The Art of Rewriting

I went home discouraged from all of the night’s harsh words. The anticipation and excitement early that evening went down the drain. Instead, I went home flustered and uninspired.

“The lyrics are sloppy” ; “Your lyrics doesn’t make sense at all!!!! (take note of the exclamation points. Yes, that’s how expressive the guy was)” ; “There’s a language barrier” ; “Resonance of culture” ; “if you present a song like that to Westerners, it won’t sell.”

Criticisms I received on my song “Sanctuary”. Statements from a music producer, a member of the committee and a random songwriter in the audience.

I went to the Songwriter Critique Workshop expecting constructive criticisms, which I did, no doubt about that. However, the blunt words and facial reactions were unexpected and uncalled for. Another songwriter who preferred to present a non-sense song which he admitted it to be, performed a 3-minute song talking about his sexual pleasures about a girl named “Jane”. Surprisingly, the whole room clapped and the panel of critics were thrilled with the choice of words.

I just shrugged my shoulders in bewilderment.

But hey, I’m over it..and I’m moving on. So here’s what came out of the experience.

Today, I’ve picked up “and again”, a second hand book I found 3 months ago. “How To Be a Hit Songwriter (Polishing and Marketing your lyrics and music)” by Molly-Ann Leikin. (dream on jowe. Well, might as well try right? If it doesn’t work, then just do it for the sake of art and music.)

Reading the first chapter made me feel better.

Excerpt: I want you to take comfort knowing that all songwriters hate rewriting. No matter how long they’ve been working at their craft, and in spite of how successful they have become, songwriters always feel violated by someone telling them that what they’ve created isn’t perfect. All writers feel the same way. When my editor sent me his notes on the first draft of this book, even though accompanied by a glowing letter saying what a terrific job I’d done, I still had to hide in bed for four whole days before I could muster the courage to address myself to making the necessary changes”

And so, I realized my reaction was normal. That indeed, this whole exercise of rewriting can really get to you.

Molly says, It’s important to being a rewrite only after you’ve accepted the need for it. Approaching it halfheartedly will produce mediocre results.

Don’t you find it amazing how “acceptance” can really make a big difference in various aspects of life?

A few pointers from Chapter1 of the book:
- Speed has nothing to do with excellence
- Writing is a process. Each draft is part of that process. And with each draft, your song gets a little better and closer to what it eventually will be when it’s finished
- Patience is important
- Learning to rewrite is like learning to do anything – you acquire the skill slowly

And so again, I start these exercises, hoping at some point I might build up enough skill. Sometimes I wonder if age has a factor. Perhaps if I commenced at an early stage, I might have achieved a lot more. After reading the book “Outliers”, I tend to ponder on questions like this.

Anyway, I’ve written this down to share with my fellow musicians and friends. Always find inspiration, despite the demise of enthusiasm after a Critique workshop.

Just like what my friend said “At least you know there’s room for improvement”.

Surviving the First Time

It's been a while since I've written down my thoughts. I guess when you get into the downward spiral, even words are not enough to exhume the pain away. That familiar zone can drain the life out of you. And the traumatic effect makes you weak inside out.

When you're fed up on waiting....sometimes you decide on plain surrender that perhaps there's no such thing as "the one". Then you just let it all go...when there's an opportunity.

But then, if i look back again....everything just happened. I didn't expect it. although for some reason, i saw it coming. I just didn't stop. I just didn't put up the walls i usually have. I allowed my vulnerability get the better of me.

The fire..the intensity. The touch. the kiss. the urge. All flared up. not once, but twice.

i thought he was different from the rest. i thought he was special. i thought all he said were sweet and true. i thought he was cute with his blue eyes and charming smile.

i guess i was wrong. for all the adjectives , except for the physical attributes.

honestly, i still don't understand men. They can go without emotions. They can "do" without feeling. How?

The last time I saw him was when he waved goodbye at the carpark. Him and his gorgeous Honda Bike. HIs blue eyes peered out of his helmet as his gloved hand bid my "goodbye". that was it.

I never heard back from him again. I did try to communicate, had a few exchanges, but when i asked for dinner (which might have sounded asking for a serious relationship)....i didn't get any response at all.

that was it. it's been almost a month now. Everything happened so fast. in the span of a week all of that "casual" thing happened. Over the past weeks..I was crashed.

I ended up deleting his number and his messages. Cleared up my call log so i didn't have excuse to find ways of finding his number on my cellphone.

it drove me crazy for days and weeks. There were nights (And still now) that I hear the motorbikes roaring mufflers in the neighborhood and wish that he would text and say that's him downstairs. all of these thoughts just die down as I find slumber through the night.

I was vulnerable. I wanted to be needed. I needed to be wanted. Desired. HE said the right words. He kissed my shoulders with every move I make that rose him up. We talked before closing our eyes, we talked as we woke up.

I guess it was the scenario that I liked. Having someone at the start and end of the day. But perhaps if i was really in a serious relationship with him now...i guess it wouldn't have worked. He's 10 years younger than me. Made me feel like a Puma (not a Cooger). But I have a gut instinct that he lied about his age. HE thought I was 22, until he learned the truth...that caught him by surprise.

The other day I biked towards southwest...and on the other side of the road I saw a biker give me a long glance. I'm sure it wasn't him, but still it gave me goose bumps. Sydney can be a big place...but....i can't see myself bumping into him again.

Some of my friends ask me "what if he calls/texts again". I can't really answer that question. For sure he wouldn't. coz they say if a guy is into you....he wouldn't even let a week pass by without communicating. but this one....it's been 3 weeks now. so that's it.

This was my first encounter. My First time. In a foreign country where I'm still finding myself...my footing.

I don't know if i'm stronger now. Perhaps if i encounter a smooth talker, i won't fall for the mind games anymore. nor even for the blue eyes, charming smile...nor even for a gorgeous bike.

This is still me..surviving the first time.

5 years ago..

5 years ago, I boarded the plane from Manila bound for Aotearoa (New Zealand) via Singapore.

On the 19th of March, due to the aircraft’s technical problems (Gab remember this one? ), I had to stay in Singapore for a day. I guess it was a good way of ending my Singapore chapter as well, working there for less than a year. It served as my stepping stone. It worked as a good pit stop. It helped solidify the ME. It made me understand what I wanted and what I needed. All of that, I brought with me to New Zealand.

Kia Ora, the immigration officer greeted me.

My sister was standing outside. Hugged her. Autumn wind was blowing. We had a toast that night. I started work the following day.

That was 5 years ago. How time flies. I’ve been to places & continents, out and about. Climbed so many mountains. Dived a few seas. Played in a few pubs. Danced in a few clubs. Made good friends and extended families. Rode my bike and watched sunsets. Clicked my camera and captured moments. Watched friends & sister get married and start a new chapter. Casted a fishing rod and enjoyed a snapper for dinner. Shared a lot of coffee/tea moments with good mates. Pitched a tent somewhere where I found silence. Done long joy rides to keep the sanity alive. Puffed a few shishas. Welcomed friends from afar and shared my new Zealand. Started my project of creating a demo cd. Laughed, cried, went through heart aches, woke up with hangovers….

Looking back, I’ll be boarding a plane to New Zealand again. Same time frame.

Had the Sydney opportunity not come along, I would have been boarding a plane bound for Manila instead, via Singapore. Staying in my beloved country for 2 months.

But then…..life has a funny way of twisting things around. (sounds like Ironic of Alanis)

They say everything happens for a reason.. cliché.

They say we are where we are supposed to be…. Cliché.

Let’s see……but for now…and as for this email….. I’d like to say Thank you (with all of my heart) –

- To the people here in OZ who helped me through the last 3 months whilst adjusting in Sydney. For being there. For listening. For the chats & laughter. For the company. For the music. For the roadtrip.
- To the people back in NZ & Manila (my family and friends) who knows me all too well, most especially my moods. For being so supportive. For looking after me, despite the distance.
- To the people back in Singapore, for checking on me…and for the deep conversations …which I so appreciate

Angel Eyes

There are some tunes that make you nostalgic. A sudden gush of memories floods your emotions and you feel warped back to those days when that certain song was playing in the background…

………

Sun light fills the room, the cd churns in our old 486 CPU, Mom and Dad in the kitchen….
… I walk along the corridor towards the backroom of our old house….
… and hear Jim Brickman in the background. Angel eyes playing…

I go back when life was seemingly just plain and simple. Weekends of family’s routine, dog barking at the jeepney’s passing by. “taho..” I hear from outside, and Mom would order it for us…yummy…

Back then complications were actually just petty things…in retrospect.
Our home, our family was our only sanctuary from the harsh realities that bound us to the different anxieties of society.

I hear the rustling of the coconut leaves, summer heat touching my skin, humidity sets in……
… I watch Mom prepare the favoured dinuguan, Dad washes his hands…
My sisters come along to the table and we say grace…..

…… the last few notes of Jim Brickman fades in the background……..

All These Years..From Me

Last Saturday, I found myself finishing a song that i've been trying to work on for a year now. I would usually play the notes on my guitar, but never found the exact words I wanted to bolt on so as to make it the perfect mirrored version of my emotions..my demons. And so, here were the words I've written. I played it for the first time in an open mic last Wednesday. (Excelsior Glebe Hotel)

All These Years.. From Me

Year and Year I've tried to fly away
Free from something, free from someone
Trying to break free from chains

Looking back now I can clearly see
all the pain, all the misery
were all just a mask of me

Chorus:
All these years I've been running away
I've been hiding away...
flying away...
From Me

Shadows fill this emptry four cornered wall
Seasons change outside my door
Maybe I should just fade

Should i go and close my eyes
should i just let it all pass by
Perhaps I'll survive

repeat chorus



sometimes it tires me.. all these thoughts, all these wallowing, all these fears, all these insecurities.....

i'm tired of taking care of myself, of motivating myself...

waking up to mornings where you drag yourself out of bed...wishing you could just snuggle under the sheets..but knowing that you need to go to work and get paid..so you can then pay the bills..and the mortgage..and whatever...

i know there are so many people out there with problems..and listening to my woes..this is just big time Petty....

but am i not allowed to vent...... to rant......to feel miserable?

misery... getting to be such a common place now...

so common...

when will it end :(

can somebody save me?

Passion

I watched him hold on to the portafilter with intimate finesse. He explained the art of “Coffee making” with passion. It’s amazing how the age of the beans mattered so much, such that the spot on day would make a big difference for a customer’s coffee experience. And I guess at the end of the day, that’s what matters.

For the past years, coffee has played a big role in our society. It entwines the social catch-ups with the caffeine addict-workaholic mania as well. Long queues can be seen along the Sydney alleys. People rushing about, holding on to their coffee, treating it as their everyday drug that satisfies their need to be up and awake through the day.

I’m not really a big coffee lover due to my high acidity. Years ago I wouldn’t pass a day without one. But now I’ve learned to control my hunger for caffeine. However, regardless of one’s state, I dared to pursue my nudging desire to learn coffee making. Actually, it’s been so long overdue already.

And so, last night… was my first time to attend a Barista class.  Perhaps another option for me when I retire.

There’s apparently a lot of artistry along with it. Yes, it’s simple to grind the beans and tamp the granules with enough pressure. But, listening and watching someone with the passion of meticulously doing the proper and precise movement, was rather inspiring for me. And true to his word, we did see the difference in crema, colour and taste with each wrong tamping, overfill, underfill, etc. that we did. He also discussed the effect of humidity, etc.

Okay, from a more general perspective… going back to what I’m getting on with…

….. is ….. PASSION.

I remember my Dad telling us when we were kids. IF you’re going to do something/task, make sure you do your best. Well, if you top it up with the mix of passion… then definitely the results would be superb.

Passion is the beautiful articulation of commitment and artistry to one’s skill/gift. And our instructor last night reminded me of that. It’s not just pouring coffee and serving it to a caffeine addict. IT’s the experience they endure through their last sip of that coffee that is wholly derived from a passionate barista’s effort to produce a superb one.

The Art of Love

I came in to work on my office suit, feeling smart. I stared out the bus window and watched the haste of the morning rush. The tune playing on my ipod was “The Art of Love” by Guy Sebastian.

I closed my eyes….and told myself…This is Me.

A picture popped in my mind…the Me in the future.

Future Me in the cobwebs of old age…still staring outside a window, contemplating on life and what to do so it would all make sense. Alone? Yeah. That’s what I saw.

It’s ironic that I picture this but I was listening to a love song.

Perhaps the art of love I’m learning is to just love myself, my family and friends. And that’s it. Period to it all.

And the acceptance that I’ll grow old alone has culminated and has now peacefully settled in my heart. No bitterness….only the art of acceptance.