Facing the fears and blurts

I reread the essay from Chapter 1 of The Artist's Way called Your Ally Within: Affirmative Weapons. You may be familiar with this work, where you write "I, (your name), am a brilliant and prolific artist" ten times in a row.

Then you list down the blurts that the inner censor brings up. You also do some detective work to see who in your past planted that specific negative thought into your belief system.

And then you proceed to dismantle it by converting the blurt into an affirmation, and using it as a ready weapon, so that any time the negative thoughts haunt again, we focus on the affirmations instead. (I did the exercise up to listing the negative blurts and detecting the culprit responsible for implanting these notions into my inner censor.)

In Patsy Rodenburg's book, "The Second Circle", she describes an exercise called Facing the Fear. You lie on your back with your legs propped up on a facing chair. The chair should be at the right height to comfortably support your calf muscles, so that your thighs can stay unclamped. Put a thin cushion under your head.

This position frees the breath to go deep and low in the body, and allows some unacknowledged emotions to be freed. You may cry, or laugh as the emotion is allowed expression.

Breathing deeply, you speak your fears with a clear voice. "I am frightened of..."

I did Patsy's exercise with the blurts, just openly speaking them into the air. I felt vulnerable, but strangely supported. I kept on with the exercise for as long as I needed. And soon, affirmations came to mind as I continued to breathe deeply, dismantling and nullifying the negative blurts.

When I was ready, I slowly got up and wrote these affirmations into my notebook. What a release to deal with fears this way.

Thank you for listening.

Green

I kinda feel sore because I heard of some rather good news for a fellow actor who got a plum role. He deserves it. He's good-looking, young, talented. But I felt a pang of envy. I felt my life to be a series of missed opportunities, so that instead of being happy for a colleague, I felt bitter and sad for my own plight.

Ah! This in spite of a Shakespeare this year, and Sky King next year. I should learn to be better, but all I did was admit this pain to God and cry my heart out.

I am shown some habits that I need to address and arrest if I want a better trajectory for my career. And much, much, prayer and hard work!

Your enemy within: core negative beliefs

I am rereading Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way: a spiritual path to higher creativity. In one of the essays, Julia lists 20 fears that mask as core negative beliefs.

In reviewing the sample list of commonly held negative core beliefs to "I can't be a successful, prolific, creative artist because..." I found one that felt especially true to me at the moment. Number 13. I will never have any real money. (Death is the Number 13 Card in the Tarot, and I pulled one recently and it was reversed...meaning I am stuck on an old issue. So this may well be it.)

I can't be a successful, prolific, creative artist because I will never have any real money.

Julia advised listening to blurts and converting them to affirmations, and interestingly, just last Saturday, I was at a Brahma Kumaris meditation center where we did exactly this exercise, and I felt good. Now I needed the exercise of prayer again. That as an enlivening session and a story for another day.

So, I took that core negative belief (number thirteen in Julia's list), a pen, and a piece of paper, and wrote for ten minutes. "Creator God, Eternal God, One True God, Dad... I am afraid of poverty. I am afraid of becoming impoverished. I am afraid of having no money to pay for bills and obligations. Please provide for me. Please comfort me. Dad, I feel that this is all my fault that we have no money, that you are somehow punishing me. But this is old beliefs about you. I don't believe in that god anymore, that was punitive and exacting and harsh. Please help me have faith..." and so on until my timer went off.

I like this exercise of wrestling a negative belief in prayer. I think it works for me.

photo credit BelieversChurchLeander.com

Writing practice. Feather. 90 seconds.

Feather, float. We need each other to flee. Fly away from here where we carry the weight of the world to the mountain alps where I know Miguel, my mountain lion, waits for me with his paws sure and steady, heartbeat echoing through eras and generations of several incarnations until we are truly joined together. So fly me away, bear me away

photo credit WiseGeek.com

Writing practice. Hair. 10 minutes.

When I die I want to be buried in your hair as I am buried now—my face burrowed deep in your neck, smelling the sweat mixed with the scent of shampoo. All the people I ever loved will snip a bit of their hair, entrust it in an envelope and slip in a short good-bye note, things you always wanted to say but thought you live forever—and in these notes, curly, straight, Asian black, blond, kinky, brunette, red, bleached, conditioned, gelled, waxed, I shall be buried in and then give birth to a tree. A tree. So make sure I swallow a seed deep in my tummy when I die. Tell the embalsamador not to take that away. I will burst forth, alive again, after ten years, a young sapling tree, my roots in your hair, nourished by your cells, and I will see the sun again. Yes, this is how I want it for me. Please, please be kind to me, to this tree-wannabe, while I still have legs to dance on, lungs to scream a song out of, and hair on the roots of my scalp. Please be nice. Water me gently and talk to me, making sure I flourish, that I bear fruit for the hungry. Now you do this for me. Promise me. Malunggay tree, so my leaves be full of vitamins C and E. Or mango, my fruit gold and juicy. Come on, help me decide. Star apple? Always in season, tall as grandpa can climb, though he never let me follow. Or the duhat of my childhood, which was home to mischievous duendes. But if you are kind you can make a wish, and they'll help you. Lost cat, lost necklace, lost jewelry, lost sock. Lost mind, lost brother or spouse or car. The duende will help you find it, if you are kind. Put a note on my Tree-Being "All Kind Duendes Welcome" Come in, take shelter, burrow into my torso timber, my arm branches, and tickle my leg roots. Come, let us be of help to the living humans forever lost, forever crying for their lost

photo credit FoxyIdea.com

Writing practice. Umbrella. 5 minutes.

You are still a necessity, an enduring appendage, as no app on any smartphone has ever replaced you yet. And so I write an ode to the umbrella I lost in the woods. Your underside was dark to absorb the light reflected from the pavement. You took that in and not threw it back at me. But your cover was shimmery two-toned blue/purple, and it threw back the sun's rays at the Universe. I need you, and my polarized sunglasses, and my sunblock. And I need you now that the monsoon has wet the streets every afternoon. Be my lover, umbrella. Marry me and I promise to dry you out completely and fold you neatly after every use. I promise to chase after you when you are tossed about by the wind. And I promise, most of all, to extol your fine, protective qualities to all I meet, and surely to strike umbrella-envy and inferiorella complex to them. This I swear, I do, so I shall go back to the woods where I lost you

photo credit TopNature.xyz

Writing practice. Screwdriver. 90 seconds

SCREWDRIVER. I wanna screw you, taxi driver. How hot you are, dark skin, playful smoky voice, playful, jovial free spirit that has roamed the city limits. I want to have sex with you here. Had I known that your jokes were flirty references, that you were giving me permission to unzip your pants, that they were signals for me I would have asked you to park in a dark corner and

Writing practice. Dentist. 10 minutes.

I never wanted to be a dentist, tasting through their nostrils the breath of cavities and phlegm, bloody root canals, halitosis and tartar mixed with saliva sauce. Why would anyone care that much about teeth? Or cats? Or cars? But not about me? You left me. We used to make love every Sunday afternoon in your apartment above the dentist's clinic, with the ugly name. Dr Can Tooth, something or other. Some bad clinic name we laughed about each time we saw it. But Richard lays now where I used to beside you. Richard reeks of beer through his sweat pores. And you deserve each other because each time I kissed you, my love allowed me to love the cigarette on your tongue, and the nicotine in your gums. I did not gag but tasted fully your deep, and the stale coffee in the back of your mouth. I loved it. I loved you. I loved the inside of your mouth. Loved every inch of it. I loved the inside of your cheeks, the warmth there. I cleansed your mouth every Sunday afternoon and Richard stinks of beer. Still I remember your sad smile, your teeth that are stubbornly whiter than mine though I brush after every meal with baking soda, sometimes even after there's no meal. The taste of your body fluids down my throat that the dentist needs to clean because some get trapped between my teeth or the underside of my tongue. Keep it. "Leave it alone," I tell the doc. "Doc, that's the only souvenir of Jeff. Of our Sundays together, lying together, naked, a tumble of legs and arms, before Richard came to take my place. Don't take those away, Doc. Let them fill the sugared cavities of my aching heart. Thank you, Doc. Thank you for understanding. Has your heart ever been broken, Doc?" And the dentist leaned a little closer over me as I laid out on his chair, helpless, defenseless, and whispered a secret. "Sunday afternoons," the dentist said, "The clinic's closed. There are no patients and I am alone. I take some of the morphine so I forget the pain." I understand you, Doc. I understand you, the pain. But the morphine is only gum-deep. Gum-deep. And my heart is made of calcified teeth that no anaesthetic can reach. I am here, I smile, teeth white. I tell you, I can smile at your memory now, Jeff, from my heart. This is true, and this is deep. Deeper than the drill, the mirror, the light, the laughter, the mucus of all the pus-filled hate once had for you. I can live now with the joy of being strapped to a chair

Writing practice. Bathroom Mirror. 5 minutes.

Dirty, grimy, I will lick you clan and brush my tongue and spit the toothpaste froth back at ya never liked how you look like fat lips shiny shimmery skin sheen of tropical unworthy, thinning hair, and eyes, eyes lost to the soul of dead at birth, why are you here, then? Don't you hear the siren sound? Step outside, the birds are back in the trees after the rain. Poor dog left out through the thunderstorm still whining from the pain of neglect. Hate them, hate them neighbours, cruel to dogs and the air and plants. I will unscrew you, bathroom mirror, I will. I will carry you over my shoulder, and greet my neighbor with you smashing kiss on their forehead till they bleed to death on the streets and the garbage truck comes to run them over for good measure. Litter. Thank God.

Writing practice. Lily Pad. 90 seconds.

It is on a lily pad that I will travel the world, and travel time, and it is on the lily pad that I will swift upwards to give each star a kiss. I will lick a guava and melt it on my tongue, there to wait for eternity

Writing practice. Crash. 10 minutes.

Crash! Love that sound, like Ash, and Bash, and Brash, words that need to exist in this world obsessed with outward beauty and appearances, the fake, lice and lies. In this world, community, people, give me instead the ashen, the bashen, the brashen. Give me the crash alien and I will climb up a tree like Totoro, with an umbrella hooked on my knee I shall be there, up there and do a vrksasana. Spine aligned, crown of the head touching the sky, straight leg rooted to the ground, bent knee pointed east to the morning sun, and this is my prayer to all the trees of the world: be resilient! Grow! Humans love to destroy, but you keep on growing, sprouting, open your leaves, sink down your roots, for you truly hold the earth together. Crust ticklers, grippers, huggers of the surface of this earth. Reach to the core where metals crash and burn and bring out a vein of gold. Gold. Breathe it out and I shall be happy, worship you, joyful and happy. I shall climb down, and find the next tree. Find the coconut, acacia, malunggay, mangga. Repeat the prayer and the pose for each tree. Humans, come, come and partake the fruits of life. Eat the leaves. Brew them for their tea is health to your lungs and liver. Last night a dragonfly furiously beat its wings against my window screen. I tried to blow it away, but it was only attracted more by my humane breath. I opened the screen, lifted it off where the screw had come loose from the wall and in it came, crashing, attacking cobwebs and terrifying spiders. Terrifying me. Until at last it perched first on my face towel, and then on my daughter's school bag. First grader, age seven. Then it cleaned itself. It was a good omen. I am terrified of roaches. Want to boric them to death. But dragonfly wings I want to have

Writing practice. Sky. Five minutes.

Sky, I reach for you up and down. You burn me from New Zealand to Hawaii. Where to go? How to follow that star that calls to me and gives refreshing water? What gifts to bring the Babe of Bethlehem? Born in blood to shed blood. Lots of guts, and I am here, fully here, breathing, shallow, curved back, wanting nothing more than to curl into a ball in a deep hole in the earth, for I have nothing but my gems, my crystal fingers, and doughnuts. Anne Rice wanted doughnuts! A true New Orleander. What do you call people from New Orleans? And that pastry that Tiana bakes in The Princess and the Frog? Sky, lead me out of here into New Orleans, so I can walk its dangerous and mysterious streets, paranoid of voodoo and tourist traps, to touch a myrtle or chestnut, kiss it, wrap my arms around it. That, my True North Star, point me to the South. Australia, New Zealand, India. The Ganges and your holiness. Lead me South and I shall stalk you like a cat, climb up a pole, launch into mid-space. Ride a broom to the moon and back and say, that yes, for once, not in this form, but in feline, I was finally able to reach you.

Protecting the artist child within

Friends, I am re-reading essays from TAW here and there. Today I encountered a funny quote from a blog called David At Raptitude. He wrote: "No one is a grownup at everything." I laughed when I saw the truth in his off-hand sentence. We can't demand too much of ourselves. We can't insist that we look like responsible adults to everyone in the world.

What I am also realizing is that on the other hand, I can insist on looking like an adult to my inner artist child. I can be an adult and take care of my inner child. So, while The Artist's Way is aimed at recovering and healing the child within, it is our Inner Parent that does that work.

We can't be grownups at everything, but we can be grownups towards our art.

Shadow Artists

I am reviewing some key essays in TAW, although not formally going through the book in a strict twelve-week basis.

Having reread the essay Shadow Artists, I realize humbly that all writers on this earth have social, economic, familial, and geographic realities that we must face, deal with, contend, engage every day--and yet still make art. It's a humbling realization, because now I can no longer resent this or that artist who just happened to be born to supportive parents who paid for acting classes or dance lessons or a singing coach, and drove their child to and from rehearsals. I am not that actor, although I am friends with actors who have that reality.

I have used resentment far too long as a block. I imagined that there is an ideal artist's life and that I don't have it, and that is why I am not successful or prolific. It's a victim mentality and it has crippled me far too long. To let go of it, I need to forgive myself for embracing that block, and to gently let it go.

All artists have their lives and realities. I am an artist with my own life and reality. It's not always easy, the path is often rocky and dirty, but this is my life, and in it I can and must create the art that wants to be created, because all artists before me, and around me, create in the lives they are in.

No more putting off creating until I get the fantasy artist life that I envisioned as ideal. In this life that I am in now, in whatever reality, I can create. I think this is what Julia meant when she said it is audacity that creates artists, not just talent. In the midst of my realities, I need to be audacious and create art, let go of resentment, and embrace the rich life I am given: I am a husband to a loving wife, I am a father to a spirited artist daughter. I did not finish school. I love reading and fiction. I have skills I need to learn, and will learn if I put in the time. My parents are middle-aged, and no, they were not supportive of my career choice, but that's just that. I can still create my art here and now.

Thanks for listening.

Word from my editor

I received an e-mail from my editor today that's very encouraging news. She said she's been going through my manuscript and has done extensive work. Her workflow is: she'll email me one new chapter a day for me to work on. This way I won't be overwhelmed.

I like that she said she believes in the project. Her major critique for the first chapter, though, is that it is weak and does not serve the purposes of what a first chapter should do for a good novel.

And so, I am going to raid through my novels tonight and read all first chapters--just the first chapters--to see what is missing in my work. I am stoked for this!

Reviewing Becoming A Writer

It seems I am almost always putting myself or signing myself up for classes and courses of different kinds. I am reviewing Becoming A Writer by Dorothea Brande, and I am quite bored with it already, having read it for so many times before. I feel, however, that it is a necessary precursor to my next round on The Artist's Way, which I want to undertake quite alone. I plan to take the TAW Trilogy in succession, so that's 36 weeks total.

I am afraid that I am on the verge of depression. If I can't act, if I can't write, then who am I? I must be doing something creative. Or else I'll be depressed.

After the trilogy I want to continue to The Right To Write and Natalie Goldberg's books, doing one essay a day, but that's nine months ahead. God, help me.

I did invite God into the process this time. God in Christ's terms. God according to the Anointed One. I need help so.

Writing about what I don't know

As many of you know I have been, for about a year now, working on a Christian novel for OMF Literature. It's been a fun process of monthly gatherings, story proposals, sending early drafts and receiving feedback.

Now my deadline looms in a few hours for a complete manuscript that has the stamp of the-best-I-could-do at this point in my life.

My story is about infidelity. About a husband and a wife whose marriage was shaken by an affair. I know that God would lead them to forgiveness, that God would lead them to Jesus. I just don't know how. And I can't skip that part. I can't magically jump to the ending. I have to write how the characters got there.

And I have absolutely no idea.

So, I asked God. God impressed upon my heart that I have to leave it up to Him now, because this is the part I don't know, we usually don't know. How God works behind the scenes. Or how God's heart beats. That's the part I really need to know so I can write about it.

So it's 4:30 p.m., and as a final attempt at research to the grandest mystery of all: the heart of God, I open my Bible and read Hosea. Hopefully the Holy Spirit informs me how God feels about infidelity. And about unfaithful spouses. And hopefully that I finish this novel with what, at this point, only God knows.

God, help!

October 2014

Some memories...

I auditioned for a play but received the sad news a few days later. The dreaded, "Thank you for auditioning. Unfortunately…"

And then, the unexpected, "Would you consider teaching an acting class for the cast?"

I said Yes before I could think about it. What? No room for bitterness? Am I St. Rico all of a sudden. No. I didn’t think. I just plunged.

I am still at a fight with our old landlady, although now my claws are sheathed and my fangs unbared. I think I would rather try this fight some other way. And the suggestion, the brilliant idea, came as I prayed, and then sat in stillness. It may have been a whisper from God.

I had a wonderful email from my Dad today about how his two biggest bosses, the ultimate honchos, asked him to stay longer at the company, that they liked his work, that he is precise, clean, and hard working. Dad told me that on his deathbed I should tell him a version of that story, too: mine. I dunno if I’m ready to plunge into full-time corporate employment yet. What I really want to do now is…

To read novels. And to write one. And in the process, become a better actor. Sure, I won’t neglect my daily yoga. It keeps me limber and my breath capacity in check. But I am, as of now, an out-of-work actor/writer. How could I impress my Dad?

Veck and Dana went to Propee’s birthday. Propee is a giant violet whale and is the mascot of Propan TLC multivitamins for kids. Every year they throw a giant bash, and each year bigger than the last. Veck told me when they got home that we didn’t win the 32-inch LED TV at the raffle.

But I was more interested to know that Tara and Arkin were in the corporate show, singing and dancing and acting. Was there a twinge of envy? I’m not sure. I’m not a musical theatre actor. I don’t have a singing voice.

But if I don’t even pass auditions for straight plays, what am I? If all I’m asked is to teach acting workshops, have I become that joke: Those who can’t, teach?

Still, today, after yoga, meditation and writing, I get all this story ideas swimming in my head. I plan to read more books this week, and maybe trick myself into writing.

Tomorrow I meet with NxtGen to rehearse for teaching acting demo for CCF Makati. Hope the weather will be clement, but the real question I want to ask myself is: "What do I want to do with my life?"

I want to write fiction and act on the stage. Next question: how? I need to conquer my own cowardice. Again, how?

I guess I have the rest of my life to find out. Thanks for listening.

More on the morning pages

A lot of morning pages really involves preparing the body, priming the mind. If you listened to Julia's video talk on the morning pages, you'll notice she said that the simple act of dumping negativity on the page clears the mind so they don't eddy through your mind for the rest of the day. I agree with that completely.

Morning pages is a great clearing exercise, but it really does more than that. See, what about days when you feel really clear, and the mind is silent? Do you skip the pages? Julia's structure is three pages (not back-to-back), so what about those days when there's just too much to write about. Can you do four? Five?

Julia herself admitted to writing beyond three pages at certain moments of her life when she needed more guidance than usual, when the looming problem just overshadowed her sense of peace and serenity. But she has also always advised sticking to three pages.

She also advises writing them by hand. Not using your smartphone or iPad or keyboard, but by hand. I do them by hand, but I won't stop you if you would rather use your computer. Each has its own separate benefits. Typewriting is faster, but sometimes, if you misspell a word, MS Word, or whatever software you use, will alert you via a squiggly red line. Now the point of the morning pages is not to care about grammar or spelling. The point is just to let it all out, and write while the inner editor is still too groggy to comment.

I ask you to experiment with the morning pages. They are an effective form of meditation. It forces you to be honest. If you gripe on continually for several days for three pages each on a particular person or situation, somehow the pages have a way of illuminating a perfect solution for you. So the morning pages have a way of changing one's life, three pages at a time. And often the advice you get from the morning pages are exactly what you need to do, even though they seem sometimes a bit too far-fetched or off the wall.

Tell me what you think of the morning pages. Are you willing to try writing them? Have you been writing them but fallen out of habit? Try it for twenty-one days. Set your alarm clock a little earlier than usual so you won't be late for work or school, then write three pages, then stop. take a breath, and then go on with your day.

Every day preparation tools #1: Morning pages

I want to start a series talking about some preparatory exercises that I aim to do every day that help my acting. Notice that I say I aim to do them daily. I don't. To do them daily and regularly is my ideal. If I fail to do them, I feel bad, out of place, but I've learnt not to berate myself when I fail to do my morning pages. As Natalie Goldberg sagely said, "No one lives to her full potential."

Julia Cameron talks about her version of the morning pages here. For her, it's three pages, stream-of-consciousness, first thing in the morning. Then the next morning, write another three. No one is supposed to read your pages. They are supposed to be a psychological safe place for you to write freely about anything and everything going through your head as soon as you wake up. Your complaints about your boss, your worries about your spouse or child, your joy at life's surprises, everything has a place within the space of three pages.

Do the morning pages whether you feel like it or not, whether you think they're working for you or not, whether you love them or not. Just get up, reach for your pen and notebook, and write. Write on bond paper size (8 1/2 by 11) or a large notebook. Wake up earlier if you have to, or else you'll have to catch up and write during lunch hour or on the commute. But first thing in the morning is best.

Do not reread your morning pages, at least for two months. Try this exercise. I'll continue to write more about the morning pages on succeeding posts.

How to lose tact in thirty seconds

I remember being at a reading once some time ago. I couldn't quite understand the play, and I did not have the opportunity to read it beforehand. The playwright/director emailed it to everyone in the cast but for some Gmail malfunction I didn't get it. So, in effect, I was reading it cold, though I wasn't the only one among that reading cast doing so.

After the reading, there was applause, I felt the excitement of fellow actors, although, because of the half-hearted reading of less committed actors in the circle, I lost got lost in some bits of the plot. Anyhow, the good thing about all this is, I have a copy of the script now and I can read through it again and do my analysis.

The reason the playwright/director called us for this reading is that he is also hoping that we shall become the workshop cast, and eventually, the actual cast when his play gets staged. This is exciting. I'm not the most in demand of actors and so I don't always get to originate a role, and the one I got assigned to read is one hefty, block, mammoth, boulder of a role. I mean it.

Now in that reading one fellow actor commented that the character assigned to them (OED says I can use them now as a singular, and I want to sorta camouflage this actor's gender) was phlegmatic, and if allowed, the actor would like to make certain changes.

My thoughts, though unexpressed because I never stick my nose in other people's businesses:

a) it's going to be workshopped anyway, so why make decisions based on the first reading? You are given time to explore the character, make informed choices, try them out at rehearsal. Why dismiss the character already as "phlegmatic?" Did you want more stage time? Exposure? Is that serving the story or just your own career as an actor?

b) that's really one way to insult a playwright, to call their character a non-mover, as if you alone know objective truth and that's just not your opinion. Is it not better to ask the playwright if he thinks the character does nothing in the play, really, at all?

c) adjusting a character to suit your own personal judgments and limitations as an actor hinders any growth opportunity for the actor, period. The theater is the greatest classroom where we learn from the playwright's words and the character's eyes just what it means to be human in this world, but to avoid exploring the playwright's intentions and vision for the play and the characters, to pass a summary prejudiced indictment at a character assigned to you as a phlegmatic, to refuse to explore possibilities within the text without needless tampering with it, is for me plain laziness and egotism.

The five of swords in the tarot warns us that the need to win and be proven right may be self-gratifying, and that's all. It may just be ego-based stubbornness. I write this bit about the tarot's advice because in all these things I may be wrong, I may have misunderstood my fellow actor's intentions, the playwright/director has been to my knowledge cool with it. And it's not my business.

I just have more respect for actors who respect other people's works, and not just fellow actors', but playwrights' and directors' opinions.

Something brave

I did something brave last Friday, 8 January. On Saturday, the next day, I was passed out and depressed. On Sunday, we went to church and I felt encouraged. Today was day one of Christian crash diet, aka annual prayer and fasting week after the Yule feasts of Noche Buena and Media Noche.

But let me tell you what I did last Friday. I sent my application for scholarship in the Actor's Company program of Tanghalang Pilipino. Many years ago I auditioned for AC as well but did not make it. Well, I felt ashamed trying out again, and indeed was warned by a well-meaning and well-loved teacher that now is not the best time to join AC, because of internal issues that I am not aware of. I thought, well, to submit an application does not mean joining. It means you express your wish to be shortlisted for auditions, and you need to pass that screening to actually be asked to join. So, I decided to lower the stakes and send in my application.

I asked another acting teacher whom I met in 2013 for a letter of recommendation. I must say I loved what she wrote. It's something for me to read and re-read whenever I feel the need for a voice of confidence, or when I feel low on energy and high on fear. In a sense, it was a permission slip for me to pursue acting. I don't know why my psyche needed that, but I admit, I do!

The difficult part was not printing out photos or my theatre credits resume. The hard part was drafting an application letter. I could have easily spewed out an informal "Please accept this letter as my intent to apply for scholarship..." but instead I wrote a three-page letter telling how much I love the theater. That night I dreamt I was shitting in a toilet with no walls. In truth, I felt that exposed and vulnerable, and I repeated I am allowed to be here and submit an application many, many times in my head while I walked up to the Tanghalang Pilipino office.

What was I afraid of? I was afraid of what people will say. Why apply now? What body of work have you? What right have you to apply? You can't sing, much less dance. Are you in it for the money, because you're barking up the wrong tree, mister.

And then I thought, who are these people? And are they really saying these things? I imagine these people to be other theater actors, but wouldn't they be too busy with rehearsals to be thinking about me at all?

I also was reading Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, which clarion cry is Courage! Creative Living without Fear! So, there, looking like on pins and needles, I gave my portfolio to the girl in the TP office. Now it's prayer and fasting week at church, and I do hope to lose some fat around my waist, and that my application be looked upon with favorable light by the folks over at TP AC.

At any rate, whether or not I get shortlisted, I wanted that brave act (where I submitted in spite of my fears and insecurities and hesitations) as a signal to the Universe that I love acting, and I want to be acting throughout 2016.

I haven't really celebrated that act of unusual courage. I honestly didn't know I had it in me. I did eat chicken shawarma with bhasmati rice, which I love. But I can't talk about food now because I'll salivate.

Wish me all the best!