One Moment

One Moment on Velum 11″x17″ pen,ink & brush

 

Taking a break from my drawing and writing, and yes I have been doing something worthy of the time, and not just trolling the interwebs.

Spur of the moment.

Took a fresh sheet of Velum and just let go of the self imposed restrictions of deviating from the task at hand, which is finishing my first graphic novel, and just draw what my heart wants to. No hesitation this time, I put to paper my most selfish, self-centered, gratuitous memory, imagined or otherwise and what unravelled just made me want to finish what could have taken days to do, not stopping for fear of losing this particular secret memory, taking each small detail into mind that could have been perfectly captured with a camera, but with a more emotional attachment, something I never thought wrong,

Learning To Fly

At best it was a horrid day.

Not because of bad things that happened, no there wasn’t. But I am quite sure elsewhere, worse things did. The day was gloomy from the dark clouds and the threat of heavy rainfall was evident. But that was just it, just a threat. All day long it was sweaty and hot. The perspiration that dried at the base of my neck has become gritty salt when I noticed.

But I was in a good mood. Rarely do I get sad or weary.

There is still that novelty of learning new things. And I am learning a lot. When I woke up from a very long night of studying favorite authors’ works, my own inking progress and even more research, my process has turned to seeing and reading and listening.

I’ve had a signed copy of Vic Poblete’s Marco Piolo and amidst the vast stories and novels the man has published, mostly vague recollections of stories read from my youth, this particular komiks is the one that has taught me more than an interview with a person might turn out. I have met Vic Poblete and the man is what he is – feisty, intelligent, quick to wit and what we call the personification of the word masculine – and yet, if you’ll get the chance to shoot the bull with the man, he’s a simple and as real as any father or uncle can be. Which I wouldn’t mind considfering I grew up without a father. And Marco Piolo is so precise in it’s words and pacing that all I need to do was read and look and read again, catching how the man put descriptions and dialog. The man’s mastery of the vernacular is enviable. After reading F Sionil Jose’s The Feet of Juan Bacnang, which is another author I admire, and his prose is very much a sort of transcendental reading, but Poblete’s wit and grasp of the NOW is plain to see, you can feel the abruptness of events happening in the story. There is another author I need to study, another friend, but with her work I need to get my feminine mojo on, because I am, admittedly, not really into love stories. But Ms. Rose Tan has been writing for two decades now, and her vernacular prowess has grown into staggering proportions that she only needs to quip a part of her writing on social media and her fans are swooning! I may have to read Arik, but not right now. I’ll do it after I let her read my manuscript, after all, the best critic will be a friend who tells you what stinks.

Oh, you may have guessed by now that I am writing. Mostly fiction of the sci-fi and fantasy orientations. And have applied what I have done with my previous work, approach it as a newbie, learn as much as possible about it, and do it. If roadblocks appear, do research and solve the damned thing that is getting in my way. And reading up on it is teaches me more than attending writing classes and seminars. Those books I have read and lost long ago, Perez, Bautista, Bombeck among the few, and those I still have with me are actually teachers for my story telling.

I’ve been listening to an audiobook by Stephen King, On Writing, and the writer who has given me Pennywise and Roland and the Tommyknockers is teaching me more than just taking me to places in New England and of people I will never meet but totally exist in that hemisphere. He’s talking about what I’m learning from Poblete and Tan, from the booksale find of three Ruth rendell Wexford novels I am reading in between drawing and writing, from the est of my measly collection of thriftshop hardbounds and paperbacks. Oh, I would still like to write like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or HP Lovecraft, but these authors I have with me now – King, Poblete, Tan – they are what’s closer to me, in different ways possible.

Soon as I prepped for the days drawing, setting up my media player with my headphones and the day’s selection of music, probably Heavy Metal or Jazz, depends on how noisy it is outside my door, I dive deep into learning. Even with my drawing I have seen my own progression. There is a difference between wanting to and doing it – the confidence of doing it is the key. And I have become confident in what I am doing.

Maybe because I have grown.

Or maybe I have accumulated all sorts of experiences and it is time for me to tell stories, to describe each experience within the walls of my fantasy. All the love, the hurt, the exhilirations and frustrations, misgivings, apprehensions, disappointments, immorality and honesty, exaltations and confusion. I’ve even made it a point to illustrate what I believe happened rather than what was taught me in since childhood.

It’s what good about writing and creating, I can shut the worl out and be with myself and the stories. Even with the constant braying of the twin kids below my room, or the incessant cha-cha music from the other side of the street, I could be with my own, in a world where I am learning as I move along.

But when the couple next door happens to make love, all bets are off. The house moves like a jellyfish and that is the only distraction I cannot possibly ignore, so I stop, giving them enough time to finish and I start again.

And by the time I have my fill of learning, writing, drawing, it’ll be past 3am, which is what I will be doing affer I have written down this affirmation of sorts.

Heavens, please make it rain, it’ll make the night cooler and much more lucrative for creativity . . .

There’s Something Wrong With Me

Something I have been noticing as I get older.

I’m not normal.

Let me put it this way. My existence is something of an enigma even to me. To prove the point – I have never liked basketball. Which is, by far, what most manly, semi-athletic males aspire to be at a young age. Didn’t go for the basketball shoes that players endorse, was not excited to wear a favorite team’s jersey, nor follow the games religiously, like a penitent during lent.

I never read any Shakespeare. Not for the lack of trying. But growing up in Paete, Laguna, my literary choices border on the lewd and pornographic to the absolute crazy stories like Flowers for Algernon, or the novels by Clive Barker and Stephen King to name a couple of writers I am really familiar with. I even read The Lord of the Rings on the dusty, darker side of the school library while my friends are busy harassing the girls elsewhere.

A deviant.

Tv program choices, even that makes me think I am  somewhat off kilter. I was watching Sesame Street and The Electric Company in my elementary years. Three’s Company, Mork & Mindy, Saturday Night Playhouse, The Wacky racers, just some of my boob tube favorites. Not the soaps and That’s Entertainment. Even the movies I like are not quite mainstream. Because I seldom trust movie reviews and prefer to make my own view of the movie rather than bash a movie I haven’t seen. Come to think of it, why bash a movie when you can just recommend what you like about a film you just watched?

Never liked AlDub. Outgrown Eat Bulaga. I laugh at people reacting vehemently when they feel nsomeone has besmirched their name or their school, or their company, online. I cry at sad parts of movies. I love old school illustrations and drawings, even woodcuts I place in high regard.  I like to get to an appointment an hour early. I don’t like people waiting on me. At the same time, I am loathe to wait for people who are never on time.

I’m an aberration.

I don’t care for Kanye West’s recorded music, but I love every bit of track Moz Def put out. I can listen continuously to Rammstein, Metallica, Rivermaya, The Dawn and maybe throw in a few Classics and Tom Waits in between playlists. I cover my ears on every Nicki Minaj sound on radio. Rishloo, Enigma and Crystal Method I play on my laid back hours. But I am extremely annoyed with videoke singers singing the same song every chance they get. Gimme some live music, but please don’t make everything Bossa. But I like singing.

Not normal.

Am I too radical to declare I do not care for religion, but still believe in God?

Abomination

I have this strange fixation with ramen, boiled food and lots of soup. I once enjoyed a plate of Pasta Carbonara lavishly garnished with salty, spicy bagoong, and it got me hooked. And I don’t care much for fine dining. Street food, turo-turo works for me. But when I eat at someplace expensive, I eat everything. I don’t subscribe to that train of thought of leaving something on your plate, lest they think you a patay-gutom. Fuck you, I love food.

I’m one of the few who still insists on using email for professional transactions, social media is just for advertising and online ranting. If there ever was a reason or cause to rant. I don’t put too much value on titles given to you at work. Hell, I’m a Graphic Artist, yet I can clean the office, run errands, make coffee, and while all of these are occurring everyday, I still manage to handle uploading articles to the entertainment website I used to hold, create collaterrals for print, you know, stuff I’m underpaid for.

Heck.

I even created some video clips for a very special friend for free. What could otherwise have netted me five grand (pesos, friends, in pesos) I gave away for free.

Because I can.

Not normal, I tell you.

I cringe every time someone comments how good my drawings are, asks how much for this and this, and then stands aghast and spews these utterly abhorrent words “Para drawing lang?” (That much for just a drawing?).

I am an alien. Of sorts.

There’s definitely something wrong with me.