MA Creative Writing student at UP Diliman from the Land of Buko Pies.

Also a runner, photographer, cyclist, florist, dreamer, and believer.

Showing posts tagged photography

This is one of the more adventurous shoots I’ve done. In this photograph, everything seems to be calm and tranquil. Actually, there were a lot of red ants on the ground and the grasses were awfully itchy. I had rashes on my legs before the shoot finally wrapped up.
Yes, this is a throwback to 2 years ago! :)

This is one of the more adventurous shoots I’ve done. In this photograph, everything seems to be calm and tranquil. Actually, there were a lot of red ants on the ground and the grasses were awfully itchy. I had rashes on my legs before the shoot finally wrapped up.

Yes, this is a throwback to 2 years ago! :)

Did a little photo shoot with my interior designer sis, Eleanor Anne Torres :)

Pahiyas 2014
Lucban, Quezon

August 2011
This was actually a sunrise. It can easily be mistaken for a sunset, but the difference was after a few minutes everything else became brighter, and that’s what I love about sunrises, they cast light not shadows. More of truth, more of hope, more of love—more of the things we actually live for.

August 2011

This was actually a sunrise. It can easily be mistaken for a sunset, but the difference was after a few minutes everything else became brighter, and that’s what I love about sunrises, they cast light not shadows. More of truth, more of hope, more of love—more of the things we actually live for.

My mother’s been such a great mom that I find myself desperately wanting to become a mother too.  It’s not just that our society and country’s cultural norms dictate that I absolutely adore and love my mother; she’s just impossible not to love. You know those people who you just feel like has a thing against your mom? You know, those people she probably deals with at work or those pesky neighbours or church goers that you think just don’t seem to jive well with your mom? Well, I don’t understand them at all. My ears redden and my fists clench at the thought of them. How could they not, at the very least, like my mom?
See, for me, my mother’s easily a saint, or a hero, or better yet the Mother Teresa of our barangay. I love her not because I caused her so much discomfort and bleeding just so I could get out of her womb (I know for a fact that, years after my birth, I continued to give her so much discomfort minus the bleeding whenever I tried to get out of the house as a minor to do questionable things). I love her not just because she raised me, nursed me in times of sickness, or paid so much for school tuition and such. With much contemplation, I realize that I love her because she gives herself fully. It’s not even just her love, you know, it’s her whole, entire, complete self. Like she literally does not have an ulterior motive when she gives herself; she’s just there for everyone to gobble and feast on. Maybe, I’m being melodramatic or even inaccurate, but she’s taught me to put such a premium on sharing and giving that I easily translate that to being the most human thing to do, be charitable. Charity, after all, is love.

I myself have a real reason to celebrate today: I have a piece of her in me. That sorta makes me think that maybe, I have a capacity to be a mother, too, not in terms of childbearing, but in being able to give myself fully to others. I find joy in the thought. Oh, what a lovely, lovely thought.

My mother’s been such a great mom that I find myself desperately wanting to become a mother too.

It’s not just that our society and country’s cultural norms dictate that I absolutely adore and love my mother; she’s just impossible not to love. You know those people who you just feel like has a thing against your mom? You know, those people she probably deals with at work or those pesky neighbours or church goers that you think just don’t seem to jive well with your mom? Well, I don’t understand them at all. My ears redden and my fists clench at the thought of them. How could they not, at the very least, like my mom?

See, for me, my mother’s easily a saint, or a hero, or better yet the Mother Teresa of our barangay. I love her not because I caused her so much discomfort and bleeding just so I could get out of her womb (I know for a fact that, years after my birth, I continued to give her so much discomfort minus the bleeding whenever I tried to get out of the house as a minor to do questionable things). I love her not just because she raised me, nursed me in times of sickness, or paid so much for school tuition and such. With much contemplation, I realize that I love her because she gives herself fully. It’s not even just her love, you know, it’s her whole, entire, complete self. Like she literally does not have an ulterior motive when she gives herself; she’s just there for everyone to gobble and feast on. Maybe, I’m being melodramatic or even inaccurate, but she’s taught me to put such a premium on sharing and giving that I easily translate that to being the most human thing to do, be charitable. Charity, after all, is love.

I myself have a real reason to celebrate today: I have a piece of her in me. That sorta makes me think that maybe, I have a capacity to be a mother, too, not in terms of childbearing, but in being able to give myself fully to others. I find joy in the thought. Oh, what a lovely, lovely thought.

I made a Twitter account 3 days after Mariah Carey released #Beautiful, just to help her trend as well as view her overly hilarious Vine posts!
Happy Twitterversary to my happy account! Thanks for being an outlet of my crazy tendencies and unending Mariahisms. 

I made a Twitter account 3 days after Mariah Carey released #Beautiful, just to help her trend as well as view her overly hilarious Vine posts!

Happy Twitterversary to my happy account! Thanks for being an outlet of my crazy tendencies and unending Mariahisms. 

The singing of U.P. NAMING MAHAL (plus X L Ysulat Fuentes' speech and fireworks display) at the 42nd UPLB Commencement Exercises, 26 April 2014

You might call me positively mental for liking the Lenten Season and the Paschal Triduum more than Christmas, even more than my own birthday. (I only know of one other person who feels the same way.) I don’t know. Maybe it’s that part of me that is innately and irrevocably attracted to suffering, guilt, and pain—things that are surely copious in my life (or so I think). And it’s not as masochistically gaudy and senseless as you think; I have come to believe that suffering and pain can be transmuted into something undeniably good—something far greater than what our feeble minds can possibly grasp. But then again, maybe it’s my upbringing as a Christian that dictates the whole of me to be so attracted and attached to the traditions and rituals of the Church at this part of the Liturgical Year. I mean, when you really think about it, this is why believers call themselves Christians—the fact that Jesus, the one whose birth was foretold, made good with His promise of salvation by offering His own life. This unconditional love is still the model I subscribe to, as intangible as the concept might seem. Or maybe that’s just it, my soul is and has always been in dire need of a love that is colossally strong, so monumental that it could save the souls even of those who are yet to be born; a love that transcends time and space.
I am in no way shoving my beliefs down your throat, dear reader. All I’m doing is expressing what for me is the most awaited time of the year, a time where I see some (if not all) hearts melt and feel any degree of repentance for their shortcomings—all rooted to lack of love, for oneself, for their neighbours, and for this earth and all living on and in it. All I’m doing is expressing what I think is this Good Friday’s rationale, a celebration of the greatest kind of love—the kind we all need, the kind we all dream, and maybe we hope to one day share—the selfless kind.

You might call me positively mental for liking the Lenten Season and the Paschal Triduum more than Christmas, even more than my own birthday. (I only know of one other person who feels the same way.) I don’t know. Maybe it’s that part of me that is innately and irrevocably attracted to suffering, guilt, and pain—things that are surely copious in my life (or so I think). And it’s not as masochistically gaudy and senseless as you think; I have come to believe that suffering and pain can be transmuted into something undeniably good—something far greater than what our feeble minds can possibly grasp. But then again, maybe it’s my upbringing as a Christian that dictates the whole of me to be so attracted and attached to the traditions and rituals of the Church at this part of the Liturgical Year. I mean, when you really think about it, this is why believers call themselves Christians—the fact that Jesus, the one whose birth was foretold, made good with His promise of salvation by offering His own life. This unconditional love is still the model I subscribe to, as intangible as the concept might seem. Or maybe that’s just it, my soul is and has always been in dire need of a love that is colossally strong, so monumental that it could save the souls even of those who are yet to be born; a love that transcends time and space.

I am in no way shoving my beliefs down your throat, dear reader. All I’m doing is expressing what for me is the most awaited time of the year, a time where I see some (if not all) hearts melt and feel any degree of repentance for their shortcomings—all rooted to lack of love, for oneself, for their neighbours, and for this earth and all living on and in it. All I’m doing is expressing what I think is this Good Friday’s rationale, a celebration of the greatest kind of love—the kind we all need, the kind we all dream, and maybe we hope to one day share—the selfless kind.