• Essays,  Writer's Cafe

    Crooked, Beautiful Things

    I used to dream of capturing beautiful things when I was a kid. I think that was one of the main reasons why I wanted to be a filmmaker before I even knew what it was called. I wanted to capture the sunlight on someone’s hair or the flowers on a pretty white house’s windowsill. But growing up I realized that beauty wasn’t enough, I wanted the energy, the feelings that radiated from those images. I wanted images that had a life of its own, that had stories to tell. And this is what I realized while I waded through teenage insecurities, adolescent angst and adulthood – life won’t always…

  • Essays,  Writer's Cafe

    A Thanksgiving for All Seasons

    Along with the coming of autumn, I feel like being reborn. After a slow, and painful death, the past four years seem long gone and I am shedding the remnants of my past . The starting over is always a struggle – one I often forget while living through the daily drudgery. Even sans Turkey dinner and cranberry sauce, I still have so much to be thankful for. I am thankful to know that there are kinder men, kinder than the men who cry  and tell you they love you then betray you the moment your plane takes off. I am thankful that I have finally allowed myself the opportunity…

  • Essays,  Fiction,  Writer's Cafe

    Something Salty

    I stared at my phone, wondering how you got my number. But I guess it didn’t matter, you were already asking questions with a sense of urgency you did not deserve. You asked, could we meet? anywhere! It was all up to me. You just needed some answers. Closure. I try to scan through my memories. The last time you ever crossed my mind was two months ago. I was in the office kitchen, looking out the window, waiting for the water to come to a boil. I thought then “wow, I haven’t even thought of him or found any reminders of him. It’s almost as if he never existed.” It was amazing to feel that…

  • Essays,  Nostalgia Pieces,  Writer's Cafe

    An Urban Life

    When I am back in Manila I will live in an old dingy two-storied wooden apartment, with a boyfriend who doesn’t mind if I model clothes or make-up. We would have pets, maybe a dog or a goldfish and a turtle. On Sundays we’ll while away our time watering and talking to our plants, lying on the couch and feeling the warm air waft through our dusty windows. We will shut our laptops and tablets, hide them in the closet and take out dozens of books to read in the afternoon. We will light incense and bow to the universe, offer food to the gods and munch on them afterwards.…

  • Essays,  Writer's Cafe

    Do Not Pour Oil on Water

    I am water. I flow freely and take the form of anything that tries to shape me. I seep through little cracks and holes and go as far as the currents take me. He is oil. And although he can take any form he wants, he is closed off from anything outside his element. Water cannot permeate through him. But through anything else, water can. And so, maybe this is how we are. We live amiably, side by side. We touch but never intertwine.