MIRROR BOXES

2011-11-30T09:17:00.000-08:00

Aren't these book clutches just to die for? The term "book bag" has been redefined by Olympia Le-Tan, who was surrounded by her father's wall of books as a child. When she moved out of her family home, Olivia began collecting first-edition books from the 40s and 50s.
I'm completely in love with the Lolita one—you'd often hear me quoting Lolita's first page, only beginning to fumble after "Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did..." But as exceptional as it is, it's not without an equally exceptional price.

Hollow

2011-11-28T06:52:00.000-08:00

   "Have you ever loved someone as much as you hated them?"
   "Why?"
   I've never been able to understand why I felt so much hatred for those I loved. Can it even be called hatred at all, or even love at all? Perhaps it has always been fear — fear of bones and ashes, of what came before and what will come after. Lying in bed, with the curtains drawn and the city lights blinding, I'd whisper to myself, "Never again, never again, never again..." only to find that the words had seeped into my pillow in the night. Hollow with empty promises, it sagged like skin stripped of its bones. I don't want to be loved, I'd tell myself, because I knew how much I did.
   Love me, because love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does.

2011-11-27T05:37:00.000-08:00

The list of things I've never finished continues to grow as a raw reminder of my dissatisfaction. I thought I could use a bit of help.
We'll see how it goes from here.

2011-11-26T09:55:00.000-08:00

The irony of the roaring 20s. If there was one thing I gained from reading The Great Gatsby, it would be this: That the death of a dream is always a silent one — it escapes ever so slowly, leaving behind the echo of its pulse, the memory of the echo, and soon the ghost of the memory. It always unravels incessantly, leaving in its wake trails of itself while the white spaces that separate them grow persistently more vast. But we sink deeper and deeper into the depths of what once was, and as the white stretch of time continues to brighten, we hold on to whatever we can — the memory of a memory.

"I hope she'll be a fool — that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool."

Symphony

2011-08-21T09:46:00.000-07:00

Nighttime—a symphony of sounds. It’s strange how the dry brushing of skin of skin, a sandpaper rhythm, can so clearly paint the picture of your sleeping form, the fluttering eyelids of dreaming and the soft movement of breathing. If I lived entirely by sound, the world would seem so much more beautiful. I would no longer mistake sunset for dawn. I could lace myself between each incision of sound, stretch amidst the silence that waits there, holding my breath to match the slow pattern of yours.

Omen

2011-08-04T06:13:00.000-07:00

Today I saw the world saturated with golden light, in complete contrast with its usual grey pallor, weighed down by the millions of forgotten words and lost hours that cling to the nape of your neck like the perfume of a hot day. Like an omen carried by the wind, I somehow knew it could not be breached. I melted into the unnatural silence, comforted by the unspoken fact that no one would be searching for me—they couldn’t: I’d entered a world that was all my own, yet at the same time a world that would never belong to me. I was suddenly aware of the breathing silence, of a realm that would never to cease to exist, with or without the addition of my beating heart. I heard the aria of the trees, the bells of laughter, the shadowy lurk of sorrow, the faraway pulse of rain—sounds I’d always heard but never quite listened to. I’d found the place where dreams thrive. It could not be seen on any map, but rather, through them.

P.S. I do apologize if my blog has been lacking in photographs. To me, though, it's filled with them. I hope my writing doesn't bore you.

The world of opposites

2011-07-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

I thought that the coolness of the wind must come from the ice in our veins. My lungs had often detected the emptiness of its slow ballet through the trees, but not so much as when the breeze kissed my skin, summoning my blood to the surface in the form of a rose. I’d marvel at those winter mornings when we all looked like pale sunsets, smiling our elegiac smiles of shared sorrow.

I never quite understood the world of opposites, how something so biting could give birth to such warmth. I still don’t. All I know is the fluttering of our hearts is more than enough to draw up a storm primed to consume us all.

Sea

2011-07-27T08:23:00.000-07:00

   The sea for me was not an escape. At sunset she followed my footsteps, crooning in her breathy voice. I heard her midnight screams, numbing the notches of my spine in fear. I stepped out barefoot onto the terrace to observe her with sincerity. The wind pulled my hair as I faced her, hissing, ravenous, clawing at the sand. Soon I grew used to her haunting songs, and in return, she beheld me. She began to caress the earth. She reached out to me, hovering near my cheek. I could feel her tangled in my eyelashes. She smelled of tears and sandalwood. But as I gingerly lifted my own, she retreated to the abyss of her mysteries.
   The dawn began to break, making way for the virgin blues and golds that gradually painted the morning sky. But they were no match for the sea's abstruse hue, and in a way I pitied their bliss, absurd in contrast with her grieving pleas. I breathed in her scent once more, the sandalwood and tears, and she responded with a breath of her own. Like lungs she engulfed the air, vast with the essence of a new day.
   At school I would yearn for her sonnet, breaking the wind's silence with ease. I craved for her angry screams, her elegiac sobs.
   I can recall times when she betrayed me. My father calling out from the shore to my pale form, impervious to his warnings. I crawled towards her slowly, mimicking her cautious movements that first night. Then suddenly a cloying embrace, a lack of air, her touch burning in my throat.
   My father pulled me out of her cold grip. I gasped for air, coughing, feeling my own tears against hers. I ran toward the house, nearly tripping over my soaked towel. Behind the closed doors of my room, she bled through the cracks in the windows, filling the room with a saccharine silence.
   I was the one who shattered it, that pristine stillness.
   Lure me into your motherly pulse. Sing to me the sorrows of your depths.
   I sit here waiting for you.

2011-07-17T05:04:00.000-07:00

Another evening pink with the raw luminescence of the sleepless city.

Meanwhile, I've replaced the laces of my new brogues with black satin ribbon. Brogues and braids, red lipstick and blue chambray. They all resonate with the empty sound of Dolores Haze's laughter.

We can trade places playing musical graves

2011-05-16T10:15:00.000-07:00

Apparently, when a handful of anti-socials are thrown together by their parallel hollow schedules, it all works out quite well.

Thanks to Nicole for the photos!

2011-04-26T22:50:00.000-07:00

These are the handful of books that have been keeping me company on hushed nights, the ones that seem to prolong each second and amplify every footstep by a thousand echos. The Bell Jar is my favorite—raw, sincere, scathing. It’s wonderfully written. Middlesex comes in at a close second. But I'd recommend all of them to anyone looking for a few fulfilling summer reads.

I drew the curtain behind my bed for the first time in months and realized it paints my room with glittering afternoon sunlight that kisses everything it can reach. I should take note of that—the effects of light.

I'm having a bit of a blog-identity crises, switching constantly from Blogspot to Tumblr and back. I think I'll start blogging here, though, hopefully permanently. I don't really have a reason to blog, but I want proof—proof in photographs, in words. Proof—and reassurance—that I was real. In the very least, I want pictures to remember me.

Regardless, early next month I'll be visiting Singapore for a few days. Our hotel is a short walk from the famous Orchard Road, and I couldn't be more excited. My wallet, unfortunately, doesn't quite agree with me.

2010-09-11T08:41:00.000-07:00

Sorry, everyone. I've been drifting. I've had a lot to deal with lately, with ten times as much on my mind. So for now, I just want to focus on fighting off these mental storms.

2010-07-23T01:59:00.000-07:00

New (old) loves and a few other causes of my inability to focus.

2010-07-13T05:46:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago I had a shoot for an upcoming online store here in the Philippines. The clothes were so adorable and I can't wait until the site launches.

"Me and you and Oscar Wilde living inside my bedroom."

2010-06-12T03:18:00.000-07:00

Things my mom recently gave me. (Read: things I endlessly begged my mom to give me/things I inconspicuously snuck out of her room.)

I spent some time at our beach house in Mindoro. It's a lovely little place, but I don't think I would last long there. It's that kind of place where everybody knows each other. Where everybody listens, but never the people you want. It's that kind of place, you know? Plus you have to travel for about 20 minutes for internet access. No, I wouldn't last long at all.

I'm going to be a late enrollee again, even if just a few days late. But this time, it's not my fault. My school is procrastinating and it's making me anxious.

Until the sixth grade, I switched schools almost every year. We were always moving because my parents' plans were never stable. I liked it, though. I never got tired of waking up everyday to familiarity, because I never had enough time to get used to the change.

Fast forward a bit, where I was surrounded by the same people for 4 years: each minute held something familiar, something I felt the day before. It was all so meaningless and boring and I hated it. It was repetition at its finest.

(No more rambling for a while. I promise.)

2010-06-06T17:45:00.000-07:00

2010-05-24T07:55:00.000-07:00

I haven't done anything worthwhile in the past two days. I've looked at pretty photos and sang songs.

How was everyone's weekend? Mine was nonexistent.

2010-04-11T22:46:00.000-07:00

I will admit that I've been a bit invisible lately, and I don't even have an excuse. I've just been lurking, just lurking. Speaking of, I don't think I'll be posting much on Lookbook—not for a while, at least. It just hasn't appealed to me as of late. On another note, I'm getting a Macbook Pro soon, and I'm excited.

Right now, there are 35 days (or 836 hours, if you will) left until I fly to Manila, and I don't think I could be more impatient. Hurry up, May. I can hardly wait to get out of here.

It's 1:40 AM—did I mention that? Maybe that will explain how arbitrarily composed this is. I do apologize.

I've been experimenting with grain and textures quite a bit.

I should probably sleep now, but I'm not going to. Embrace insomnia, I say.

2010-04-02T18:00:00.000-07:00

I had no school today, which I was immensely grateful for. I spent the night at my friend Abby's house Thursday night, and we lazily lounged and chatted and watched movies until the wee hours of the morning. Today the temperature was high and we cooled off by weaving through stores in the mall. Weekends are such a relief, no matter how insignificant they seem.

If you're interested: shorts from Forever 21, blouse I can't remember, and rings, well, I can't remember where those are from either. I apologize on behalf of my always failing memory.

2010-03-23T17:50:00.001-07:00

Cardigan from Forever 21. Skirt from Topshop.

2010-03-16T20:46:00.000-07:00

I find these so interesting and original. Painted by Alexa Meade, who uses acrylics on flesh and clothing. Brilliant!

2010-03-14T17:27:00.000-07:00

I can tell feel the warm weather approaching. The sun is brighter, the wind less bitter.

But I know that as soon as it comes, I'll be wishing for the comforting chill of winter again.