Call the shot

Directed by X Vallez
Assistant Director: Javi Abola
Director of Photography: Dom Nuesa
Production Design: Issa Lopez
Starring the MDAFI Basic Batch 2008-2009 and MDAFI alumni

Once you go black, you can't go back

Nag-aalangan ako dati na magswitch from PC to Mac. Una, alien ang interface para sa akin dahil nasanay ako sa PC. Namulat ako sa 286 na computer na MS DOS ang kausap ko. Nasanay akong nagtatype ng “DIR” para malaman ang nilalaman ng floppy disk ko at mag-enter ng “PROMPT GWAPO AKO: $g” para magpasikat sa seatmate ko sa IT-Lab. Pangalawa, mahal ang Mac kumpara sa PC. Pero sa huli, hindi na ako nakatiis. Hindi ako eksperto sa Mac pero heto ang ilan sa aking mga dahilan kung bakit pagkatapos kong bumili ng black Macbook, masasabi ko nang: “Once you go black, you can’t go back”

1. Gumugwapo ka pag Mac ang gamit mo. Sabi nila, the best daw ang Macbook kung multimedia artist ka, web designer, lay-out artist, film and video editor, lalo na writer. Sulit daw ang Macbook kung freelance artist ka dahil sa state-of-the-art capabilities nito. Sa totoo lang, kahit wala kang trabaho, kahit di ka freelancer, kahit tambay ka lang, bagay na bagay sa’yo ang Macbook. Punta ka sa Starbucks or sa Seattle’s best, labas ka ng notebook at magsulat-sulat ka kunwari for a while. Maya-maya, pag nagpasukan na ang mga kolehiyala at mga hottie na yuppies, time to bring out your baby. Garantisado, hot ka na rin! Pag nilabas mo ang Macbook mo, mukha ka na ring angst-ridden, eccentric, genius, introspective, freelance artist. Kasing gwapo ka ng gear mo. Dahil mukhang sophisticated at elegante ng design ng iyong macbook, sophisticated at elegant ka na rin.

2. Magmumukha kang mayaman sa Mac. Sure, mahal ang Macbook. Actually, namumulubi ako ngayon dahil sa binili kong Macbook. Cup Noodles na lang ang almusal ko, skyflakes na lunch, at ChocNut na dinner ang tinitira ko para lang mabayaran ko ang inutang ko pambili ng Macbook ko (Take note, hindi ito laptop, its called a Macbook). Pero okay lang. Hindi halatang naghihirap ka na kapag kaharap mo ang iyong hi-powered Mac. Hindi lang siya mukhang mamahalin (dahil talagang mahal siya), amoy mamahalin pa siya! Kahit freelance writer ka lang o multimedia artist na isang kahig, isang tuka, magmumukha kang highly-paid creative director ng isang ad agency dahil Mac ang gamit mo sa paggawa ng brochure ng karinderya ni Aling Pacing.

3. Pang-bobo at Technophobe ang Mac. Kung wala kang alam sa computer, kung takot ka sa technology, kung bano ka operating systems, sa internet, sa pagdo-download, kung napag-iiwanan ka na ng panahon, this is the machine for you. Sobrang simple ng disenyo hindi mo kailangang pag-isipan kung ano ang pipindutin, kung alin ang kakalikutin, kung saan hahanapin ang kung-anu-ano sa computer mo. Walang right click, isang pindutan lang. Walang scroll bars, dalawang daliri lang ang gamitin mo para magscroll. May eject key sa keyboard para sa mga CD mo. Kung may di ka mahanap, type mo lang sa Spotlight sa upper right corner ng screen mo, hahanapin niya sa computer mo, pati sa internet, hahanapin niya, maging file man o dictionary definition pati nawawala mong pusa, kaya niyang hanapin.

4. Conducive to Creativity ang porma ng Mac. Dahil sa hayop na GUI ng leopard OS X, kahit hindi ka artistic, mapipilitan kang gumawa ng artistic na bagay. Ibang klase ang GUI ng Mac. Mabusisi ang bawat icon sa dashboard mo, pambihira ang animation, napakasarap titigan ng interface. Kung laos kang multimedia artist or beginner ka pa lang o di kaya’y amateur, magiging pro ka in less than two weeks katititig mo sa hinayupak ng Graphical User Interface ng iyong Macbook. Sabi nga nila, palibutan mo ng magaganda ang isang pangit, gaganda na rin yon. So kung feeling mo, hindi ka creative; kung pakiramdam mo, pangit kang gumawa ng art, don’t worry! Katitingin mo sa puro maganda sa screen mo, masasanay kang puro maganda ang ginagawa mo.

Ilan lang ito sa mga dahilan kung bakit hinding hindi na ako babalik sa PC. Maliban na lang kung mahold-up ako kapoporma ko sa Seattle’s Best at mapilitang bumili ng second hand na laptop na may Windows 95 para lang mairaos ang mga freelance work ko. Ayoko nang magmukhang jologs angst-ridden starving artist (kahit totoo). Kung may mga Metrosexual, sa Macbook, mukha kang Technosexual.

WITHDRAWAL SYNDROME

I am almost over her.

And then I see her being caressed by another man. His dry, filthy fingers fidgeting, then fearlessly flirting with her pale flawless skin. He is not apologetic about it. His two fingers seducing the rest of her body closer into his lips. Slowly. Under the dim lights I can imagine her innocent whiteness turn into a guilty blush. She knows I am watching. I look away. And I imagine hearing him suck the life away from her naked body.

I was never in love with her. I do not know why I look away. I can feel her eyes calling at me, while her breath is one with his. She mocks me.

The motherfucking temptress.

She giggles loudly. Reminding me of the sounds she made when it was my fingers running down her naked skin. She flaunts her laughter. Louder than when it was my lips that slowly sucked her sweet soul.

“Tired of making other girls miserable?” She laughs.

I reply with a silent “Fuck you.”

She had a point though. It was all the same to me—to me, she was just one of them. They were all the same. I’d summon her, already naked. And then it was the same routine. She had a love affair with my two fingers. I’d turn her on; light her up until she’s red in embers. Then, the foreplay of her skin and my fingers. Then, a kiss. Then another. And another. And slowly, I inhale her breath. I breathe in her soul until she expires and has nothing more to give. And then I’d ditch her. And leave her lifeless and consumed by the floor. If it were a cold night, I’d pick up another one. And I’d leave them all lying naked on the floor, dry and dead.

Then, twenty days ago, I just decided to quit her.

And now she mocks me. I realize, you need not fall in love with her to feel jealousy.

I steal a glance. She catches me, and she smiles. I extend my fingers, summoning her nakedness. I imagine my fingers flirting once again with her flawlessness; my lips are wet again from her kisses.

But she does not come. Another man’s fingers clothe her nakedness. Another man’s lips breathe in her youth and her life—right in front of me.

I take a deep breath and bite my lip. I stare at the man’s fingers holding her.

The man looks at me, and smiles: “Twenty days? Congrats, pare!”

I smile back at him. I stare at his fingers as he ditches her into the ashtray.

Romancing the Muse

It’s been four years since you last saw her.

You stare at the blank document of your word processor. You force yourself to write something. Anything.

Nothing.

But white.

Technology has found new ways of mocking you. It was different then, when you had to punch letters into the paper with a typewriter. Each letter was a solid blow, bruising the pale flawless skin of the bond paper with black bloody prose. Creation has never been so violent. Now, the silent flicker of the ultra hi-speed refresh rate of your monitor relaxes your mind too much. There is no creation without violence. And your screen dares you to violate it—to devirginize its virtual sanctity.

You are enraged by this mockery. You start punching letters. The letters become words. Words become sentences. Sentences transform into dialogue. You desperately muster the sliver of anger the mockery has produced in you and you transform it into whatever semblance of violence you can come up with.

You read the words. They make too much sense. You delete punctuation. You edit lines you picked up from a stray conversation. One word. Two words. Three. Violence starts to creep up your fingers as you furiously punch in the backspace key. And then...nothing. A blank page stares at you again. The screen is once again inviolate.

Peaceful.

Mocking. White.

This is the time when you start to miss her.

You recall the circumstances of your last meeting. What she was wearing. How her hair was done. What perfume she had on. You were at both ends of the backseat of a cab on the way to the last show of your last play. Your fingers were barely touching. She was pleading for you to say something. Anything. You kept silent.

For some reason everything was so clear to you. You have forgotten her. It was not your fault. It was not you who left. She did.

Of course you were hurt. But four years is too long to nurse that ill-feeling. A lot has happened to you in the last four years. You’ve been busy.

You got yourself an 8 to 5 job. You started to follow a strict schedule of waking up, going to work, hanging out with your bosses then your friends, and spending weekends with family. The cubicle which you used to see as a cell became your command center. You finally gave up the bohemian lifestyle. You enjoyed the perks of your twice-a-month pay check. You could afford your own flat. You lived on your own, paid your own bills, bought yourself an expensive pair of your most coveted rubber shoes. You binged in fine-dining restaurants. Slowly, you developed a steady rhythm and routine of life—what most people might call the “quiet life.” But despite the stability of your new found existence there was that undercurrent uneasiness within you.

This peaceful routine is oppressingly unfamiliar to you. But since she left, you have been dismissing it as “withdrawal syndrome.” It is only natural—you’ve been with her ever since you learned how to write. People who quit smoking probably feel the same thing. There is really nothing wrong with you, you tell yourself.

You keep on telling yourself.

Keep telling yourself that.

This is writers’ block.

It took you four years to realize this fact. You never saw it coming. You always thought that writers’ block is something unpleasant—sleepless nights struggling with the noises in your head. You thought writers’ block is your inability to choose from the chimeras populating your constrained, boxed-up imagination. Sometimes you thought of it as an infinite void. You could see yourself walking in space, scanning for an iota of an idea, a story, a character, a theme, a line of dialogue.

You were too engrossed with your pseudo-bourgeoisie hedonistic lifestyle to see that there is art even on your sleepless bed. You were too comfortable drowning yourself with pop culture TV to find music amidst the noises in your head. You have forgotten that even ghosts tell stories and that there is beauty even in nothingness.

Writers’ block. It terrifies you now that you face it without her.

Now, you so fucking wish she were right here beside you.

Epiphanies are so cliché. But truly, it somehow opens your third, fourth, and fifth eyes that were blinded by stupidity and sloth. Suddenly you remember right.

You were at both ends of the backseat of a cab. Your fingers were barely touching. She was pleading for you to say something. Anything. You kept silent. You thought it would ruin the moment to say anything. At that moment you decided to live your plays rather than write them. The cab stopped. She left the car to watch your last masterpiece. You stayed to live it. It was not she who left. It was you.

Four years you lived. You grew tired of writing stories and so you decided to just live them. You didn’t have to please anyone. You didn’t have to think of an audience. You weren’t pressured for originality and structure. No expositions, rising actions and denouements. No conflicts. You were better off without her. You were free.

And then she calls.

After four years she gives you a call out of the blue. You are silent for the first part—hell, for the most part—of the conversation. You don’t know what to say. You are now too accustomed to a kind of silence that promises nothing but resolutions and happy endings without the climax. But the sound of her voice deemed it vulgar to be at peace with yourself.

She asks you how you are. You exchange pleasantries and small talk. You catch up with each other. You’d love to tell her what you’ve been doing the past four years. You’d love to tell her you’d been busy. But you don’t know what to say when she asks you, “So, what have you been writing lately?”

Before you put down the phone, she promises to visit you soon.

This has the makings of a romantic soap for TV. You couldn’t sleep. The excitement stirs up something violent inside you. You start to hear voices. Too many voices none and all of which is yours. You start seeing ghosts walking about your room, fighting for space over your bed which has turned into a stage. And then darkness starts to creep in. Your space is both constrained and infinite. This feeling is very much familiar. You used to dismiss this feeling as “brain fart” or “intellectual masturbation.” You used to accuse yourself of wasting time and letting your mind wander off whenever you are in this state. You used to call this writers’ block.

You have to write. You feel it. But there is a war inside you. How can you write with an unclear mind?

There is no creation without violence.

You open your word processor and you stare at the blank document. Peaceful. Mocking white.

Fuck you.

No. On second thought, you’d rather do it yourself.

Feverishly, your fingers well up with enough violence to commit sacrilege on that white, virgin space.

Black blood all over.

Then silence. That familiar silence that used to accompany you in your meditations on the paradoxes of creation.

You stare at the bloodied screen of your laptop. Those four years without her was necessary for conflict to arise. Creation is impossible without violence. Now you understand, your romance is complete.

You hear a familiar voice coming from behind you. The voice that had always stirred up that violence inside you and pushed you to create. You turned your head and saw her smiling at you.

And you realize that it was her romancing you all this time.

Hinanap Kita

hinanap kita sa halik ng habagat

ngunit wala ka sa habagat,

wala

hinanap kita sa tamis ng tanaga

ngunit wala ka sa tanaga,

wala

hinanap kita sa samyo ng salita

ngunit wala ka sa salita,

wala

hinanap kita sa kilig ng kuliglig

ngunit wala ka sa kuliglig,

wala

hinanap kita sa aninag ng araw

ngunit wala ka sa araw,

wala

dahil naroon ka pala

sa aninag ng araw

sa kilig ng kuliglig

sa samyo ng salita

sa tamis ng tanaga

sa halik ng habagat

sa kaluluwa ng aking tula