Sting in Manila 2012, memorable and inspiring

Attending a Sting concert was part of my bucket list. After watching my favorite artists like Chicago, Phil Collins, John Mayer, he was the only one left I have yet to see. Yes, there are other artists I also want to watch in the future but he was the ultimate one I really want to see in concert in Manila.

So it’s no surprise then that during his opening number and seeing the undulating crowd echoing the lyrics of his popular songs, I was moved to tears. I was so embarrassed because it was unexpected, first time that happened to me. Dammit. I brushed it away lest other people found me weird. Too late, my husband already noticed it and teased me about it after. Oh, great now I’m like one of those screaming, manic fans crying when they see their idols in front of them. I guess I was just overwhelmed :)

Overwhelmed that despite the abyss-like distance of my General Admission seat to the stage, his voice was as clear as ever, sounding almost exactly like his songs I constantly played on my CD player. It was surreal that he was there playing it live and speaking to the audience. And maybe what moved me more was how  he was able to unwittingly prompt people to move in synchronicity with the beat of his songs and loudly sing its lyrics inside a jampacked coliseum. It’s like watching a cult unfold with the frenzy. Meanwhile, green and red glow lights held by some fans also swayed in the background, heightening the state of adulation that night. Added to that was how the audience collectively screamed in glee hearing only the first chords of their favorite songs, almost drowning Sting out before continuing to sing along with him.

Indeed, this concert was not only good entertainment but a sought-after break for many of us there, a momentary distraction from domestic concerns and office woes on a Sunday evening. I have attended other concerts but this one may be the most effervescent of all. The lighting was also insane, changing colors in almost every song, sometimes with numerous rays of light spotlighting the audience like beams on a spaceship. Most of the crowd there seems to be my age, in their thirties and the rest maybe older and a smattering of those in their twenties.

I was ecstatic to hear Fields of Gold, Desert Rose, Everything She Does is Magic, Wrapped around your Finger and my favorite, Every Breath You Take among others. Then he sang songs that are not familiar to me but still, it was a delight just to hear his voice and the strumming of his guitar. I liked the last song he played, Fragile which he dedicated to the typhoon victims. Even in a large crowd and a big venue, the song retained its melancholy essence. The haunting guitar strings filled the coliseum while the audience softly sang with him.

Whenever I recall the concerts of artists I admire like Phil Collins on his piano singing “One More Night” in a drizzling stadium, or John Mayer singing “Edge of Desire” in a rain-soaked open field and Sting singing “Roxanne” in front of an enthusiastic crowd suffused in red lights, I always remember the awe I had while watching them. I say to myself, now that is what every artist should strive for, move people with their craft, let them peek a part of their soul and give their audience something they can relate to like songs of love, heartbreak and hope. Maybe their being songwriters helped a lot. These artists pen the words for their songs then arrange music for their lyrics. No wonder their songs sound more heartfelt. Just watching them was inspiring. It makes me want to produce work that can move people too.

Going back to Sting. I admire his stamina for mounting this world tour. At 61, he seems tireless and has admirably retained his cool vibe, pulling off his skin tight outfit with his slim rock star physique. And because he loves to collaborate with other musicians as heard in his songs like Desert Rose, he has espoused variety to his music. His long career spanning decades is also astounding. Not many singers can achieve that. After being part of the Police, he has led a fruitful solo career and is now an active environmentalist. Moving his concert venue in Manila due to his principles made me admire him more. It was inconvenient for many but I wouldn't expect him to do it any other way.

Honestly, this concert may be the best one I have attended yet. Maybe the most memorable too. And I'm happy that I was part of the crowd that gave a thunderous reception to this illustrious artist. I'm one of the grateful souls that night who clapped wildly, cheered and sang with the man who has demonstrated that good music will always captivate us whatever age we may be in.

Surviving Mount Manabu, my first hike

I wrote this essay a day after my hike, an account of my exhausting and exhilarating experience that day.

As I’m writing this, my body is still aching from yesterday’s climb from Mt. Manabu. Going there, I thought, this should be a leisurely hike with some moments of easy climb. But I was wrong, we just started with a short walk then bam! a surprising deep descent. What the…?! Then I saw the rocks scattered on the path framed with thin foliage. Then it hit me. This was not going to be a stroll in the park, it's not going to be easy or as fun as I thought it to be. I was so naïve for thinking that.

But..I read that this was rated as one of the easiest mountain to climb or trek in, recommended for beginners? I thought to myself. Apparently, if you’re a seasoned climber, it would be a beginner’s climb for you. But maybe it was just me or..maybe I was still unfit despite running 10ks (I know I am) or... maybe it was the huge backpack's fault, it was hindering me from moving faster. Because the group’s pace was brisk. Man, it was fast. They were walking on those rocks like a gazelle and I was a hippo lumbering on it. But I can’t blame them, most are on their third to fourth climbs already. I was the only first time hiker.

Then suddenly I slipped in one of the slippery rocks with a crevice on it. They all looked back and I was so embarrassed. The team leader checked if I was okay and told him I was, inside I more flustered than anything. I bumped my knee but I was okay. The trek was just starting and I was slipping already. So I realized then this was not my element, the rocks, the soil, the shrubs. It was my husband’s who grew up near the mountains. He who came with me to watch out for the over the top ideas of adventure I got myself… and him into. Like zip-lining and running. Now, it was hiking.

He was built sturdier than I am. Like a mountain. Steady and reliable. And I am like the ocean, fickle and unpredictable. He’s more of the mountain goat and I’m the sea siren, just kidding. Besides, I grew up going to the beach, playing in the sand, lying in the water watching the clouds, pretending I was a mermaid. I never hiked at all. So this was something new to me.

The rocky and slippery path was the beginning of the nightmare for me. It would mostly be an uphill climb in a steep slope with damp soil and moss covered rocks. My backpack was getting heavier as I grabbed tree trunks, rocks, vines on the way up. There was a rope area for some part of the climb. My heart was beating so fast with the exertion. I was breathing so hard, I thought is it me or is the air getting thinner? So I rested what seemed to be like every five or two minutes. It was a nonstop climb and I was at the tail end of the group. I didn’t care. I just want to survive this. My husband went in front of me and offered to take my pack, I refused, I can do this, I thought, I’m hard core hahaJ Not!

Then we got to the grasslands, it was near the summit. We rested a bit there before going up. I was so exhausted I was not able to fully appreciate the mountains beginning to surround me. But I can tell you, it was enthralling, to see their beauty, their grandness. No picture and video can capture it. It was so different in person. And mind you, it's not the summit yet.

Then we prepared to ascend the summit. It was another ten minutes of uphill climb. Man, I was so tired. My legs were ready to surrender, it was so weakened, it can hardly take another step. When we reached the top, I almost slumped to the ground. Then I looked at the scenic mountain range. The emerald mountains under the azure sky. Unbelievable. The beauty and majesty of nature translated onto these mountains. So this is what people are beating themselves up to see, no wonder. It is definitely worth the arduous climb :) I just wish I was not so breathless, I could have taken more pictures.

The people who were ahead of me were already joking around when I reached the summit. I was exhausted out of my mind. Then after about fifteen minutes or so, the guide told us that we’ll have to take our lunch in the grotto down the path because the sun was high up already and we had no shade. Meaning we have to go down. Now. Whhhhat? I just got here! I thought, I’m still excruciatingly tired and you want me to go down already? Wow. That was just brutal. But they reached the summit earlier so I have no choice. I didn’t want to delay the group.

Then we proceeded to walk downhill. It was another path and it was as steep. I was scared because I was a little klutz on uneven ground. I easily get sprained from misstep. There were also areas of ravine and one slip could lead you tumbling down. It was a little scary. And I thought, who the hell does this for fun, seriously?! This is just crazy. Good thing, the designated “sweeper” of the group meaning the one who made sure that no one wanders off offered to take my backpack while my husband took my hand when I paused on the precarious rocks.

If not for them, I would have stood there paralyzed in fear. They were my lifesavers. And I was bitching already, how far is it? Are we there yet? I asked repeatedly. Poor guys, they were navigating the steps themselves, helping me at that and I was an earful. But I was just so tired and scared. If I sprained my ankle or worst fractured something, how am I supposed to go down the mountain? I didn’t want someone to carry me down, hell no, that would too embarassing.  And in our country, a helicopter rescue is very rare, in fact I’m not sure if it even exist. Moreover, they couldn’t send an army chopper just to get me.

We’re in the middle of nowhere and my thoughts were about my son. I have to get down the mountain in one piece for him. So it became one step at a time. I just want to get home. Then we reached the grotto area and I lay down in a hut. We had lunch there and it was a longer rest this time. And I got up refreshed especially when I said a prayer.

The hard part of going down was over. There were still some hard parts and there were still stumbles and slips but I recovered. And after a final hard climb, we finally got back. Whew! I was so happy that I lasted that long and didn’t quit. The ones who arrived earlier clapped their hands when they saw me. Wow, that was touching, thank you guys.

I’m not sure when my next hike would be. But next time, I’ll be ready. I hope to be fitter mentally and physically. So now I have to beef up my running time and try trail running perhaps? J

Heartbreak and Rogue magazine April 2012 (Katrina Stuart Santiago's article)

I am heartbroken. It’s over. He doesn’t love me anymore. After all we've been through, he decides he wants to move on. After leaving me dangling for a while he finally decides to leave. Okay, it’s not a guy I’m talking here. But it feels the same. It’s about a story that was rejected by an editor for an anthology.

It ended with a sugarcoated e-mail. I was tempted to answer with, “Though I was saddened that I wasn’t picked,...” . I didn’t. I decided to do a Karylle when Dingdong dumped him for someone. I tried to reply with class and exude nonchalance, so I wrote a polite thank you and wished them well, even if I was silently devastated.

I had stories rejected in the past and I had some essays published. But I don’t remember the published ones anymore. I only remember the silence that followed after laboring on my first piece of short story that I courageously submitted in the only remaining literary magazine in the country that is still in print. I browsed in the bookstore every week to see if my story was published but few weeks passed but nothing came up. Then I scrutinized every story that made the cut, observed their impressive eloquence and mind-rending descriptions and I knew my pitiful story won’t see the light of day.

Just the fact that I deeply labored  on it and was rejected was crushing. I didn’t cry copious tears and tore my hair out but I slipped to a melancholy phase like what I’m doing now. I was heartbroken, I just wanted to sleep, stare at the ceiling, mope and tell myself that the next time would be better, for now I have to pick myself and write another one.

I have tried to polish my craft, read books on writing and even attended one short story workshop where the facilitator, an award winning writer who was always late didn’t contribute much to give us tips on writing. He just told us to read the classics and watch Italian or French films to learn how to write descriptively. He was a little full of himself too. And I paid P4,000 to listen to this self-centered nerd.

My husband asks me, why do I waste my time writing for a literary magazine that has low readership, one the  so called “educated” intellectual snobs patronize. I don’t care. You’re not a writer if these literary gods don’t publish you, I tell him. I want that validation as a writer. Yeah, even if almost nobody reads it, he scoffs.

Well, if an actress in Hollywood salivates for an Oscar, I want a Palanca for myself. Why not? Can’t I dream? But I guess my gift for erudition is not as wide as the other Palanca winners, maybe I’m more of a genre writer whatever that is.

So here I am, telling myself to write as I am, emotional, sarcastic, did I say emotional again..to write as I want to not someone else’s idea how I should write. Maybe that’s not the best way to write short stories though because the “right” way according to experts is to show it, not say it, put forth nuances for effect. Duh, I don’t write that way, I’ll tell it as I see it. Well, I guess that doesn’t work for this medium. I don’t have to tell how the character is feeling, let the reader decipher between the lines, let them find their way in the story. Maybe I was wrong. Wow, that feels awful, thank you. The urge to mope is at it again.

And even if I write the way I want to, the dream of having a writing award someday will still haunt me.  Argh! But maybe being read by more people and appreciated for it will compensate for that. And the question I grapple with is, do I push myself in a medium that doesn’t accept me or do I stick to one that accepts me for me, one that I can be myself ? Should I give up my dream of writing a great story or push forward despite the rejections?  

That’s hard. As a writer, you want to think that you can not only write your thoughts on certain topics but you can tell a story too. I want to read my words on an effin paper not just on a computer or tablet screen. Maybe I’m being stubborn, sentimental but I want my name on paper, to be kept and held on to. That’s why I’ll keep on submitting these stories and reading on ways how to tell effectively it. It is a dream, my dream, but is it like a man I love that doesn’t love me back after I tried so hard?

Then like a balm to my broken heart, I came across this article from Rogue magazine(April 2012 issue) titled, “Burn after Reading” by Katrina Stuart Santiago about her take on the Philippine Literary scene.  I was wandering and moping in National Bookstore when I saw it on the cover and she writes:

“ There is much to be said about the probability that the writer who has not done any of the writing workshops, has not come out with a book with any of the commercial and academic publishing houses, has not taught at one of the four major Manila universities in the past five years, has not won any major writing prize…would be brushed off as a non-writer. Or just a not-one-of-us, the ”us” being the writing community-the literati-in the third-world Philippines”

Ouch. Okay, my prose may be far from seamless and still needs work but having a literary “mafia” as an added obstacle for publication is a bit too much. How can I ever find myself in the hallowed land of literary distinction, now I’m more depressed.

“The years have taught me that right here what operates is an unspoken/unconscious/unexplained set of rules that have nothing to do with writing skill or literary merit. Right here, what operates is a togetherness premised on friendships…a fascinating  display of parochialism and patronage”

Great. Maybe my work isn’t that bad, hmm…

“It is in these instances that it becomes clear that you’re not one of “them” and it takes a while before your realize that there is much freedom in being away-far far away-..from the house that literature built. …Because  it means that you dare grow up, you dare stand by writing with which not many might agree, but for which you do find readers.”

Maybe my realization during my moping moments was right, I should write the way I want to. Be myself even if others like it or not and if they do, if they do like it, it will both be a privilege and a pleasure to write for these people.

“This is why the Pinoy reading public doesn’t care about the literati. It’s because the literati doesn’t care about these readers. And that’s you, the Harry Potter, Hunger-Games reading public, you.”

Wow. My husband was right. Why should I whine and pine about these snobs who don’t care what the public wants to read. For these people, they define what the public should read. Talk about being high and mighty.

But I don’t want to solely blame this literati obstacle for the non-publication of my stories. I know I still need improvement.And knowing about this big literati opposition makes me want to become a better writer. Because being good is not good enough, it should be the best I can craft in, meaning more work, more time spent polishing my stories. And at the same time, I should also find other venues like websites that might be interested in my stories. I should not close my doors on internet publishing because I’ve also read in Rogue that Amazon’s ebook sales have surpassed the sales of traditional paperbacks. That’ something I should ponder on as well. Hmm…

Dare to Dair: Dan and Blair endgame for Gossip Girl

I should have been writing about my review on the Iron Lady by Meryl Streep or a piece on Logos Hope, the floating bookfair docked in the pier of Manila. But these past few days I have been looking over videos of Dan and Blair of Gossip Girl in YouTube for hours and guiltily neglecting my writing. Yes, I’m obsessed and what’s their term “shipping” them, meaning rooting for these TV characters to end up together. Dan and Blair should be endgame in Gossip Girl, that’s the DAIR battlecry haha J

The last time I was obsessed with TV couplings was during Dawson’s Creek time when I was way younger :) I loved Joey and Pacey and agonized over their fate. That time, there were no “wars” over the internet over fictional characters, just plain hope that the writers would see through the millions yearning for them to be together. Come to think of it, maybe they received thousands of letters because they eventually relented. Thus, resulting to a Joey and Pacey endgame, Yey!

It's odd and ridiculous even that a thirtysomething woman like me, okay two years to forty (ugh! I'm so embarrassed) one who loves to read selected YA novels, watches the Twilight films, Vampire Diaries, am now totally enamored by these two characters in Gossip Girl, Dan Humphrey and Blair Waldorf. I’m not the usual teenage fan of Gossip Girl, of course I'm ancient but I was initially fascinated by the fiery and complicated relationship of Chuck Bass and Blair Waldorf. But it all changed recently when I watched Dan slip through this show’s romantic radar. A dark horse for Blair’s attention. But actually he has always been there, he’s the good guy who was left unnoticed. And now, his time has come and he has swept Blair off her feet, including me and thousands if not, millions more.

They always talk about how great Penn Badgley and Leighton Meester's chemistry is. I agree. They have it (so why aren't they dating? just joking, but they look like they've been in love forever). Here, they play characters who have opposite personalities that get attracted to one another, the fashion and drama queen of the Upper East Side meets the laidback and unassuming Lonely Brooklyn boy. He was Blair's dependable friend until he got the courage to show his love through a kiss on Valentine's Day. I still remember Blair in a posh red gown asking Dan what will make him happy and he slowly comes near and kisses her. Wow, what a kiss :)

You see every woman wants a Dan Humphrey, one who will stand by her no matter what, a friend to talk to in one's darkest and confusing hours. Like a particular scene between Blair and Dan when she asked him, “What if I lose everything?” to which he replied, “You’ll still have me” J So that’s why I dare to DAIR J

And as someone who has encountered a lot of toads along the romantic highway and found and happily married "the one" and now blessed with a kid with him, I'm happy to reminisce the beginning of true love once again, to remember the hours spent talking to this special person and feeling at home and comfortable with him, even if it's only a glimpse on television. So let DAIR be the endgame please, Gossip Girl writers  :)

Kerima Polotan: My icon, my heroine

One of my inspirations on my writing is this indomitable woman, Kerima Polotan. For me, she is one of the greatest writer I have ever read. Her words and images radically moves you while her characters intrigue and beguile you, leaving you quite immersed in her world. Sometimes, after reading an excerpt of her work, I can't help but mutter "Dammit, you're so good I want be like you", but of course there can only one Kerima Polotan, she is in a league of her own. 

 Honestly, I’m not an academician, I don’t have fancy degrees in writing but I want to become a good if not a great writer because of her.  Here’s a sample of an essay I submitted to a newspaper in one of their contest, My Idol, My Icon. I joined it because I wanted to win the big LCD TV prize. Unfortunately, I didn’t get it but I don’t want to leave this piece hidden in my hard drive forever, at least someone might read my ode for her on this blog. She passed away in the middle of this year and this  entry is for her.

Kerima Polotan: My Icon, My Heroine

As I write this, I ask myself, how can I possibly describe someone whose works I admire so much? How can I recount her incredible short stories and essays when I feel bereft of her gift of lyricism, irony and rawness? I don’t know if my puny words are enough to aptly expound on her formidable works.  Somehow, I feel incomparable to the many talented writers who have introduced her books and will gladly slink aside to make way to the prestigious institutions that have awarded her. Here I am, a struggling, wannabe writer expressing my admiration to one of the most talented female Filipino writer in the Philippines, Kerima Polotan.

Kerima Polotan is best known for her short story The Virgin, which won the Philippine Free Press short story prize and the Palanca Memorial Award  in 1952. She has also won other awards for her writing, one of which is the prestigious Stonehill Award for her novel The Hand of the Enemy in 1962. Aside from writing award-winning stories, she has written provocative essays found in the books Adventures in a Forgotten Country and The True and the Plain.  On a personal note, Kerima was born in Jolo, Sulu and is the daughter of an army colonel and a teacher. She is also married to Juan Tuvera and has ten children.

I first encountered Kerima Polotan’s work in college. This was The Virgin. The story is about a 34-year old unmarried woman faced with the possibility of love and desire long after she thought these have eluded her. It is quite admirable how she brings you inside her story with her deft lyrical descriptions and creative emotional landscapes.  In The Virgin, she was able to create sexual tension between her protagonist, Miss Mijares and the carpenter by stirring the reader’s imagination with her subtle eroticism and uncontrived symbolism.  Noteworthy is the restraint she gave her characters, not giving too much, just enough to leave you wondering and smiling as you arrive to your own conclusion.

 Aside from the Virgin, I also liked her other short story A Various Season which won second place in the 1966 Palanca Awards. It was about a married woman who had an affair with an equipment salesman. Reading it was like watching a movie and with each page, you witness Lourdes David, the main character shuttling between her feelings of guilt and rationalizations about her infidelity and her heartbreaking disenchantment with her marriage. I also love the confrontation part with her lover. You can almost feel the pain within the pages of the book, gripping you inside and as it unravels you realize that this is what makes Kerima Polotan a great writer, she can easily transport you from a dreamless state to the heart of her characters and feel their pain.

Kerima is not only a great storyteller but also an unconventional writer audacious enough to write unlikely and controversial characters like an unmarried woman in The Virgin and an adulteress in A Various Season in the 50s and the 60s, both conservative eras. She courageously wrote about them even if she opened herself to scrutiny as some women writers are prone to when they write about these topics. And not surprisingly, she also wrote biting essays. I was confounded by her essay on Filipinos in America written in the 70s. Her observations here were quite keen and uncompromising. She nailed it to the heart when she wrote about the people needing its country more than the country needing its people, that no matter where we are in the world or how good life is in foreign soil, there will always be a longing for the Motherland in the hearts of every Filipino.

 I wish I could ask her what inspired her to write. What inspired her to write characters like Miss Mijares and Lourdes David?  Did she had a dream about it or was it divine inspiration? Writers have different sources for their material, some from personal experience, some from people they know, and even some from people walking down the street. But whatever muse inspired her, it doesn’t matter, what’s important is she made these characters real enough for us to care about. Besides, writing is not an easy job. For me at least, I always have this strange need to write the emotions seeping within my soul. If I don’t write it and keep it within myself, it almost torments me. There is this urge to write even if I don’t know if I’m good enough, I just write.

And since writing is not easy, being recognized as a good writer is even harder, so to write and earn accolades while raising ten kids is a feat in itself, I salute Kerima for that. Impressively, she has shown me that motherhood and writing can co-exist, that if you are really passionate about your craft, you can do it no matter what herculean odds are against you. And as a mother of just one, I can imagine how hard it must be. I wonder how she managed it. Did she write while the kids were napping or did she write in the washroom?  Has writing become her refuge from the strains of everyday life?  Did it become a piece of her identity with no connection to the husband and kids?  Maybe. For me at least, writing reflects my own time, my own thoughts, enclosed in my own world where there are no diapers to change, no meals to prepare and no spouse to pick up after. Writing provides me a certain freedom to be myself while the family is sleeping or busy playing. I like writing during silent early mornings when my mind is still fresh or in the late evenings when everyone is asleep and I’m alone with the characters of my stories. It is my piece of sanity in a sometimes insane world.  In my stories, I can play God and give the characters their happy endings or confrontations I detest and witty dialogues I would love to tell myself. Sometimes, it’s also my form of catharsis, clearing cobwebs in my mind, seeing things in a different way.

I know I am still a long way off to become as good a writer as Kerima Polotan.  But despite this, I will carry on, writing when I can and polishing my skills along the way. Whatever happens  Kerima will always be the heroine writer I will look up to when I feel discouraged and she will always be the gold standard I will strive for.  With her authentic storytelling, she has inspired me to be true to myself and write with heart and audacity, to write from within, without looking back and with no self-consciousness because it is with this truth that the characters in my stories will feel alive to readers. And if I am true to myself, becoming a better person, a better wife and a better mother will come much easier.