy half-breeds. She’s been here in this very pathway, searching for relationships to quench her thirst. She has taken this path five times over. Then she meets a Man at a well. He was Jewish, from the Chosen Race. But He’s unlike any other man she’s met before. He speaks to her and is kind to her.
“Please give me a drink,” He says.
"You are a Jew, and I am a Samaritan woman,” she replies, startled upon the intrusion. “Why are you asking me for a drink?"
"If you only knew the gift God has for you and who you are speaking to, you would ask me, and I would give you living water," He offers. “Those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life."
They talk some more, about her dark past, her secrets. She talks about worship. Of this He says, “True worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and in truth, for God is Spirit.”
“I know the Messiah is coming,” she says. “When He does, He will explain everything to us.”
“I AM the Messiah,” says the Man. And the woman was never thirsty ever again.
I want to meet that Man. I want to hear His words. I want to drink from His living water. “I AM Jesus,” says Someone behind me.
I turn, and there He was. “I have been relentlessly pursuing you.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I love you.” He reached out to me. In His hand is a hole the size of a giant nail.
My artist's prayer
You are the Vine, I am one of the branches. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Lord, make me a clear channel for your creativity. Make me an honest and sincere vessel of your truth. Let the acting act through me.
Let the movement move through me.
Let the music sing through me.
Let the story tell through me.
Let the words speak through me.
Let the thought transcend through me.
Let the image image forth through me.
Let Your creativity create through me.
-=-=-
I say this prayer whenever I am to plunge into a huge creative task. Like auditions, or opening nights. I say it when I feel stymied. I say it when I'm afraid that writer's block is pending and a deadline is ahead. It works.
I was walking home from work when a thought hit me. Why reserve the prayer for these situations only? Why can't I pray--and live--the prayer in my everyday life? I realize I can say the prayer everyday, and allow God to work through me even in the simplest of tasks. I can even say the prayer when I'm resting; when I'm taking a break from a creative project. I can say the prayer anytime at all. It can be my way of telling Jesus, "Hi, God! Let's have lunch together."
I was walking home from work when a thought hit me. Why reserve the prayer for these situations only? Why can't I pray--and live--the prayer in my everyday life? I realize I can say the prayer everyday, and allow God to work through me even in the simplest of tasks. I can even say the prayer when I'm resting; when I'm taking a break from a creative project. I can say the prayer anytime at all. It can be my way of telling Jesus, "Hi, God! Let's have lunch together."
Borrowed story: Dear Doctor Heart
There are stories, and then there are stories! Stories that stay with you for years. Unforgettable, gritty, meaty... those that can be re-told and passed on and would always, always be striking.
We all have them. They can be personal experiences, or told by a friend from his or her own personal experience, or they may even come from strangers, but once you hear them, their yours! They burrow into your consciousness, jar you out of your own little self-centered Universe, and make you human. Story-telling has been part of humanity since Creation. I mean, how else do we know that In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth? That the earth was void, and formless, and darkness was upon the face of the deep? How else would we have known that the Spirit of God hovered above these chaotic waters--if no one bothered to tell this story and pass it on generation after generation?
Thus, we know that from nothing, God created everything... that we have a beautiful beginning. Thus, we know, too, that in the end, everything will be beautiful again. (John told us the story of our future in the last chapters of Revelation.)
Story-telling is in our blood. That's why we have epic poetry of old. That's why we have theater. That's why we have movies (like New Moon and 2012 and Christmas Carol). That's why we turn on the news and gasp in horror at the massacre at Maguindanao and rejoice that CNN awarded a fellow Pinoy as Hero of the year. Strange that in this nation, the blood of heroes and murderers run through our veins. I digress, but even those are stories that cannot be forgotten, at least not soon.
Thus I attempt to share with you some stories that have stuck with me. These were told to me either directly or indirectly and now I wish to share them with you. Humbly, I launch through my blog the "Borrowed Stories Series." I hope these stories haunt you as much as they do me.
Let's begin with this story. I was on my commute to work. The bus had the radio on and it was that program were a gay DJ (although I'm not sure if he's just pretending to be gay as a gimmick) gives advice to listeners who call in with their love problems. Here's the story:
The situation was this. The girl couldn't forgive the boy. They were boyfriend and girlfriend for years. It seemed a match made in heaven. He was faithful, virtuous, respectful. In fact they were engaged. His mom treated her as her own daughter. It was a beautiful relationship.
Then one day, the boy broke the relationship off. For absolutely no reason, it seemed. He even cut off all contact. He changed numbers, wouldn't answer her calls, her emails, her letters. He wouldn't agree to talk to her, or even meet up with her. He just suddenly went away.
The girl was still in love with him, and was hurt and confused by his sudden defection. Was there a third party? Did she do or say anything wrong? What happened?
Months stretched to a year. And then longer. Still, the boy refused to speak with her or contact her. She was devastated.
One day, she calls his home again. The boy's mom answered.
"Ma, please tell me what's wrong? Please... You said you love me like your own daughter. I still am waiting for him. I don't want to be married to any other person but him."
"My dear," she answers. "You're young. Go meet other boys. Live your life."
"But please tell me what happened. Please."
Finally, his mom relents. "Honey, he died. It was brain cancer. The moment he found out, that was when he broke off with you. He didn't want to hurt you, that's why he didn't tell you he had cancer. He didn't want this burden on you. He passed away six months ago. I'm really sorry, anak."
That was the story. The girl tells the DJ: "I can't forgive him! I love him so much! How come he didn't trust me enough to tell me? I could have been there to take care of him! I could have shared his pain! How come he didn't trust me to be strong for him?" Then she breaks down and sobs.
It was silent for a long moment. Then the DJ said, "There's no use being angry at him. There's no use. He's dead. No matter how angry you are, nothing can bring him back. You have to move on. You have to live. You have to forgive him. Whatever his reasons are for keeping that from you, let them rest with him. Let him go. You only hurt yourself."
And then this stupid DJ plays "Calling your name again" which was the song Richard Carpenter wrote as a tribute to his sister. Thank God I had my jacket then, not only because of the air-conditioning at the bus but because I had something available to put over my face as the tears filled my eyes and flowed down my cheeks.
Amazing grace
When I think about God's grace long enough, like really spend time meditating on it, I weep. It happens mostly at church, while listening to the Sunday message. It happens when I spend enough time with the Bible. It also happens at odd times. I may be walking down the street or riding the bus and there! It hits me, and I cry. I cry because, immersed in God's grace, I am filled with gratitude for Him. Realizing I don't deserve what I already have and the blessings yet to come, I am humbled and grateful.
I wish I can say I am filled with love for Him, but that's not always the case. Sometimes I don't know if I love God. Like really love Him. Sometimes I feel that I love Him. But I know feelings are fleeting. Sometimes, when I do ministry, I don't necessarily feel any emotional attachment to Him. How does God know that I love Him? How do I know that I love Him?
These passages come to mind: "If you love me," Jesus is speaking, "you will obey what I command."
And then there's King Amaziah who did what was pleasing in the LORD's sight, but not wholeheartedly.
So how do I know if I love God with my whole heart and soul and mind and strength? I'm sure only the Holy Spirit can tell for sure.
But I was talking about God's grace. It brings me to tears because each time it hits me, I realize how much I don't deserve it. First, I am a sinner. Not only that, I am a sinner from an island in the Far East. I have not a drop of Jewish blood in me. And yet, Gentile sinner that I am, Jesus shed His blood for me before I was even born. God has already provided the Way for my salvation. Now my family has come to worship Him.
Grace is being given something undeserved. No strings attached. Being shown kindness when you've been unkind. Being helped when you can't give anything back in return. That's what happened at Calvary many years ago. I deserve to die because I am a sinner but Jesus, the sinless Lamb of God, died in my place. He took my sins upon Him. And He placed His righteousness upon me. Plus, I get to spend eternity with Him.
God's grace also shows up in amazing ways. Ondoy came and we got hit. (One day, I'll be able to tell the story, when the trauma has abated. I promise you. The story will glorify God.) Months after Ondoy, I am having a hard time writing. It wasn't so easy as before. There's a clog, a plug, a block. Writing for me now feels like banging my head on the wall, asking for inspiration, as if the words will come out when I have banged my head sufficiently enough that the blood breaks through my skin. I realize, this difficulty, is God's grace, too.
Suzanne, a friend of mine, who got flooded, too, years ago and lost everything she owned then, tells me to take it easy. An artist herself, she tells me it took her at least three months before she was able to try returning to the routine of daily writing. She said I shouldn't jump the gun. This seeming writer's block I'm going through is normal.
God knows me. God knows I will strive and strive to write. He also knows that if I couldn't write with ease as I am wont, I would punish myself severely. Left on my own I would push myself to get things back to normal sooner rather than in its own time; rushing for results instead of taking stock, taking it slowly, allowing myself to heal after the tragedy. God's grace shows up by limiting my creative output so I don't damage myself unnecessarily. I am forced to be still, to stoke up energy, to enjoy His presence.
God's grace also shows up when, at the crucial time, creativity flows. Just now I was asked to collaborate for two Christmas presentations, one for kids, one for grown-ups, both evangelistic. I would have loved to say "No, not now, I'm convalescing. I am currently blocked right now. Go ask somebody else..." but then there is in me the longing to do this for Jesus, and to minister to people.
So I say yes to these opportunities to share the Gospel. And here, suddenly, in a situation where I need to create with my broken artist's spirit, I turn to God. I went for a morning walk, and there met God's grace.
His Spirit spoke, "Call Ophel. Ask her if she's willing to shelf her script for the moment. Suggest to do Luke 15. Now, email NxtGen and tell them your concept for the Celebration. Tell them it's a collaboration. Everyone will give their input..." I get creative ideas again. The Director is giving this actor directions again. He is letting His voice be heard like before. That is God's grace in my book.
I go online and I get to chat and open my heart to my brother. I tell him about some resentments, fears, doubts. I feed on his faith and am strengthened. That is grace, too.
And yes, I am moved to tears.
I wish I can say I am filled with love for Him, but that's not always the case. Sometimes I don't know if I love God. Like really love Him. Sometimes I feel that I love Him. But I know feelings are fleeting. Sometimes, when I do ministry, I don't necessarily feel any emotional attachment to Him. How does God know that I love Him? How do I know that I love Him?
These passages come to mind: "If you love me," Jesus is speaking, "you will obey what I command."
And then there's King Amaziah who did what was pleasing in the LORD's sight, but not wholeheartedly.
So how do I know if I love God with my whole heart and soul and mind and strength? I'm sure only the Holy Spirit can tell for sure.
But I was talking about God's grace. It brings me to tears because each time it hits me, I realize how much I don't deserve it. First, I am a sinner. Not only that, I am a sinner from an island in the Far East. I have not a drop of Jewish blood in me. And yet, Gentile sinner that I am, Jesus shed His blood for me before I was even born. God has already provided the Way for my salvation. Now my family has come to worship Him.
Grace is being given something undeserved. No strings attached. Being shown kindness when you've been unkind. Being helped when you can't give anything back in return. That's what happened at Calvary many years ago. I deserve to die because I am a sinner but Jesus, the sinless Lamb of God, died in my place. He took my sins upon Him. And He placed His righteousness upon me. Plus, I get to spend eternity with Him.
God's grace also shows up in amazing ways. Ondoy came and we got hit. (One day, I'll be able to tell the story, when the trauma has abated. I promise you. The story will glorify God.) Months after Ondoy, I am having a hard time writing. It wasn't so easy as before. There's a clog, a plug, a block. Writing for me now feels like banging my head on the wall, asking for inspiration, as if the words will come out when I have banged my head sufficiently enough that the blood breaks through my skin. I realize, this difficulty, is God's grace, too.
Suzanne, a friend of mine, who got flooded, too, years ago and lost everything she owned then, tells me to take it easy. An artist herself, she tells me it took her at least three months before she was able to try returning to the routine of daily writing. She said I shouldn't jump the gun. This seeming writer's block I'm going through is normal.
God knows me. God knows I will strive and strive to write. He also knows that if I couldn't write with ease as I am wont, I would punish myself severely. Left on my own I would push myself to get things back to normal sooner rather than in its own time; rushing for results instead of taking stock, taking it slowly, allowing myself to heal after the tragedy. God's grace shows up by limiting my creative output so I don't damage myself unnecessarily. I am forced to be still, to stoke up energy, to enjoy His presence.
God's grace also shows up when, at the crucial time, creativity flows. Just now I was asked to collaborate for two Christmas presentations, one for kids, one for grown-ups, both evangelistic. I would have loved to say "No, not now, I'm convalescing. I am currently blocked right now. Go ask somebody else..." but then there is in me the longing to do this for Jesus, and to minister to people.
So I say yes to these opportunities to share the Gospel. And here, suddenly, in a situation where I need to create with my broken artist's spirit, I turn to God. I went for a morning walk, and there met God's grace.
His Spirit spoke, "Call Ophel. Ask her if she's willing to shelf her script for the moment. Suggest to do Luke 15. Now, email NxtGen and tell them your concept for the Celebration. Tell them it's a collaboration. Everyone will give their input..." I get creative ideas again. The Director is giving this actor directions again. He is letting His voice be heard like before. That is God's grace in my book.
I go online and I get to chat and open my heart to my brother. I tell him about some resentments, fears, doubts. I feed on his faith and am strengthened. That is grace, too.
And yes, I am moved to tears.
Mother of pearl
I read this from The Artist's Way at Work, Riding the Dragon by Mark Bryan:
"Creative blocks are anything that we use to lessen our anxieties, our ability to stay in the 'empty bowl.' These behaviors keep us from effectively using our energies...
"To be able to create, we must be willing to learn how to quiet our minds, feel our emotions, and stay in the vacuum so the ideas can well up from our deepest place of knowing."
This has got to be the bedrock of all the lessons I needed to learn this year. To be able to silence the mind that says, "Play some Pet Society for a while..." "You're hungry, go get something to eat!" "Wouldn't a choco-filled doughnut be scrumptious at this time?" when the only thing I know I need to be doing is writing.
I need to learn to stay with the anxiety of unknowing or whatever and from there, to sit down and write or memorize lines. It's tough, but it's as real as my skin. It's always easier to tune out when faced with the empty bowl. Ah, there's a phrase: cop out.
The ego does not want this. The ego wants to take control, and if we let it, we lose control.
I think that's why years ago, when Ate Imee was teaching me to write, she said, "Think of a problem--a problem in society--that you want to address. One that personally affects you. One that you want to say something about." When I do this all sorts of feelings, often uncomfortable, come up. I shouldn't be afraid of these feelings. They're me. It's what Bill Hybels called a "holy discontent," a passion that should be stoked, not quenched.
Then, finally, I know just to shut up and sit down and write and ride my mind. I can't go, "That's too unpleasant. I feel sad thinking about that. Maybe I'll get a bar of chocolate." I can't create that way. I'll only get lazy.
Who said we can't create out of disharmony? Who said it won't be painful? Even God created order out of chaos, everything out of nothing. In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep. God didn't go traipsing off somewhere else more pleasant. Instead, the Spirit of God hovered over the waters.
Then God said, "Let there be light." God didn't tune out. He tuned in. From Him we artists must take our cue.
Pearls are formed when an irritant, say a small shrimp, enters the soft tissue inside a mollusk such as an oyster. The oyster then coats this irritant, often a parasite, with a substance called nacre. This becomes the "mother of pearl." Over time, this hardens and we get a round, iridescent gemstone that is the pearl.
Mother of pearl. What a telling phrase. So, too, that our Motherland is called the Pearl of the Orient Seas. Do we need to wonder why it is when the irritant enters into the vulnerable insides of the oyster and not bumped off by its hard shell that the pearls are formed?
Life is full of intruders. Our tough exteriors can bump them off. Artists do something else. They allow life to reach into their vulnerable souls--that soft part in them where their personal nacre is--and from there, create their art.
Why structure is important to language
Joed Rea was the tallest boy in my fourth grade class. He was a firefighter volunteer. At first I didn't believe it even if he showed his firefighters ID. How could anyone be in grade school and have a job already? I was convinced he was lying. I told myself not to believe anything Rea said.I was in fourth grade when I discovered writing. I'd buy spring notebooks and in them I wrote ghost stories, monster stories, detective stories, mystery stories, with a cover page and illustrations. I went wild about it. I mean, absolutely wild.
So did my classmates. Suddenly there was Rico, writing stories more exciting and fun to read than My Readers Book 4. What's more, I didn't end any of my stories with, "What's the lesson learned here? What's the moral? What's the theme?" I didn't even need to finish a story before my classmates devoured it. They'd ask, "Is it done yet?" I'll say, "I'm done with a chapter," and then they would read and pass around the notebook. I'd get it back later with them asking, "Then what happened? Write some more."
This happened for sometime until one day Rea (we called him by his last name) came up to me and said, "In your next story I want to be the monster." I thought he was kidding. Why would anyone want to be the bad guy in a story?
I did write Rea out to be a flesh-eating aswang in my next story. Halfway through the story, he said, "Each time a character says something, put quotation marks and start a new paragraph. That way it won't be confusing to read."
I said, "What?"
"That's how it's done in our books."
I looked and he was right. That was when I started to believe in Rea. It was a kindness that he came up to me and showed me what my work needed. That incident also started me on a journey of careful reading. No more was I reading our assignments just to be able to answer the teacher's questions that followed. I was really digging. I thought how come other writers tell stories better than others? How come there are characters and plots I can never forget, that make me sad or laugh? I noticed words for what they are, in their dignity and weight. I noticed choice of words, turns of phrase, punctuation marks. I took parts of speech and figurative language to heart. And as I read more, I wrote more. I wrote and I wrote, into high school, through college, and even after I dropped out of University. I went on writing.
Second year high school, I saw Rea on a noisy firetruck as it chased a blazing fire in the city. He was a firefighter after all! I yelled, "Hey, Rea!" but the sirens drowned out my voice. But I already believed he was one. I've believed it for years. Ever since he talked to me about quotation marks and paragraph indention, I believed him.
Korporasyon Corpse
Hello, hello po! May tao po ba diyan?
Wala, halimaw lang. Matakaw.
Lalamunin ko ang utak mo.
Barya-barya isusukli sa'yo.
Hello, hello po! May kailangan po ako.
Gatas ng anak ko, pambayad sa landlord at ilaw.
Gamitan tayo. Ako tao, ikaw halimaw.
Talino ko pamalit sa salapi mo.
Hello, hello po! Please lang, sumagot.
Rawr! Gusto ko ang iniisip mo.
Kakainin kita, paunti-unti.
`Di mo mamamalayan
Ang aking pagbabate.
`Di mo mamamalayan
Akin ka na.
Ang iyong utak at kaluluwa.
Magsasama ako ng kapwa ko demonyo
Unti-unti naming iisa-isahin kayo
Naglalaway, nagjajakol,
Kumakalam sa singit
Barya lang ba hanap mo?
Marami niyan ako.
Kailangan ko ang utak mo.
Payamanin mo ako.
At pag-ika'y nanguya
At tuluyang mawala
Parang buto ng fried chicken
Ika'y iluluwa.
Magdiriwang ang mga diablo
Sa kumpanyang ito
Ikaw ay pawawalan
Na payat at buto-buto.
Tao po, tao po... Mamamasukan lang.
Marunong akong sumunod
Sa H.R. at sa memo
May maipakain lang
Sa sanggol at asawa ko.
Tao po... Tao po...
Wala, halimaw lang. Matakaw.
Lalamunin ko ang utak mo.
Barya-barya isusukli sa'yo.
Hello, hello po! May kailangan po ako.
Gatas ng anak ko, pambayad sa landlord at ilaw.
Gamitan tayo. Ako tao, ikaw halimaw.
Talino ko pamalit sa salapi mo.
Hello, hello po! Please lang, sumagot.
Rawr! Gusto ko ang iniisip mo.
Kakainin kita, paunti-unti.
`Di mo mamamalayan
Ang aking pagbabate.
`Di mo mamamalayan
Akin ka na.
Ang iyong utak at kaluluwa.
Magsasama ako ng kapwa ko demonyo
Unti-unti naming iisa-isahin kayo
Naglalaway, nagjajakol,
Kumakalam sa singit
Barya lang ba hanap mo?
Marami niyan ako.
Kailangan ko ang utak mo.
Payamanin mo ako.
At pag-ika'y nanguya
At tuluyang mawala
Parang buto ng fried chicken
Ika'y iluluwa.
Magdiriwang ang mga diablo
Sa kumpanyang ito
Ikaw ay pawawalan
Na payat at buto-buto.
Tao po, tao po... Mamamasukan lang.
Marunong akong sumunod
Sa H.R. at sa memo
May maipakain lang
Sa sanggol at asawa ko.
Tao po... Tao po...
The Power of Fear: Lauren Ambrose
I know Lauren Ambrose. She's the cute, chubby, wallflower girl in the teen movie Can't Hardly Wait. I watched it more times than I care to admit. Can't help it. The movie came out during my senior year in high school. Or around that time. Maybe it came out weeks after our graduation. Can't remember. (IMDB says 1998.)
Well, Lauren, like me, has grown up. And in her craft, too, admirably. I am grateful that she articulated something I have always felt about acting and taking on a new role. Read on.
The Power of Fear: Lauren Ambrose
(reposted from Oprah.com)
At first glance, Lauren Ambrose's dewy face and doe eyes suggest an innocent naïveté. But anyone familiar with her devastating performances knows that her exterior belies an extraordinary intensity and a preternatural ability to convey the humanity of her characters. Best known for her Emmy-nominated role in the HBO drama Six Feet Under, Ambrose, 31, recently wowed audiences in a Broadway production of the Eugène Ionesco play Exit the King, and can be heard in the film adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are in October. Here, she pulls back the curtain on her favorite emotion:
I enjoy playing roles that push me to my absolute capacity, emotionally and physically—that feel like a leap of faith. I often take a role without knowing what I'm supposed to do, what's required of me. Figuring that out is a process, and for me that process starts with fear.
Every single time I begin a job I think, "I'm a fraud. I'm going to get fired. What am I doing here? They're going to find me out." But you can't tell yourself you shouldn't feel that way, because that doesn't help. What helps is really living with what it feels like to be that afraid, and beginning from there. The fear is the way through.
You can't deny, either in life or as an actor, what's really going on. So even though I might be playing the most confident person in the world, if I'm ready to throw up with nerves, that fear has to be present somehow. I think I need it—that daunting feeling like I'm looking up at Mount Everest. It's what lets me go into rehearsal without expecting anything. But I also know that through diligence, and not letting the fear take over, something will come. I love that feeling, like jumping off a cliff—it's a big, powerful, enlivening, animal feeling. I think, "What will come up, what will come out, if I really relinquish? What real, live thing can happen in the room, and go into the art we're making?" That's what's truly scary, but also such a thrill.
Well, Lauren, like me, has grown up. And in her craft, too, admirably. I am grateful that she articulated something I have always felt about acting and taking on a new role. Read on.
The Power of Fear: Lauren Ambrose
(reposted from Oprah.com)
I enjoy playing roles that push me to my absolute capacity, emotionally and physically—that feel like a leap of faith. I often take a role without knowing what I'm supposed to do, what's required of me. Figuring that out is a process, and for me that process starts with fear.
Every single time I begin a job I think, "I'm a fraud. I'm going to get fired. What am I doing here? They're going to find me out." But you can't tell yourself you shouldn't feel that way, because that doesn't help. What helps is really living with what it feels like to be that afraid, and beginning from there. The fear is the way through.
You can't deny, either in life or as an actor, what's really going on. So even though I might be playing the most confident person in the world, if I'm ready to throw up with nerves, that fear has to be present somehow. I think I need it—that daunting feeling like I'm looking up at Mount Everest. It's what lets me go into rehearsal without expecting anything. But I also know that through diligence, and not letting the fear take over, something will come. I love that feeling, like jumping off a cliff—it's a big, powerful, enlivening, animal feeling. I think, "What will come up, what will come out, if I really relinquish? What real, live thing can happen in the room, and go into the art we're making?" That's what's truly scary, but also such a thrill.
Promises
One reason children become bitter toward their parents is broken promises. Parents make promises to their children they do not or could not keep. I love my parents, but they're not perfect. Still, I can learn from them. Now that I am a parent, both to my daughter Dana and to my inner artist child, I must not make any promises to them that I don't intend to keep.
I think promising an artist date and then not showing up would break my inner child's heart.
I was, I think, 8 or 9... maybe 10, when the "Zyklone Loop" came out in the Philippines. That was the first roller coaster here that had a 360-degree loop. I wanted to get on it. I wanted to experience my feet being thrown over my head!
I asked my Dad if he would take me to Star City (the theme park) and so I can ride the Zyklone Loop. He said yes. This never happened, though. Every year I would wait and wait if the promise would be fulfilled. I only stopped waiting when I was in high school, when I decided that roller coasters were childish stuff.
Not that I'm bitter towards Dad because of one broken promise, but at that time, I do remember being severely disappointed. But I never told him about it.
It was December 31, 1999. I was 17 or 18 at the time. I stepped out of Sofitel (then Westiin Philippine Plaza) giddy after having seen Lea Salonga in person for the first time. Unable to find a cab because it was close to midnight, I found myself buying a ticket to Star City. I was alone. My family had gone home to visit Grandma and was expecting me to follow. I thought, I had to spend the turn of the millennium alone, I might as well do it in the theme park. Lo and behold, I found the Zyklone Loop. It was rusty, rickety, dangerous-looking. I thought, heck, why not? I have been at that point been on the Space Shuttle countless times and wasn't scared one bit. So I thought I might as well ride this one that looks like its nuts and bolts are gonna give with each ride.
I did it. I rode the Zyklone Loop. Never mind that I was no longer the kid that I was with a daredevil's smile. Never mind that Dad wasn't there watching his son trying to be brave.
While being flipped over, I thought of Dad, waiting for me in Grandma's house. Then I smiled.
I think promising an artist date and then not showing up would break my inner child's heart.
I was, I think, 8 or 9... maybe 10, when the "Zyklone Loop" came out in the Philippines. That was the first roller coaster here that had a 360-degree loop. I wanted to get on it. I wanted to experience my feet being thrown over my head!
I asked my Dad if he would take me to Star City (the theme park) and so I can ride the Zyklone Loop. He said yes. This never happened, though. Every year I would wait and wait if the promise would be fulfilled. I only stopped waiting when I was in high school, when I decided that roller coasters were childish stuff.
Not that I'm bitter towards Dad because of one broken promise, but at that time, I do remember being severely disappointed. But I never told him about it.
It was December 31, 1999. I was 17 or 18 at the time. I stepped out of Sofitel (then Westiin Philippine Plaza) giddy after having seen Lea Salonga in person for the first time. Unable to find a cab because it was close to midnight, I found myself buying a ticket to Star City. I was alone. My family had gone home to visit Grandma and was expecting me to follow. I thought, I had to spend the turn of the millennium alone, I might as well do it in the theme park. Lo and behold, I found the Zyklone Loop. It was rusty, rickety, dangerous-looking. I thought, heck, why not? I have been at that point been on the Space Shuttle countless times and wasn't scared one bit. So I thought I might as well ride this one that looks like its nuts and bolts are gonna give with each ride.
I did it. I rode the Zyklone Loop. Never mind that I was no longer the kid that I was with a daredevil's smile. Never mind that Dad wasn't there watching his son trying to be brave.
While being flipped over, I thought of Dad, waiting for me in Grandma's house. Then I smiled.
A Tale of Two Warriors
There are two kinds of warriors. There's only one prize, but it's enough for all. That treasure is guarded by the troll who lives under the bridge.
The first warrior sees the troll. It is his enemy. He lashes at it, but the troll fells him. He hits the floor and stays there. Then he raises a fist to the skies and whines, "It's not fair. The whole world is against me. It's keeping me from getting what's rightfully mine."
The second warrior is different. He sees the troll as his friend. Not a nice friend, but an honest, selfless friend. He charges at it, and the troll easily throws him down. He gets up and charges again. He falls again. And again. And again. Each time, he'd get up, and attack the troll. Every time the troll simply brushes him off like a fly on the cheek.
Battered, bruised, blistered, he braces himself again. With what remains of him, he charges at the troll. His strength is thinning, but his resolve remains solid.
The first warrior, still on the floor, thinks his companion is foolish. The second warrior agrees with him but keeps trying anyway. The first warrior's whines get stronger, louder. The second warrior's mind and body get stronger and sharper. As he becomes stronger, he becomes worthier to take hold of the treasure. The troll knows this. The troll sees this. The troll waits for the right time. When it comes, the troll simply steps out of the way and let's the warrior through. It becomes satisfied, knowing that the treasure is won by someone who will not give it up easily.
The second warrior finds the treasure chest. His heart seemed ready to burst. Then he finds he has not the key. Another troll arises from deep in the woods. The key is between its teeth.
The second warrior rises to his feet. He still needs to prove his mettle. He needs to show just how much he wanted the treasure. With a coy smile, he charges at the second troll.
Tonight
The air is pregnant and humid.
The night is warm like late afternoon.
I hope for a cool breeze
and stare at the half-moon
yellow as my teeth.
I claw at Fate for a chance
to see you again.
Disrobed, I stand
naked with emotion
despair, longing, desire, anger,
lust, burning, wishing, gratitude,
consignment, acceptance, loathing, love
Perhaps to embrace each one
as real and part of me
and grant them the right
of passage through my belly
till they scorch a moon-shaped hole
through my chest.
The night is warm like late afternoon.
I hope for a cool breeze
and stare at the half-moon
yellow as my teeth.
I claw at Fate for a chance
to see you again.
Disrobed, I stand
naked with emotion
despair, longing, desire, anger,
lust, burning, wishing, gratitude,
consignment, acceptance, loathing, love
Perhaps to embrace each one
as real and part of me
and grant them the right
of passage through my belly
till they scorch a moon-shaped hole
through my chest.
The teachers of my life
Here are mine:
Eric Morris. I never studied directly under Eric Morris. I have read his five books on acting, and that's as far as any instruction I can ever get from him. I have never attended a workshop that faithfully taught his system. That's okay. The truth is, you don't learn acting from books. Still, Morris is a force in my life. His unquenchable quest for truth in acting is something I strive for in my work. He teaches emotional honesty and the value of daily hard work.
I am a bad student of Morris's. I have never learned sense memory or how to use it in my stage or scene work. I do know it works, though. I once was given a single white rose by a lover. Thrilled, I sniffed it all day. I fell in love with the fragrance of that rose. Without any effort to sense memorize its scent, I kept putting it up my nose for pure pleasure. A week later, when the rose is dead and dried up, I was watching TV. It was the Avon Color commercial with Lea Salonga. Suddenly, a bouquet of red roses bursts out of nowhere, and I smelled it. I was watching the flowers on TV, but their fragrance filled my nose!
I might have abandoned his lessons on and off for years but I keep going back to BEING and relaxation exercises, and relationship exercises, and inner and outer awareness. These have helped me tremendously. Eric set me up on a journey towards a creative discovery and honesty in craft. He piqued my curiosity and opened my eyes to the possibility of being absolutely truthful on the stage, and to get to that it involves a lot of daily work.
Julia Cameron. The Artist's Way is pivotal for me. Where Morris was extremely pragmatic, Cameron was that, too, and also spiritual. I still do my morning pages. I'm due for an artist date today. I learned how to nurture myself because of JC. Most importantly, I learned to humbly ask for God's help whenever I'm out on a creative task, and whenever I run dry.
Natalie Goldberg. I learned vipassana meditation from S.N. Goenka, but Nat showed me another form of meditation: writing practice. I am on it now and it keeps me off my lazy butt pushing pen onto the page. I am a writer, yes, but also a human being. That's what I learned from her. Morris lit the torch for my acting, Goldberg did the same for my writing, Cameron was the glue that gelled both together. Strangely, my writing affects my acting. This is a recent discovery, and I"ll be exploring more of it for years, God-willing.
Thanks, Nat, for showing me another path. You're a trailblazer.
Anton Juan. I'm biased but Sir A is my favorite professor of all time. Morris, Cameron, Goldberg were absentee teachers. I learned from them through their books. But Anton Juan was present for me. You stand beside him and he is there, present with all his being. He showed me how integrity is the most important trait of the artist. He taught me this by living it. He taught me with his work, with his life. He will forever be a cherished teacher and a good friend. It's a great privilege to have been in your classes.
Emerita Tagal. Mrs. Tagal taught Literature in my high school. I wonder if she's still there, awakening and cracking open young minds to the beauty and majesty of world literature. I hope so. I looked at the website and I am pretty sure that's her in the picture: http://www.sja.edu.ph/services.htm. But here's a secret: I saw her one afternoon reading a Robert Ludlum novel. I thought, "Ludlum's not part of our reading assignments. Why, he's a suspense writer!" Then a synapse connected in my brain. You mean we can read books that aren't in the reading list? We can read just for the pure pleasure of it? The answer is a resounding Yes!
Without Mrs. Tagal I would not have pursued the art of the written or spoken word. I fell in love with literature, whether between the covers of a book, or on stage in the theater, because of that one day when I saw Mrs. Tagal enjoying a suspense novel.
Jonathan Bradford. Pastor Jonathan has something only gifted teachers have: the power to inspire his students to learn and study on their own. He told us of how when he was young he'd study the Scriptures, and still does so today. He reads the Bible out of pure love for its Author. He teaches with humility, clarity, and authority. After his classes on Basic Doctrine and Bible Interpretation, I never read the Bible the old way again: haphazardly, nonchalantly. Now I take out my tools and dig, dig, dig until I get to the jewels. Pastor Jonathan, when we get to heaven, I'm sure your crown will have many, many jewels.
Melvin Lee. Now I have to add Teacher Melvin to this list. He plays Chelsea in PETA's Care Divas. He also taught Basic Acting in PETA's Summer Workshop in 2011. The greatest thing he's taught me, and our class for that matter, is the value of balance. Moderation. Living life fully both on the stage and off. His immortal words to me are: Relax, okay? Be grateful for the idea of participating in the drama called life. A toast to you, Sir Melvin. You made a fan of my wife, too!
There they are. The teachers of my life. They say when you find one teacher who enriches your life forever, consider yourself lucky. Well, I've had more than one.
How about you? Who are the teachers of your life?
At Burger King with friends
I was at Burger King with two friends. BK has this promo that if you upsize your drink and fries or onion rings, you get a free burger. That's a little too much for my appetite, grease and cholesterol and all, and here I am trying to cut down. I am sure I'd be unable to finish my X-tra Long American Chicken Sandwich with free Whopper Jr.I'm not a huge fan of Burger King's foods, but there's free wi-fi, movie (right now it's Harry Potter 4: Goblet of Fire), massage, even shoeshine. The crew are friendly, too. I've been here one time too often and they smile with familiarity. "There's the writer," they seem to say. They already know I prefer onion rings to French fries and write for hours in my notebook.
Halfway through the meal and some writing, Jojo said, "Don't look now, but there's a street kid knocking at the glass. Look away." We were seated near the doors where the ramp for the disabled goes up and around the store. Beside that is the drive-through.
Jeanette quietly reached out for her half-eaten sandwich, wrapped it up in the wax paper, and with the back of her hand, pushed the glass door slightly open enough for one little grimy hand to reach for it.
"It's against the law to give coins to these kids," Jojo kindly advised.
"It's a sandwich. I've no coins to spare," Jeanette laughed. "Besides, I'm really full."
"The point is, we shouldn't encourage them. They hang around here until the guard shoos them away. Where are the parents? They should be doing something. That's why the government dissuades us from giving alms. It encourages the wrong things."
I thought Jojo must be right. We were discussing virgin coconut oil on the way here and I was eager to go back to the discussion.
"Until the government or anyone gets these kids off the streets into proper homes, I'll share what I can spare."
"Hindi naman mauubos yang mga `yan, eh."
I didn't want to join the argument. But as I looked, the young boy unwrapped the sandwich like it's the highlight of his day. He caught me looking. I couldn't hear from inside but he said, "Salamat po." I pried my eyes away and looked at the E. Rodriguez Ave. traffic outside. The weather was bleak--a welcome break from months of dry heat.
Two students walked by and gave their baon pizza to the boy. Then another street kid came. They shared the loot. I noticed both of them wore over-sized T-shirts that said "Like Mike for Mayor." Another customer from Burger King stood up and gave the kids a plastic cup of water each. The kids sat along the ramp in an instant picnic. They carried plastic bags filled with empty C2 Tea bottles. The guard found them and shooed them away. They quickly gathered their plastic bottles and food and left.
I wish I took Jojo's advice and looked away. But why should I? I'm no better person than those boys. They are, like me, human beings. I am, like them, a sinner in need of a Savior. The guard was only doing his job. If God has a purpose for everyone on this earth, what He have in mind for these children?
Later, the boy came up again to our glass again and begged for my large Coke. I didn't bother to look away. I took my last sip of Coke. The boy can have the rest. The manager came out and chased him away.
The ramp was empty afterward, devoid of interesting life to watch.
This crazy little love affair with writing
I love reading writers who are exact: they use the exact words/phrases to convey exactly what they mean. They are deliberate in their expression and intentional in their word choice. When they are equivocal, they are decidedly equivocal.
I love it when I'm able to write this way.
I love it when I am able to write, period.
Here are some things writers said about writing:
Not to lie, ever, in writing a novel, that is my goal. To keep pushing for what feels like the ultimate truth. I don't have an elaborate conscious sense of the truth, so much as a sense of what is genuine. I write in order to exist; not to feel like a monster. I write to be human. ~ Anne Rice
The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin
If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it. ~Toni Morrison
Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very;" your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. ~Mark Twain
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. ~William Wordsworth
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov
Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. ~Anton Chekhov
If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster. ~Isaac Asimov
The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes. ~André Gide, Journals, 1894
Every author in some way portrays himself in his works, even if it be against his will. ~Goethe
I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody's head. ~John Updike
If you want to get rich from writing, write the sort of thing that's read by persons who move their lips when they're reading to themselves. ~Don Marquis
Ink on paper is as beautiful to me as flowers on the mountains; God composes, why shouldn't we? ~Terri Guillemets
Write down the thoughts of the moment. Those that come unsought for are commonly the most valuable. ~Francis Bacon
Be obscure clearly. ~E.B. White
What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that a writer is working when he's staring out of the window. ~Burton Rascoe
Writers are not just people who sit down write. They hazard themselves. Every time you compose a book your composition of yourself is stake. ~E.L. Doctorow
How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live. ~Henry David Thoreau, Journal, 19 August 1851
Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne
When I write, I'm conscious of creating a world in which I want to live and breathe; and when violence inevitably enters into that world, when things go wrong, when bad things happen, I don't feel I can fully control it anymore than I can accept it. I strive for authenticity and courage. ~ Anne Rice
I love it when I'm able to write this way.
I love it when I am able to write, period.
Here are some things writers said about writing:
Not to lie, ever, in writing a novel, that is my goal. To keep pushing for what feels like the ultimate truth. I don't have an elaborate conscious sense of the truth, so much as a sense of what is genuine. I write in order to exist; not to feel like a monster. I write to be human. ~ Anne Rice
The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin
If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it. ~Toni Morrison
Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very;" your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. ~Mark Twain
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. ~William Wordsworth
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov
Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. ~Anton Chekhov
If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster. ~Isaac Asimov
The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes. ~André Gide, Journals, 1894
Every author in some way portrays himself in his works, even if it be against his will. ~Goethe
I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody's head. ~John Updike
If you want to get rich from writing, write the sort of thing that's read by persons who move their lips when they're reading to themselves. ~Don Marquis
Ink on paper is as beautiful to me as flowers on the mountains; God composes, why shouldn't we? ~Terri Guillemets
Write down the thoughts of the moment. Those that come unsought for are commonly the most valuable. ~Francis Bacon
Be obscure clearly. ~E.B. White
What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that a writer is working when he's staring out of the window. ~Burton Rascoe
Writers are not just people who sit down write. They hazard themselves. Every time you compose a book your composition of yourself is stake. ~E.L. Doctorow
How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live. ~Henry David Thoreau, Journal, 19 August 1851
Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne
When I write, I'm conscious of creating a world in which I want to live and breathe; and when violence inevitably enters into that world, when things go wrong, when bad things happen, I don't feel I can fully control it anymore than I can accept it. I strive for authenticity and courage. ~ Anne Rice
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