Learning Curve

I couldn’t remember exactly when the writing bug bit me. All I know is, whenever I read komiks ( I spell it with a ‘K’ simply because what was available to me then  were all local talents – writers and artists – from our own publishing, to use the  word ‘comics’ would mean those Marvel and DC that are almost entirely out of my  reach back then) and I would spend my hard earned money, and some ‘kupit’ on  all the komiks I can rent, because my mother does not allow komiks in our  household, with the exception of Liwayway Magazine which usually carries 2-three  illustrated stories per issue. I would splurge on Holiday, Pinoy, Pilipino Komiks  like a fiend. I’d follow titles like Vic Poblete’s Devil Car or anything ilustrated by  Clem Rivera, Javinal and Alex Nino, which, by then has been rare. By the time I  went to high school, I explored the classic illustrated stories – Robinson Crusoe,  Swiss Family Robinson, The Hound Of Baskervilles, all illustrated by our local  artists, which led me to the dark, dusty section of our library that no one really  bothers to go to. It’s therewhere I discovered a tattered copy of The Lord of the  Rings, Flowers for Algernon, The Tommyknockers and an even more grizzled  copy of Diary of a Madman. Continue reading


After a while, I get to thinking all that has come to pass. I get this way when I walk. A sort of locomotive thought unable to stop once the resolve to just take the stride and the feet kept switching places before one another, towards any destination I have in mind.

  • This or maybe I just don’t have enough money for a bus fare. Which work both ways since at these times I do a lot of pondering.

Like turning your head from whence you came but moving forward:

The love and affection, freely given,

  • This often starts then whole thought engine revving.

The songs sung with wanton sincerity,

The capturing of life and ideas into detailed ink depictions on paper,

  • Of course I have decided on this long ago but took some time taking off, what, with all the financial inadequacies that has befallen my so-called artistic career.

The hurt sustained by those we love,

The pain we gained from those we loved,

  • Truth is, up until now I still think I was adopted, even with all the evident hereditary characteristics present in me as by my siblings, still I feel very different from my brothers. I even feel that I share a kind of Thor-Loki relationship with one, but I’m not sure which one- the brute or the prankster.

The trust professed and destroyed,

All the trappings of a feeling human whom we pictured ourselves to be, those whose beliefs in a higher power, whom we are supposed to follow without questions, but whose wrath may soon come upon us in fiery brimstone and searing horror. The sainthood our forbears tried to instill on our childish minds, feeble thoughts of tne afterlife may be a reward for our suffering…

  • And the idea of worshipping a wrathful, vengeful godhead is absurd. If that is true, then by no means the devil is much more agreeable.


We suffer for our passion, we suffer for our art. Continue reading


This is how it feels to be abandoned.

I mean literally left to my own devices, down and out, caught between a rock and a hard place sort of thing. I could picture in my mind Mick Jagger singing those lines.

Abandoned [adjective] {u’ban-dund}

  1. Empty of people and unused, not maintained by the owner or inhabitants
  2. Free from constraint

Nobody’s fault but mine, as Led Zeppelin so eloquently expressed. Because nowadays, the only comfort I can come by is the music and stories that run in my head. And the movies I watch over and over, even doing marathons whenever the opportunity arose.

My recent move from one place to another, the nomadic form of existence which I have come to know intimately for several years now, is tiring and costly. And Papa Was  A Roling Stone , from a more recent cover by George Michael comes to mind. But it’s not that all poetic nor romantic. I n real life, the line “wherever I lay my hat is home” is not something nobody can appreciate. Moving from one place to another means it didn’t work out. And quite frankly, depressing up to a point, because I don’t normally give in to wallowing on failures and pitfalls. And living off of friends and family is something I am loathe to do, but swallowing that bitter pride has made me succumb to anyway. For my defense, I don’t really feel good about having to borrow, and ask, leach whatever morsel that comes off my friendship or from my kin. It’s a sad  state. All because in the middle of all these I still believe in me making it with my art and stories.

Abandon [verb] {u’ban-dun}

  1. Forsake, leave behind
  2. Give up with the intent of never claiming again
  3. Leave behind empty; move out of
  4. Stop maintaining or insisting on ideas or claims
  5. Leave someone who needs or counts on you; leave in the lurch

And this is how it feels to be abandoned. Castaway but without the shipwreck.

And Wilson.

In my times of near-drowning, I was able to create some good designs, works that could have earned me enough to get by for several weeks, but no, I gave them away for free. A previous employer, whom I thought was cool and eccentric turned out to be just another employer, with weird thoughts of altruism. Doing everything in the workplace on minimum wage is okay, but to take the blame for things I don’t even know about just doesn’t make it right. Water under the bridge and all that crap but the memory do smart and leave a mark, like a rash you can’t help but scratch till the skin is red.  So don’t tread on me. Continue reading