Things I Associated With My Place

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The mounted drawings are for an exhibit about months ago. I made a collaboration with Ate Monique Cabais, I just call her Ate for seniority purposes but I hardly treat her as older. If I did, she might curse me.

I just like to draw. The process itself is enough for me that the end products doesn’t mean much. If I get anything in return for my drawings then that’s fine. If not, then at least give me something! ( If I gave someone a used-up paper, the least I expect is a substance-20) Or treat me lunch. Or food, (maybe candies? kopiko?) I also like eating that there’s a bigger chance for you to bribe me with food than money.


The theme is about Naga City and our memories of it, but we ended up creating something from our home.

This is my town, Buhi. My family has always been into agriculture, which is a fancy way of saying a farmer. Without my scholarship I wouldn’t be able to study in a private school. I’ve always viewed books and arts as a privilege that I contented myself growing up finding literature and paintings and stories in our old volume of encyclopedia  (thankfully, an agent who knocked on our door convinced my father). But it’s not that bad, learning mythology in encyclopedia is fun (there is always the “look for…” footnotes at the end of the definition). You could see me surrounding myself with piles of books as I try to puzzle the story behind Baldr’s death (seriously, mistletoe!?), or Persephone’s annual vacation in hell! And you can make up stories in your head. For example, I read about the “War of Roses” and just got addicted to Pre-Tudor History. Then I read about the “War of the Martyrs” and immediately visualize martyrs getting all war-like and brutal. But apparently the war happened in a place called Martyrs (I felt cheated).

We don’t have any bookstore in our town, what we have are rentals of pocketbooks and Harlequins. Our municipal library is just one room, smaller than my grade school classroom with most of those books stashed in boxes because there isn’t any room left in the shelves. But I felt more at home in there. I like the librarian. Sir Jean is a great person, he doesn’t mind giving an eleven year old a copy of “Gone with the Wind” by Margaret Mitchell or “Scarlet Letter” by Hawthorne, there is that, and the fact he gives me piggy back and lets me play at his typewriter. I don’t even have a library card anymore but I could still borrow books and if Sir Jean is out, I just leave a note (my name, date and the books with the authors in it) and just take anything that took my fancy, regardless of how many. Unlike our school librarian (who is technically my English teacher in third grade). The books there were all locked away in a glass cabinet. I need to ask for the key before I could get my hands on them. Apparently they don’t trust these “expensive” books at the grubby hands of children.


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