As luck would have it

As we were loading the bags back in the car at the end of the day, my wife, RL, thought out loud: maybe when the car suddenly wouldn't start the previous morning, it was a sign.

So since the car won't start last Sunday, we asked a friend if we could rent her dad's cab for Gabriela's birthday party at a beach house in Binloc, Dagupan. On her way to our place with the cab, the neighborhood mechanic did his magic and managed to get the car to start. But since there were a lot of us - total of 11 kids, 14 or so adults, instead of the others having to commute down, we decided to just bring the cab too anyway.

Everyone got to work right away as soon as we got there - I stopped by the roadside market in Damortis to get something that can be cooked fast for lunch (I went for chicken adobo); kids immediately took off their clothes and put on sunblock, etc. We’ve been here too many times it’s almost like a second home.

Later that afternoon, after a quick dip in the water (which was deliciously warm), I went to the Dagupan market to get something to add to my daughter’s birthday pasta dinner - inihaw na karpa at bangus, ensaladang talong, kamatis, arosep at bagoong. In the meantime, my son Leon and his gang of friends fiddled with his Ipod and the little girls watched a movie on gab's laptop while waiting for the food to be ready. I took pictures in between fanning the inihaw and reheating the sauce.

While of course there were some drinks, there was really no heavy drinking later that night. But there was much storytelling, that after the kids already claimed their spaces on both the living and dining room floors for the night by 10pm, us grown-ups stayed up ‘til way past midnight. I went to bed at around 1am next to my wife who went to sleep an hour earlier. The rest stayed up until about 3am.

I could hardly understand everything our friend Rose was saying (it was barely 6am), but I did pick up the words "wallets", "found", "outside." I understood that we were robbed. I got up and the first thing I checked out was the area where I placed the laptop the night before. It was gone. RL's bag which was next to it that had both our wallets and our phones - gone. The next minute everyone was awaken by the commotion and we all looked around some more to see what else was missing. I got out and walked towards the beach hoping against hope to still see a couple of guys running away from the house with our stuff. I saw our friend, Tolits, instead, sprawled on the beach. My heart stopped, the first thing that came to my head was that he probably woke up to discover the house being robbed and the robbers stabbed him and dragged him away from the house. I hesitated for a while before calling out his name. He got up and I started to breathe again. He was gonna sleep in the tent for the night but when it got too hot, decided to just sleep right under the stars. He immediately went to the tent to get his phone, it was gone too.

The kids woke up because of the commotion, and RL broke the news to Gabriela. Silently, she cried.
The laptop was a Christmas gift from Grandma, so was Leon's Ipod. Never mind the phones, but I distinctly remember the day RL and I traveled down to Manila to finally buy a DSLR after a long time of putting away a little money every now and then to be able to do so, plus some additional money from a friend who thought it was worth lending us some additional cash for a decent camera. It wasn't really a high-end, pro-quality DLSR, but we did what we could with it. At least we didn't have to rent or borrow anymore everytime we needed a camera. With it, we've documented conventions, weddings, and lots and lots of performances... and even more picnics and roadtrips and rainy days in Baguio. That's gone too. Plus some cash that may be not much, but is worth millions when you don't have that much.

They must have sprayed us with some gas, they said, that's why nobody woke up. Whatever. But the worst thing those thieves did was not to walk away with all of the above. Those are easy to let go. What I can't forgive them for is breaking Gabriela's heart the morning after her birthday.

We stayed in the warm waters of Binloc the rest of the day, and just before sundown, God treated us to a magnificent show... while the last of the day's rays shone, the site of dark clouds and falling rain far in the distance was magnificent. And on the other side, a beautiful sun-kissed sky. I took a few pictures with Gabriela's pink Kodak point-and-shoot. Good they didn't take that one.

On our way home we passed by a terrible accident. People died. I tried to distract the children to look the other way so as not to see the bodies being laid down on the sidewalk.

We're so lucky, afterall. We're so, so lucky.

Congratulations, Marko Angelo

Marko Angelo is my eldest son. And he just graduated high school. He was born 17 years ago, I was barely a grown up myself then. At 19, everything was happening so fast that the only thing I clearly remember about November 29, 1992 was that it was a blur. But one thing I will never forget is that first time I held him in my lanky arms and realization that hit me like a rock – I am a father.

A proud father. Nothing else in this world matters as much as my family. My proudest moments do not involve being onstage or in a movie or having a piece published or a photograph exhibited. I was proudest when my youngest, Aeneas, and younger daughter, Sofia, played their first memorized piano piece, or when my younger son, Leon, came up to me to give his opinion on my directorial concept for a play. Or everytime their Ate Sofia sits down with me to discuss the last book she read.

I had to hold back the tears when Leon won a literary contest and lost my voice cheering everytime he scored a goal (a total of 6!) in a soccer tournament. I was speechless when Marko told me that he’s starring in a school musical, and I could stay put in my seat watching Sofia in a play at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. In one of our theatre group’s performance last year, I could hardly believe my eyes watching Aeneas and Gabriela performing a song live onstage with so much gusto and sincerity.

I was late for the graduation, the travel from Manila to Alabang took longer than expected. I stopped by my father’s house a few blocks from the school to change – Marko would never forgive me if I showed up in my usual jeans and sandals. Something with a collar and footwear that cover the whole feet, that’s all he’s asking for. When I got to the auditorium, they were about to call the graduates onstage already – just in time. Being late, I was seated at the balcony, so I had to change camera lenses to get a decent photo of him walking up that stage and standing proud on that podium. Just as I was locking in that lens, I heard it: “Marko Angelo Altomonte.” I looked up and there he was – looking so smart and proud in his toga. The ceremony was pretty sober, quiet, sedate, and as he bowed to the crowd, his hat fell and he fumbled with it for a moment before finally putting it back on. I had on this really big stupid smile that I was trying to hide behind my camera, and as I clicked away, I thought to myself – that’s my son.

They’re my children, all five of them. And I am proud of each one and of all of them. I am a lot of things, but the one thing I know that I really am is a father to five beautiful children.

Driving him back home after the ceremony, I asked him what his plans were for the evening. I didn’t really plan for anything as I didn’t want to get in the way of whatever plan he had, this was his evening. And though I wanted so much for him to say that he had nothing special planned so I could take him out to dinner and just sit down with him all night and congratulate him over and over again, I wasn’t really surprised and just smiled when he said that he and his classmates were going to a party. This was evening.

After a quick change of clothes, he was back in the car, and we were back on the road, and too soon he was getting off already at some café where him and his friends would be meeting up. Ahh, too soon.

What I didn’t get to tell him was that I was so proud of him and that I love him very much. That I wish him well as he now enters college to chart his own destiny; that whatever happens to always remember that I love him very much and I would always be there for him and would do all I can to make him happy.

Congratulations, Marko Angelo.

Dear John

I once wrote a piece for Cordillera Today's Lifestyle page called, “So you wanna be an actor?” In it, I talked about what I believe are the fundamental prerequisites to becoming a performing artist. I had to go back to it recently, if only to remind myself why I chose to be in this unforgiving field that is theater, after receiving a rather emotional and venomous retort online regarding the way local artists have once again been sidelined in what is now touted as the country’s number one festival. A certain John whom I don’t remember having ever met, who also asked not to have his comment deleted in the “interest of free speech,” invaded the rather cryptic conversation between me and a friend on the matter, and called it sourgraping.

I agree with him. But for different reasons.

Theater artists are the epitome of the term “starving artists.” They often start with a production with nothing more than sheer passion for the craft and the burning desire to tell a good story to an audience. That’s probably why theater continues to thrive despite the dismal situation it’s been in, it was never about money, not for most Baguio-based artists anyway.

In the almost 15 years since our first production here in Baguio, things barely changed: very talented local artists still play second fiddle to big name ones from Manila. The small increase in honoraria over the years is due more to inflation rather than improved circumstances. They are still virtually ignored by major local institutions, unless talents are needed and bringing name artists from elsewhere cannot be afforded. But year after year, all over Baguio – in a rehearsal hall in a school, at the basement of the Baguio Convention Center, out in the open in public parks, Baguio’s local theater artists come together come rain or shine, to pool talent, resources and passion for the craft together to come up with a presentation that they believe will not only entertain the audience, but hopefully change the way they look at the world around them forever.

On stage in a school auditorium or on the sidewalks of Session Road on a foggy afternoon, or on rare occasions when they can afford to pay rent at the Baguio Convention Center, they tell their stories. And it doesn’t matter whether they tell it in a theater filled to the brim with students, or to an intimate audience of 10 people, they will tell that story the same way: with utmost sincerity.

They choose their stories carefully, the intention is not merely to entertain and impress, but to compel, provoke, freeze a moment in time so that the audience can step out of life’s daily struggle for a while and step into the magical world of that art form that allows for real human interaction. In theater, you not only hear or see the actors, you feel what they are feeling for they are sincerely feeling it. You feel their pain because they are in pain. You share their joy because they are truly joyful inside. You fall in love because they have sincerely fallen in love. And all that happens not because they’ve put on great make-up or a fabulous set onstage, that happens because the artists’ passion and pure intentions have broken through the fourth wall of the theater to reach deep inside you right there in your seat, taking you out of the dark and onto the reality happening onstage and that, dear reader, is the wonderful experience, where artist, artwork and audience become one, that they call theater.

Contrary to popular belief, all those elements – the stage, the props and costumes, the make-up, the lights, the music, the poetry, they are not there to deceive, they are there to tell the truth. Or A truth. Every single thing on that space, that performance space, is there for a reason, a real reason – even a mere handkerchief sticking out of an actor’s front pocket is there to tell a story.
And so they never, ever dare to deceive their audience – whether they are Baguio’s or Manila’s 500, or 500 pupils from a public elementary school, or five ambulant vendors – they deserve nothing less than a performance that is a product of the artists’ utmost sincerity, passion and love for the craft.

And that, dear John, is the reason why we’re sourgraping. Not because we weren’t called on to save a production in shambles like they did last year, but because theater is a sacred art form, and since time immemorial, from the time the Greeks went onstage to pay tribute to Dionysus, to the time Macario Sakay staged senakulos to inspire his audience to rise up against the colonizers, legitimate theater artists have preserved the sanctity of the legitimate stage.

And because the Baguio audience deserve nothing less but a legitimate performance by legitimate artists on a legitimate stage.
 Whether the performance cost hundreds of thousands to put together, or nothing at all.

14, 100 reloaded and two love stories

February 14 was never really a special day for me and my wife – any given day can turn into Valentine’s Day in a beautiful city like Baguio. Here in Baguio, sometimes just walking hand in hand with your loved one to where you take your jeep to go home can turn into a most romantic stroll through afternoon sun-kissed flower gardens and trees. At times Mother Nature may even treat you to a dramatic display of fog gently rolling in, skimming just above the lake where other lovers in boats come in and out of view to tell their stories.

But, it is Valentine’s Day, and while I most probably won’t be wearing red, I thought I’d share with you an article I wrote last July as my wife, RL, and I celebrated our 14th year together, just weeks away from Baguio’s 100th, with a little alteration, to retell the story of two of my greatest loves. So here it is 14, 100, reloaded …

Our 14th year, no precious stones, no grand getaways, just an evening with friends, an evening of whisky and brandy and chicharon, at an exhibit opening and at table number one in Luisa’s on Session Road. A beer brought over from Rumours next door. Acquaintances slip in and out. Monsoon rains raging outside. “Really?” this paper’s editor-in-chief asked, in between brandy refills, “14 years? This calls for a toast!” And so we raised our glasses for the sixth or seventh or eighth time last night. We have been raising our glasses to Baguio, our dreams for Baguio and our resolve to realize those dreams, all night. In my mind, I’m writing a song…

Nung una kitang makilala, aking mahal, ang aking puso’y nabihag ng ‘yong kariktan. Magmula noon, ‘di ko na kayang mawalay sa’yo. Kafagway sa yakap mo ako’y hihimlay, pinapawi mo’ng lumbay na aking taglay… Kafagway. In my mind the word Kafagway and my wife’s name crossfade.
So there, it’s been 14 years since the day we decided to spend the rest of our lives together, and that life has been closely intertwined with Baguio's last 14 years, or perhaps the last one hundred. And then, another song…


“Halimuyak ng mga pino nariyan na, nagsasabing ako’y malapit na. Ilang sandal na lang, akin na’ng masisilayan – kabundukang nababalot ng dilaw at luntian. Patungo sa puso ng Cordillera, daang malapit sa mga ulap, puno ng talinhaga. Dugo at pawis ang gumuhit ng ‘yong kasaysayan, walang sawa kong tatahakin ang ‘yong kagandahan”
It’s been quite an adventure – we’ve lived in a rundown apartment tucked away in a corner in Campo Sioco (named after one of the fathers of the city), in a friend’s house in Mines View (which once offered a magnificent view of vestiges of Baguio’s gold rush in its early years), in Gen. Luna and Gen. Malvar streets (reminders of Baguio’s role in our nation’s struggle for independence). We now live on Asin Road, a stone’s throw away from the Ifugao carvers’ village, and just a little further down the road is Asin’s famous hot springs (which has drawn visitors since the time of the Spaniards). For 14 years we have walked the streets of Baguio, saw the construction of tall buildings and flyovers that ruined the beautiful skyline, the transformation of Camp John Hay and the deterioration of the Baguio Convention Center. Malls sprouting one after another in different parts of the city, the closing down of theaters along Session Road, a snatcher being chased by the police and young men hurting each other for no reason. And we told these stories to the community, my wife and I. We staged plays that we believed asked relevant questions, that provoked, inspired, painted the real picture. We made films that reminded all of us of the city’s beautiful history. We’ve tried to voice out the aspirations of the community, its heartaches, its dreams…


“Ang mithiin ng Baguio, isapuso mo, itaguyod mo, isulong mo
Ang kailangan ng Baguio, ikaw at ako.”
Here’s wishing you a special Valentine’s Day. As for me and my wife, we’ve got each other – her and I, and Baguio, that’s all we need for an all-year Valentine.

As for Baguio, well, what she needs is you and I.

Have cane, will go places

One step at the wrong time on the wrong spot, the earth beneath shifted and my left knee twisted too far towards one side, way farther than the ligament in there can handle – a sprain and no, I did not hear any sound that would indicate any dislocation.


The twisting itself wasn’t that painful, but I knew that whatever movement I make thereafter would be, so there I was halfway up the knoll behind the house that I was cleaning up the morning after Christmas, frozen. I ventured a small movement, and the pain was almost unbearable.


Naipitan ng ugat, a friend ventured that evening. He said it may have to be “snapped back into place,” and I almost fainted when he tried to do just that. No more snapping of anything back into place.


I reached for a wooden walking cane that was once used as a prop by an 80-something character in a play years ago. And for the next few days, the cane I went places.


At the mall, I got to park the car (thank God for automatic transmission, I could still drive) at the space reserved for the differently-abled, which meant a shorter walk from the car to the entrance. Nice.


Limping and walking with a cane, the security guard at the mall entrance for once didn’t think I’m up to no good and waived the S.O.P. of frisking me and poking inside my bag with a wooden stick. Nice. The limping even merited a rare bow and smile from him. Nicer, and odd.


The next day, again at the mall but this time without the car, I fell in line for a cab, and the guard offered to put me ahead of the twenty or so people in front of me. Cool, but I declined.


Day two, I thought the sight of the cane would afford me some consideration from motorists going down Session Road. Besides, cane or no cane, motorists are required to go to a full stop at pedestrian crossings. No luck. It’s still a game of patintero. If only that cab that just sped inches from me was going any slower, I could’ve used the cane to smack a window or a taillight.


No, it’s not gout (not yet, anyway), I told the familiar faces in Luisa’s. Really, it’s a sprain. That same evening, next door in Rumours, I again had to disappoint familiar faces… it’s not gout and neither is it arthritis. Yeah, sure, whatever, one replied (the place isn't called Rumours for nothing, you know).


A week or so since that fateful and painful morning, I’m wearing a knee brace, the knee’s getting better, no more swelling and pain has subsided and we’re at the beach. The next morning, I woke up my son for a pre-sunrise walk along the shoreline of Canaoay, San Fernando, La Union. Not paying much attention to the sand underneath my feet (we were totally amused by the ongoing power play between two rival gangs of dogs both trying to protect their respective turfs), that injured leg fell into a hole in the sand which made me want to bite a chunk of flesh off my arm. But some five minutes later, the knee actually started feeling much better. Cool, maybe that “snapped some misplaced thing back into place.”


Later that day, I even went for a short swim and the knee did just fine.


Back in Baguio, I was back in the garden. And for an instant, to pick up a potted plant, I totally forgot about the injury and knelt down, putting all my weight on what turned out to be an un-completely healed left knee. The pain was back. And now the wife’s on my back – go see a doctor!


I did the next day. He bent it this way, that way, sideways, and yes, it’s a sprain, and it’s quite bad. A torn medial collateral ligament with grade 2 symptoms. A 5-day therapy was prescribed.


First day, four electronic thingamajigs were attached around the damned knee – twenty minutes of electrocution (that’s how it felt anyway). Then twenty minutes of ultrasound treatment followed by a 10-minute massage. On the third day, some stretching exercises were added to the regimen. On the 5th day the therapist rested.


I saw the doctor again on the 6th. Though its condition improved a lot, he prescribed another five days of sessions with the hospital’s lone physical therapist. Doing what this time? The doctor said he’ll forward his recommended treatment to the therapist himself.


The next day, the therapist was surprised to see me. The doctor told me to go for five more. Did he tell you what exactly we’re supposed to do? , she asked. No, I thought he’d tell you that himself. So we did what we did last week. What exactly does that electronic thingamajig does? Relieve pain (but it wasn’t painful anymore). How about the ultrasound thingy? It’s a notch or two better than just a hot compress, it speeds up the healing process. So a hot compress would do. And I can do these same exercises at home. And my wife, who just bought me a nice new cane (the handle of the other one cracked, I need to lose some weight), can do that same massage you’re doing (even better).


The therapist reminded me to keep on using my cane even if I could already support myself on that injured knee, just to make me not forget that the knee wasn’t completely well yet.


Better parking, a smile and a nod, and I can get ahead of the line, so – sure, my pleasure. I paid the second week’s first session and went straight to the market to buy new plants for the garden.


Gout? The person manning the store where I buy pots asked when he saw me limping. Nah, I just really like this cane.

Baguio in the time of Pepeng

Naguillian Road, City Camp Lagoon, Marcos Highway, Government Loop, Session Road, Balili River... Oct. 8, 2009, around 4:30PM.

14, 100

Our 14^th year, no precious stones, no grand getaways, just an evening with friends, an evening of whisky and brandy and chicharon, at an exhibit opening and at table number one in Luisa’s on Session Road. A beer brought over from Rumours next door. Acquaintances slip in and out. Monsoon rains raging outside.
“Really?” asked Pigeon, this paper’s editor-in-chief, asked in between brandy refills, “14 years? This calls for a toast!” And so we raised our glasses for the sixth or seventh or eighth time last night. We have been raising our glasses to Baguio, our dreams for Baguio and our resolve to realize those dreams, all night.

Nung una kitang makilala, aking mahal

Ang aking puso’y nabihag ng ‘yong kariktan

Magmula noon, ‘di ko na kayang mawalay sa’yo.

Kafagway sa yakap mo ako’y hihimlay

Pinapawi mo’ng lumbay na aking taglay

Kafagway

I wrote that song, and in my mind the word Kafagway and my wife’s name crossfade.
So there, it’s been 14 years since the day we decided to spend the rest of our lives together, and that life has been closely intertwined with Baguio's last 14 years, or perhaps the last one hundred.

Halimuyak ng mga pino nariyan na

Nagsasabing ako’y malapit na

Isang daan, patungo sa puso ng Cordillera

Daang malapit sa mga ulap, puno ng talinhaga

Dugo at pawis ang gumuhit ng ‘yong kasaysayan

Walang sawa kong tatahakin ang ‘yong kagandahan

It’s been quite an adventure – we’ve lived in a rundown apartment tucked away in a corner in Campo Sioco (named after one of the fathers of the city), in a friend’s house in Mines View (which once offered a glimpse of Baguio’s gold rush in its early years), in Gen. Luna and Gen. Malvar streets (reminders of Baguio’s role in our nation’s struggle for independence), we now live in Asin Road, a stone’s throw away from the Ifugao carvers’ village, and just a little further down the road is Asin’s famous hot springs (which has drawn visitors since the time of the Spaniards). For 14 years we have walked the streets of Baguio, saw the construction of tall buildings and flyovers that ruined the beautiful skyline, the transformation of Camp John Hay and the deterioration of the Baguio Convention Center, malls sprouting one after another in different parts of the city, the closing down of theaters along Session Road, a snatcher being chased by the police and young men hurting each other for no reason.

And we told these stories to the community, my wife and I. We staged plays that we believed asked relevant questions, that provoked, inspired, painted the real picture. We made films that reminded all of us of the city’s beautiful history. We’ve tried to voice out the aspirations of the community, its heartaches, its dreams…

Ang mithiin ng Baguio

Isapuso mo

Itaguyod mo

Isulong mo

Ang kailangan ng Baguio, ikaw at ako

14 years. Isang daan. And so our fifteenth year together begins on Baguio’s 100^th.

And so soon, we go onstage once again to tell the story of “Kafagway: Sa Saliw Ng Mga Gangsa,”a performance art piece that will sing the city’s songs, and our songs.

Happy anniversary, RL. And we wish you well, our beloved Baguio, on your 100th year.

1984... Baguio... Thriller...

My son woke me up with the news that Michael Jackson passed on...

1984, a friend, Minco Fabregas, had just won a trip for two to Baguio at an Easter Egg hunt contest, he picked me to join him. At just 10 or 11 years old, we were quite surprised that our parents actually allowed us to go to Baguio for a few days on our own. But this was Baguio then, there were no nightly brawls at the Nevada Square or gangsters running after each other with knives in broad daylight in Session Road.

Photo as posted by nostalgiamanila in Photobucket
Transportation was courtesy of Sarkies Tours, and we were billeted at the Pines Hotel. Upon arrival, first thing we did was go on a boat ride at Burnham Park (where we left the wallet with all our money in a boat, we went back an hour later and luckily found the boat we took with the wallet still in it) and then blow half our pocket money at the pinball machines... half our pocket money for the next few days gone in a coupe of hours. Two nights at the Pines Hotel and then we moved to the Mountain Lodge for a few more nights...


Our days in Baguio that time were like this: Right after breakfast, we'd rent a bike in Burnham for an hour or two while waiting for Funhouse at the bottom of Session Road to open, though there were arcades too in Manila then, pinball machines weren't that popular. We'll be the first ones in Funhouse once it opened and all morning we'd play - pinball, Pacman, Asteroids, Space Invaders, Pong... Lunch would be at Shakey's on Session Road (until that day we finally blew all our money at the arcade, from then on lunch was at Mario's courtesy of Tita Mitos).

Photo by stevechasmar
as posted in his Flickr photostream

On our first night at the Mountain Lodge, while munching on our burgers, there was a special on Michael Jackson on TV - he had just won 8 Grammys that year and Thriller, Billy Jean and Beat It were all over the radio stations. We watched the special and later spent a good part of the night trying to duplicate Michael Jackson's dance moves.

The next morning, we didn't go straight to Funhouse, we just walked around Teacher's Camp and the Botanical Garden singing Michael Jackson songs, trying to see how many of his songs we knew the lyrics to (we also tried to freewheel on that scooter parked along the Mountain Lodge driveway, we crashed it on the first try. LOL. And managed to get ourselves a pack of cigarettes, I regret that day.).

Ahhh, 1984, that was a good year. I fell in love with Baguio that year. With Billy Jean playing in my head.

Stream of consciousness... Attitude, aptitude, auditions, tales and stale coffee and solitude

Rehearsals... space not available 'til 7PM, we move upstairs, right on the stage.

Half the cast is late. That's ok. Short notice. Thanks for your patience, this production isn't a walk in the park. A couple of weeks ago, when the SM told some guy who came with his mom to the auditions to get ready with his audition piece, he turned to his mom and asked, "I have to audition?"

"It's ok, they just have to hear your voice so they know what role to give you."

I have to audition? Yes you have to audition. That's the thing with some of Baguio's actors... they do a couple of plays and they believe they've earned the right to be pre-cast and never to have to audition again. A couple of years ago, Ronnie and I went to couple of auditions for various film projects in Manila, nothing came out of it. But was lucky enough to be cast in Raymond's latest full length film. A cameo. Interesting.

Ethan worked on one of the musical's most vocally challenging musical numbers. One soprano tells me she's not sure if she can commit to the production. The three tenors have not shown up. Ethan does a great job with the lean cast. We pack up for the night as Baguio's most famous choir passes by - side glances, whispers.

We've decided to give way to the elders' production this first semester... we'll tell our story next sem.

No text from the producers yet. The car has been running on empty, cruising on neutral, but will soon be forced to grind to a halt as we approach an uphill climb. Winging it, as someone once said. May his soul rest in peace.

At the lobby, an official souvenir shop is selling official centennial souvenirs bearing the official centennial seal... you wanna consign some copies of your documentary?

Anyway.

We complain about the state of the local theater scene - partial or no government support, no venue, very little or no money... how much of yourself are you giving to your craft anyway? A partial income for a part time job sounds fair.

And then we were told, here are some solicitation letters, whatever you get, it's yours, let that be a partial payment of your respective honoraria. LOL. We want to tell stories, we don't wanna be told tales.

The song list says 40 to 41 musical numbers, 14 backing tracks done.

Then I ask myself, is this all worth it?

At the end of the day... a bunch of us smoke our one for the road. Someone says coffee, someone says yes, someone asks where, someone says there. Coffee sounds good, I could use a cup of coffee in the company of friends.

Invitors suddenly decline, half of them decides it's not worth it. That's ok. Sigh. Isang kape, please, sa baso. Deja vu. Haven't I been to this empty table before?

"Look around there's another mask behind you."

It's getting late, the coffee's stale. But it's good some stayed.

I wait in the car. He gets his dinner. She smokes by the window. He forgot his water bottle and she waits for him at the bottom of the road. The burger's cooked, I drive him home, I drive her home, and her too.

And then I answer myself, yeah, as far as I'm concerned, the dream is well worth it.

Having/being a father

Fathers out there might say, “I know.” Well I didn’t know what a father was, and what a wonderful thing fatherhood was, until I became one.

I grew up with my mother, and would only hear tidbits of information about this photographer who happened to be my father when the grown-ups in our household would happen to mention him in their conversations. I never asked my mom, nor anybody else in the house, about him. I never really knew what I was missing: my mother raised me alone since I was born.

Though I would sometimes feel that something's missing, maybe a tinge of jealousy?, seeing a classmate’s father place that Boy Scout kerchief around his neck during investiture ceremonies, while I had a teacher do it for me. I was alone when I went through the very important Filipino rite of passage held during the summer months. And then once when I tagged along a bunch of young men on their way to the rice fields behind our house for their turn to become men , I thought the sight of their respective fathers holding their hand (and with the other hand, holding a bunch of guava leaves) was just, well, really nice. As a young boy of about 6 or 7, I gravitated towards an uncle who was, most of the time, too spaced out making the most out of the last couple of years of the 70’s to bother with me at all. I then gravitated towards another uncle whose attention was already divided between being a young father to his own son and earning a living.

And then I learned how to use the telephone, and my mother ‘s way of introducing me to my father was to give me P1.50 to call him on a pay phone. 503559. 503559. 503559. I would chant the telephone number like a mantra so I wouldn’t forget it as I walked the two blocks to get to the nearest sari-sari store with a pay phone. Sometimes a female voice would answer, at times a young boy (who, later I would learn, was my brother), sometimes he himself. It was awkward, of course – what does one say to a kid he never bothered to seek during the last 7 years, and what can a kid say to someone he’s never met?

And then I finally met him in person, I was fourteen. And just like those several awkward phone calls, I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. That day I learned that I got my height from him, then later I learned that he liked fishing when I bumped into him at the breakwaters near the Cultural Center of the Philippines where I was already starting my life on stage, and a few years later as a teenager living on his own, I learned that he had a cool job when I would visit him at his studio and I would find him in the middle of a photo shoot for a famous jeans or beer brand.

And then one day, I found myself about to be a father. A few hours before my first son was born, my father arrived. I was tense, like most fathers-to-be waiting outside the delivery room for their child to be born. He put his arm around my shoulder, held the lighter out for me when I pulled out a cigarette to calm myself down – it was overwhelming, I suddenly had a father and I was going to be one myself. The next day, as I picked up my first son for the first time and held that tiny human being in my arms, I thought about how good it felt having my father there for me the night before , and I whispered into my son’s tiny ears, “I will always be there for you.” He made a face. I was sure he heard me, it made me smile.

A long time has passed since that day and I now have five children. I have held the hands of my two sons during their ordeal when it was their turn to “become men”; happily scouted the neighborhood for guava leaves to boil to help them wash their wounds; I have obeyed my oldest son’s orders to ditch the sandals for once and wear something that covered my feet at his graduation; I have held my two daughters’ chins above water at a pool teaching them how to swim; I have become a hero to my youngest son when I finally fixed the broken doorknob that had him stressing about the possibility of the family being locked inside the house; I’ve had them dress up on Christmas Eve for a family portrait, gelling the boys’ hairs, tying the girls ribbons, and stayed up late that same night to fill up their Christmas stockings with goodies; I have sucked out mucus out of all five’s noses when they had colds and couldn’t breathe. And yes, I have fought with other fathers at the playground defending my children. And I cannot begin to describe how happy it makes me to let them know that I am there for them.

And nothing else in this world brings so much joy than your child giving you a hug in gratitude for something you have done for them – and sometimes all it takes is just to be there for them. Sometimes you don’t really

have to do anything, just be there at all, as much as you can. I try.

Tonight, as I do almost every night, when they’re all asleep, I would walk over to their beds and whisper “I love you” in their ears before going to bed myself. I am very happy whenever I get a sleepy, mumbled response, but even if my whisper results only in a sleepy grunt or a sigh, I’d be happy enough.

Back to where it all began

The air was surprisingly cool at the Makati Park that afternoon. By sunset we were all there: While Yoshi and I were going through the notes of a Beatles song; Roman was running back and forth between the reception hall and the open area by the fountain supervising the caterers setting up the tables, the lights and sound people trying to make do with what they had; Delo had the toolbox wide open looking for an extra bulb socket he needed to light up the red carpet that ran from the back of the fountain to what served as the altar; Arkhe have started putting sand in the cute orange paper bags that Rose made that will serve as lanterns that will light up the whole area; Jojo was there to lend a hand to everyone.

At around 6 I drove back to Zari's house a few blocks away from the park, that's where the staging area was, where everyone took a shower and freshened up after the long 6-hour drive from Baguio. When I got there everyone was ready to go - the little girls were already dolled up (Kyra and Gabriela were going to be the evening's flower girls) and Aeneas looked sharp with his mohawk while wearing a Barong Tagalog. RL, Zari, Eunice and Rose had to prep themselves up in 15 minutes since the little girls' hair took forever to fix up.

It was already dark when we got back to the park, and everything was almost ready - the lanterns worked perfectly well, so did that extra par 38 spotlight that Delo nailed to a palm tree. The groom nervously asked for a cigarette while I was briefing the bride's brother, Earl, who was going to be the evening's emcee. We were all just waiting for the bride.

Earlier that day, the bride, Syrel, sent me a text message that something like, " I am just so glad to belong to the OSP family, thank you all so much for being there for me..." OSP is Open Space Productions, a Baguio-based theater group.

I looked at the street beyond and saw a white car with the blinkers on, that has got to be her already. One last "company call": Tolits will be manning the entourage's entrance, Eu will usher them to their respective seats, Zari, Rose and RL were part of the entourage, the OSP kids were already in line. I walked over to where the car was and there she was:

Two minutes, Kuya, she said, I just need to put on contacts. I opened the door for her two minutes later and escorted her to where she was supposed to wait before she makes her entrance. Roman stayed with her while she waited, and I gave the cue to start the ceremony.

RL and I, Godparents to Syrel and JP, walked down the aisle first. I escorted her to her seat and proceeded to where the keyboard was. "Piano/String", key of G, "All You Need is Love" by the Beatles and as Yoshi sang the first lines of the song, the procession began.

The bride's entrance was wonderful... the trees, the lighting, the paper bag candles, the wind, I just hoped the ABS-CBN crew who came to document the event on video caught not only what was happening on their camera, but how the scene of the veiled Syrel walking down the aisle felt. From all corners of the park, Jojo, Arkhe and Delo were clicking away, capturing the moment from different angles.

At the end of the long ceremony,during the photo ops, after the Bride's family and the Groom's family, the "OSP family" was called for a photo with the bride and the groom. At the reception, Roman has set-up his laptop and the LCD projector for the videos he and I made for the couple. Arkhe sang the Bride's requested song, Iris. Eunice sang "The Rose" during the cutting of the cake and the releasing of doves part.

And after a long trip from Baguio to Proj. 6 to Makati, a couple of hours' set-up, an unexpectedly long ceremony (the Judge who officiated the wedding got carried away), a couple of hours at the reception, Zari requested for a nightcap at Penguin Cafe. The women changed from high-heeled shoes to sandals, the Barongs were taken off, the kids back to their sandos and tsinelas, off to Malate we went.

Pinikpikan was playing that night, and there was a 150-peso cover charge, everyone agreed it wasn't worth it so we had our nightcap instead at the Oarhouse. Wilson the bartender was already lying down on the couch when we got there, I woke him up and ordered our coffees and beers. After a quick sip of our coffees and beers and a recap of what just happened, I brought everyone to the Remedios circle.

In the summer 1995, on an evening just like that one, I put up JC Live! right there in Remedios Circle. They've altered the circle's look since then, gone was the stage where Waling-waling, the Manila Youth Symphony Orchestra, Lolita Carbon, Raul Mitra, Jet Melencio, Julien Mendoza, MArgarita Gomez, etc., performed songs from the musical "Jesus Christ Superstar" to raise funds for a shelter for streetchildren. Also gone now was RJ Leyran, my partner in putting that concert together. There are no videos nor photos of the first production, and with RJ gone, also not even someone to share the memory of that evening with.

I don't even recall the exact date of the concert, but as we, the OSP family, posed for a photo right in the middle of the circle, it felt like it happened on that evening, 13 years ago.