Dance, Like No One's Watching

Nearly a decade since the founding members of Parangal Dance Company assembled to establish the mission of inspiring the preservation of Philippine culture in the Bay Area, our family of artists has significantly broadened its reach and resources to continue that mission along. We have set a standard for presentation, research methodology and dissemination of the cultural artifacts of music, attire, dance, and ritual practices. Our endeavors are encouraging audiences to hear the echo of the archipelago's past and heed its present struggle to remain relevant and unhindered by global forces that threaten the health of its multitude of sub-cultures. We strive to honor what has been and is already there, setting aside unnecessary and extraneous invention that comes easily to creatives in efforts at true preservation.

I still feel so new to it all even now, often reminiscing the day I first witnessed the company's performance under the dome in City Hall, excitedly emailing an inquiry regarding my eligibility to join almost immediately afterwards, too nervous to ask in person. I recall the palpable anxiety of standing in the back of a packed workshop on my first night, not knowing a single soul. We were thrown immediately into the sequence of moves (we all now recognize as the Maguindanao Kuntaw choreography), with me fully cognizant of the long decade between that moment and the last time I stood barefoot on a cultural performance floor, during my time with the Penn State Filipino Association. I remember the warmth and passion of the leaders that commanded that room. I remember the welcome that resonated with the members who stepped forward and made themselves available. I shuddered in fear of my inevitable debut performance at Pistahan (I had to carry the flags). But mostly, I recall the relief and elation that there was this home-base, this available source, for the practice of Filipino dance and music by a committed group of talented and experienced individuals who may or may not have ever known what the absence of that in the life of a Filipino-American like myself can do to our sense of identity, lost in the great melting pot.

I really only craved a new social scene and a place for consistent exercise when I signed on.

But that's just not how the company operates. The family aspect demolishes any pretense or misconception that this endeavor can be just simply 'something to do.' Little did I know that my involvement would then pervade other departments of my life that I didn't know needed bolstering: artistry and creative license, time management, social engagement, community activism, and the honoring of our heritage. Inspiration flowed freely from an adopted commitment to artistic excellence. Education about our culture came, not only from the company's repertoire, but from its involvement in the greater global dialogue, especially with the indigenous communities from which Eric derives and adapts our vocabulary and choreography. Preservation results from the continued passion and integrity of our leaders and artists, in practice and performance. Discovery is felt even in the moments right before we hit any stage; the revelation that we can echo the voices of those far away who are ignored or forgotten, to create and be a part of something greater than ourselves.

And now, the company is enjoying an inevitable phase of growth through its series of tours that have crossed numerous borders, both physically and figuratively, establishing a profile in the global scene as a formidable source of cultural education. We have to recognize, in the shock of stepping foot on major and prestigious stages the world over, that it doesn't only call for our continuation of that mission, but also signals us that the mission is, in fact, working.

And so is laid the foundation for the sophomore decade of Parangal we are preparing for. It will be an investigation into the generations that will follow strong footsteps, a true reflection on the longevity and perseverance of this important mission, and a rewarding effort to continue being an important and resounding voice, in a world filled with noise. Happy 9^th Anniversary to The Parangal Dance Company, and a special thanks to Eric Solano, the founding members and the executive board for giving us an avenue for our creativity and the space through which we can explore our people's rich heritage and share equally in their struggles and celebrations.

Earth Shattering Revelation #35: Get lost in your heritage.

Current Music: Lupa Sug

I Was Here

All creative work is inherently autobiographical. One of the most profound lessons I learned about engaging in artistic endeavors was my ultimate paradox: to at once not be married to the creation's artificiality, discouraged by its deconstruction, or obsessed with its inevitable destruction, all the while acknowledging it as a particularly important and unique lens for a willing audience through which to experience 'you.'

It's strange to think that as eternal as we might like to regard our souls or whatever essence we perceive ourselves to be made up of, some of the only evidence of the greatest creative geniuses out there are these material objects we hang in halls and galleries, or indefinitely hidden away in dark dry rooms (perhaps never to be seen again, ironically), created from the very materials we rightfully attribute as 'temporary.' I'd like to think that maybe someday generations from now someone will pull up a painting of mine and say, "maybe this guy was onto something." The dream.

It's self-indulgent, I know, but I reckon, a universal desire: 

To know that, at some point in this messy existence we shared for a brief time with all the other lucky ones, we had contributed wholly, fully and desperately, in some meaningful way.

Earth-Shattering Revelation #34: Change is the only constant.

Current Music: JJ Grey & Mofro's "The Sun is Shining Down"

The American Dream is Just That

My parents taught me the nature of sacrifice, the power of creation and the value of building something from scratch.

The American Dream is not prosperity. It is survival.

We all must live within our means, be curious about the tribulations of our neighbors, and curb the laziness of having to learn about lifestyles contrary to ours. We're all trying our damndest to live and find it easier to build walls, find others to blame and fabricate adversaries for our own problems.

We choose leaders who give empty promises to fix problems we ourselves create, because we blindly accept or are numb to the truth that we are not able to lead ourselves or find alternatives to live our lives off the path of self-destruction.

We create beautiful things to eat and yet shame ourselves for the enjoyment of them, because we forgot the idea of 'enough', rendering our self-image to falsely perceived psychological constructs, becoming more strangers to ourselves than those who look upon us.  We work ourselves to the ground in punishment, often shaming those who stop to breathe and rest, when it is often too little or sadly, too late.

No other creature on earth (or in the universe that we know of) can live the paradoxes we force on ourselves. Perhaps it is our penance for the gift of choice and reason, though we often don’t use it well and find every way to work against it or be numb to it. Maybe we were the cosmic error that fixes itself in the course of time. A blip. A hiccup. The original sin, the aberration, the beautiful mistake.

I Am Not Enough

"We are all someone's future, and we will all be someone's past."

I think the long silences are enough for someone who's emotions are as loud as mine.  Loud, but honest.  It's been a long exploration of measuring my own worth and compassion for someone I'm supposed to share a life with.

It's difficult to speak to someone who isn't able to listen.

The car broke down not he side of the road.  The tire went flat on such a grey, everyday kind of day.  The problem, I feel, was that it became everyday.  The spare was sufficient in fixing what we needed and that, was just to get home.  It was nowhere near ready for the long road head.

Damage control on all fronts, as I wait for the dust to settle.

Thanks everyone for your support, as my head and my heart are full.

The Mist at the Summit [Turning 30, Part 2]

The summit mist drowned me in thrilling uncertainty, climbing to my own sense of uncharted territory, unable to see the steps that led me there.  The Stairway to Hheaven climb in Oahu is a crazy, disjointed maze of danger, but the thrill is second to nothing I've ever experienced before.


Every step, on that steep, uncertain path is a victory.

There was a point along the crater ridge at the top, when the cloud we sat within thinned and I could see the pin-sized houses in the valley below, I thought to myself, this is it, this is how I'm going to die.  And suddenly all my anxieties dissolved.  Nothing was more important than that moment, and that was enough to get me to the next step.  And the one after.  And the one that finally led to solid ground below.

This next decade is going to test all the uncertain steps to reclaiming myself and fully grasping who I'm supposed to become.

One thing I've realized, though, is I need to stop trying to full myself into thinking I don't wear my heart on my sleeve.  And that the path ahead is supposed to be easy or laid out before me.  Or that the ground is level.

Or that the next step isn't some kind of fall.

The Ballad of the Paper Rose

I arrived in Texas with bad, bad heartache.  The terrible brick wall of realizations that we all go through.  Like many things in my life now, I'm trying to reel back in the ghosts of my Pandora's box I released in the blur of college.  This one, though a remnant of college was an important one to not only reel in but to help dissolve.

That man, the one with the paper rose, who told me everything is going to be okay and that the rose will be for someone who deserved it... I think his prophecy is something I'm ready to allow to come true.  I think his story has concluded.

His name is Jeremy.

Please Don't Disappear [Turning 30, Part I]

I stood there, bathed in the unholy glow of fluorescent lighting.  The rhythmic drip of the kitchen faucet entranced me, paralyzed by the things in my head.  The dishes in that sink, the wash of light.  It's such a sobering, regular feeling being here, hungry, not hungry, not really knowing what's needed and not feeling allowed to want.

There's freedom in truth, and I think a deep part of Mike wanted me to find out that I was not afforded it in plain sight.  I can't get the mail and the gift wrap out of my head, knowing that I won't be in that place again, and feeling the comfort and sense of passion he made me feel.  He woke me up here in this place I chiseled a home from.  Taught me how to open up and fall, how to rebuild myself and how to not care about anyone who tried to show me how.  He gave me a voice.

And THAT is the highest brand of seduction.

I wish i wasn't always in need of such... rescue.  But saying goodbye afforded me another truth: that I in fact can save myself.  I'm looking forward to making you a memory.  And you'll never hear me sing.

Falling in love, should never mean falling behind. Little by little less and less: I dont write much about you at all...but i think thats because you made me happy.  Im trying to prepare for when it all has to go away.

I wish.

A little less.

Current Music: Colin Hay - "I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You"

Quiet, Not Silent

I don't usually take the time to comb through the words I've written;  I guess I operate under an assumption that once they leave my headspace, they have no business cramming themselves back in.  But in the solace of a soothing cup of jasmine and honey tea and with the sound of LaMontagne's myriad heartbreaks offering a backdrop to my journey down memory lane, I open up my journal and my heart, preparing to revisit the ghosts of my past.

I find three truths.  One, I was an angsty, confused, sad, angry, happy and curious... child.  Two, I will always be this.  And three, things will be ok, if not now, then in time.  Always.

I offer three gifts.  One, prayers for the losses as of late, as I feel too many souls have left the Earth in the very recent past.  Two, more words written and much more often, to tell of things I experience, as I feel that knowing other's stories are important to the human condition and the development of a broader sensibility.  And three, to call home more.

I set three goals.  One, to find my faith in things again.  Two, under-promise and over-deliver.  And three, to tell you 'I love you,' and to accept that expecting it in return is something I have earned and am entitled to.

The crisp San Francisco evening offers a quiet ambience to write these words, as the pugs snore in unison upon the bed, beckoning me to join.  I think I will, because there is nothing better in the world than to sleep in a pile of pugs after saying hello to your past.

Earth-Shattering Revelation #33: Too many things live in our head, all the time.  And this is the way thing have always been.

Current Music: JT's "Mirrors" & Rihanna's "Stay

Finally, Peace

"I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice...but still, the place you live is that much more drab and empty that they're gone."
-Red, The Shawshank Redemption

The Saturday summer sun bathed us in the dining room as the sounds of "the young and the restless" quietly stirred in the background.  School had let out and our summer guest of honor was in State College to visit for the next couple of months.  From the kitchen, I heard the clammer of plates and the faint aroma of sweet pork and shrimp hung in the air.

Mamang Sulay was teaching me how to make her famous lumpiang shanghai today.

Moments into her practice, my fingers raced to mimic her movements, her tired and weary eyes fixed in a trance-like gaze upon her epic task at hand, to ultimately feed us one perfect egg roll at a time.  Each egg roll meant the world to her.  Her efforts, care and focus were invested into each equal spoonful of homemade filling, every dallop of egg and seasoning, every carefully cut square of wrapper, every lumpia placed on the stack...  She would roll them with that quiet smirk on her face, as if she was always remembering some inside joke she would tell herself to pass the time.

As she would guide me in learning her craft, I would feel the graze of her warm hand upon my own, guiding it with thoughtful and skilled precision; "so old already," she would say as I would run my finger along the back of her hand, upon the wrinkles that laid across it, each telling its own story. "but that's ok." she would then reassure, "that's how god intended."  As she would finish, "like that" she would say, as her fingers follow the automatic, familiar movements mapped in her head with grace and nuance, fostered by her practiced ritual.....And then she would giggle to herself as she observed me in my inadequacy, and correcting my own work.   And instead of cheapening the experience for me of learning the tradition, she always unraveled her perfect egg roll and insisted that I finish and redo it myself.  And in this practice she found solace and meditation, and stayed there all afternoon as if an eternity would be spent doing it if it took an eternity to finish and finish right.  She rolled each one as if they transported her to a world unfettered by the troubles of this one.  And that was her approach to important things.  She understood that they took time and though perfection could not always be the result, it certainly was a worthy expectation.

Though one of the strongest women I've ever met, she had a knack for creating the illusion of her own youth.  On those summers she would visit, she would have me help her give her hair a renewed color, hiding the years she had earned.  Hardly cosmetic, this was mostly to show the world that she was still relevant, when the world already knew that, insisting we acknowledge her still-capable hands through her heavy heart.  She always insisted on embroiling herself in family politics, even when they no longer concerned her; to see her family ever in turmoil was unacceptable to her.   Even in her age, she carried the burden life would unfortunately lay upon those more readily and easily able to carry it....

She was a true daughter of Claveria.  She had simple and pure sensibilities in a big, busy world.  And as small as she kept her scope, her dreams were always grand; to have all her childrena nd children's children happy, healthy and able to look back and respect all that came before.  To our Mamang, Ursula Llapitan Aguda, a restless and selfless spirit who lived her life never knowing when to be done raising her children and being present in the lives of those she loved and cared dearly for. The champion of mah jong, speeches that needed no occasion, daytime soap operas on lazy summer afternoons and the neverending fried-fish-for-breakfast, before she sends you off to elementary school. She left a vast legacy with her children, grand children, great grandchildren, closely guarded friends and her countless students all over the world.

Mamang passed away, in the company of her children, knowing the love of and remembered by the generations of family she leaves behind, and finally allowed the peaceful rest she has rightfully earned. Heaven is lucky to have her.  its easy today to focus on how she died....but let's not forget that we each were witness to how she really lived.

Mamang, someday, we'll all see you again, and you can sing to us your sweet sweet song.

A Home At the End of the World

Twenty years is an extremely long time for anyone and for anything; the things that really matter, however, need time.  The best of us know this.  I guess I needed to take until the eve of the Mayan Apocalypse to come forward with the darkest, deepest I had; maybe I like drama, or perhaps the just the simple poetry of it all, but I certainly didn't plan it that way, no.  

It began with a question, "How much do you love me?" I asked, as the red wine swirled in my father's hands and their eyes slowly made their way over to me, expressions on their faces illegible through the veil of tears that easily formed.  It continued with a letter my mother took from me as I stretched my hand out to offer it, relinquishing that I wouldn't be able to make it through the whole thing if I had attempted to read it to them.  As I had her read it, my father sat still, contemplative, quiet.  The letter was an understated culmination of the collected thoughts, prayers, concerns, observations and confessions I had amassed all this time about this little aspect of me.  It held my very soul in its words and I hoped it came across that way, because in this singularly most difficult moment of my life thus far, and with every fiber of my being and ounce of energy I had left keeping myself together, I needed to stand by the words therein.  And it ended in quiet relief, disappointment, reflection, confusion, and finally acceptance and understanding.  I don't know if I had ever smiled that wide or breathed that deep in my life, but coming out to my parents gave me a second chance at not finally becoming what I wanted to be, but rather eventually becoming who i've always been.  The sadness they expressed in my confession to them was for the years I spent alone in this state of veiled darkness, carefully reminding me that they were still amazing parents, seeking to protect their child from a frightening, unpredictable world.  And though they admitted that the timing was perfect and that they may not have been ready for this in my youth, "nothing will ever change in our love for you," was their ultimate declaration, carefully setting the tone of my renewed relationship with my parents.

The world didn't end, and i stand here as the dust of my twenty-year long smokescreen settles and lays before me doors I'd never contemplated opening, and for the first time in a long time, I find myself having to be ok with not having a set plan; the calculating and thinking and guilt and constant worry finally found its end.  I didn't have to worry about the next step, and the step after that, and unfortunately for the longest time, steps even thereafter, for every minute, every moment.  I found out, after all the hype, questions, and lip service, and waiting through the moments that led to it, the world, in fact, didn't end.  When the time came, there was only peace.  Inevitable, unbelievable...peace.   Oh, and I guess that whole Mayan calendar thing was a washout too...

As the tears dry, I then ask myself, "what next?"  And I'm ok with not knowing.  And it has been so very lonely for a very long time being me.  I'm not lonely anymore, and I don't think I ever will be again.  And Charlie, I finally understand now how it is to feel infinite.  

Merry Christmas dear reader (if I in fact have any) and I hope for a moment this year, and for all the years, you've found some peace too.

Current Music: Adele - I Found A Boy

Earth-Shattering Revelation #32:  Know your worth and don't dare fall short of it in achievement or expectation.