This is The Ailene.

It all started in New York (like all my stories do), and the pricess look of horror on my godmother’s face when she saw my make-up kit. “What’s that?!” Like she saw me take out the stinking corpse of a dead rat. “You don’t even have brushes!” I think that if she could, she would have burned everything. Within forty minutes (I exaggerate not), she had given me a totally new kit full of Bare Escentuals by Bare Minerals and Chanel, and taught me how to put on my eye make-up.

It’s been four years and I’ve never left the house without make-up on. (Well, unless I know I’m going to the ocean, in which case… Okay, I still put on a little eyeliner and sunblock, and some foundation.) It got so bad that my aunt in Manhattan (where I stayed) actually bought me a face mirror and gave me space where I can put my make-up on in peace. (This is precious, because as you know, Manhattan apartments don’t really have a lot of space.) I’ve been blessed, since then, to have a very understanding fairy godmother, who makes sure that my make-up kit is well-stocked and well-maintained.

I didn’t even realize how much value I put in make-up kit until it got stolen along with my iPod and a vintage Italian bag. All I could think of was “my bag. My music. OHGODDAMMITT MY MAKE-UP BRUSHES! THAT’S $200!!!!!”

On most days, make-up is war paint. I put my face on because I know that each day is a battle to keep inhabiting this space of beauty or rest I’m in. I will not give an inch to depression, despair, discouragement, or any other polluting thoughts. See the dirt on my face? I kill you before you take over my territory.

On some days, make-up is an affirmation. I am beautiful, and I know it. (Might also mean I can pretty much do/wear/act however I want, and I’d still be beautiful.)

On some days, make-up is a reminder and a ward. I am beautiful, even if I don’t feel like it. Even if nobody else except my Creator thinks so.

And then there are days when make-up is a gift. Here, take my beauty, I wrapped it with a nice ribbon just for you. Take some cake, too.

There are good days when make-up is a sharing activity. I sit down with my sisters and we pay attention to our beauty. It was no secret that Esther took a whole YEAR of pampering to get ready for the chance to be chosen as queen. And she surrounded herself with friends while she was preparing herself. And look at how that turned out.

And because we’re all girls here, at least I’m pretty sure you are if you’re still reading at this point, here’s what’s in my daily make-up kit. There’s actually more, but I’ve already spent too much time talking about make-up.

This one’s for all my artist loves, who have the enviable talent of being able to sketch what’s on their minds.

Actually, my idol Rica Camacho-Billano (her of the awesome Playphonics), just asked us on Twitter to give her five ideas for her 100 Days of sketching, and here are the five I thought of:

- What I think of when I think of music
- A dream I just had that I shouldn’t have had
- What a tree should look like
- Pirates
- Maria Makiling

I’m excited. I hope Rica puts up her sketches soon!

It’s raining outside, and I’m letting Sondre Lerche sing my brain into relaxation. He is singing about this man, “his own tragic mirror.” And it sends me into flights of fancy. It also, because all things lead me back to the City these days, reminds me of walking along uptown 86th Street on a dark night: everyone bundled in coats and smiling at everyone who meets their eyes.

I’m thinking of this travel show we’re making and the stuff that I’m involved with. Fleetingly, my mind touches on those things that led to me devoting 75% of my time to passion projects. And the urgent need to monetize each one.

It’s also the sixth day of our prayer and fasting week, and I am realizing exactly what it means when Paul was writing to the Ephesians that we are “rooted and grounded in love.” And why, in the same breath, he goes on some more to say that he hopes that the Ephesians will understand the “breadth and depth and height and width and length” of the unsurpassed love of our God for us. This is the kind of love that I don’t mind devoting the rest of my life to studying, living in, and being rooted in.

I just finished making my presentation for a workshop I’m going to do with some students from the University of Makati on how to become the public speaker they never thought they could be. For a shy, reticent kid from the Projects, it sure is nothing less than magical that I would be asked to conduct a public speaking workshop. I’m excited. I hope I don’t overwhelm the kids.

I am thinking of my battered, well-used, well-traveled Blackberry, and how it either needs to be overhauled or replaced.

I haven’t seen or even touched my Facebook account in a week. It is pure bliss.

I’m waiting for Jacs to email me back his registration form because he, Stef and I are going on the second part of our Don’t Tell Our Mothers adventure. This time in beautiful, rugged, raw Calaguas Island. (My own personal emerald gem.)

I am not thinking of you.

I am thinking of tomorrow, and how January seems to be spinning more crazily than December ever did.

Is joy something you fight for? Or something you just have? If I am to have joy, do I need to guard it, protect it? Or is this one of those don’t-strive kind of things? You know how some Christians say it: if you’re fighting for it then you’re trying too hard and then it’s not from God. Is this even a topic I should be concerned about? It’s all confusing.

I posted this as a status message on my Facebook page, fully knowing the repercussions of questioning a fundamental idea in my faith. But I just had to. I seem to have forgotten how this whole joy thing works in my life. Does it come automatically with salvation? Does it hold up in times of testing? Will it stay still if I stumble and nearly fall?

Where is joy when I need it? Or does one pursue it, as the Masons pursue happiness?

What if I am not happy, or feeling particularly joyful? What if I acknowledge the bleakness of my situation and the loneliness that takes me captive at night? Does that make me a sinner? A weak woman unworthy of the grace extended to me?

I don’t know why I’m even bothering, but I was a big G.I.  Joe fan back in the days, so I might as well keep on watching these ridiculous films. And did I blink or is Bruce Willis in there, too? (And was the first G.I. Joe movie that bad, because, you know, I cannot remember Dwayne Johnson ever being there. But he’s here now.)

AND WOW, 21 JUMP STREET’S IN THE 21ST CENTURY NOW! And man, the trailer’s funny! Okay, I’m watching. (I’m easy like that.)

Then there’s Chuck Norris’ newest film. I hope the Expendables are ready to be the brunt of every Chuck Norris joke created in the online universe. It doesn’t even say anything about the plot, all it does is just show who’s in the movie. Or rather, who’s not. Now that’s a trailer.

Now, I wasn’t THAT big a fan of M.I.B. 2, but this one looks waaayy promising. Two things: I’ve always wanted to jump off the Chrysler, and I want to know how they made Jack Nicholson look like a caricature of his younger self.

Now when I found out that they’re doing yet another Underworld movie, all I could think of was “my gosh, they’ve heard about Mano Po and want to do the same thing. Only with vampires. Damn, that’s brilliant. Those Hollywood bastards.”

Then there’s Christopher Nolan’s next installment in the Dark Knight saga. This is just going to be a wicked trip, of course. I mean, it’s Christopher Nolan and what must be the world’s emo-est superhero. I am prepared to be in awe of Nolan, as usual.

And of course, there’s that movie where Thor meets Iron Man.

But this one I am crazily excited for. I’ve always wished that Ridley Scott would start directing stuff like Blade Runner or Aliens again, and here he comes out with Prometheus, and man, am I happy.

2012 is apologizing for the lack of watchable movies by 2011.

I want to tell you about so many things.

1. How awesome Ruby Veridiano is. And how one of these days I shall sit her down to write about her legit awesomeness.
2. How I’m excited for the Sari-Sari Sounds and Republikha mash-up that’s coming in 2012.
3. Nino Hernandez’s art in Nectar + Nix Puno’s underrated works.
4. How I got Sarah Meier and Vicky Herrera’s Unscripted book last Saturday. And a cupcake.
5. The love I get from Patti Malay, Maan Villanueva, Maan Pamintuan, Heidi Franco, and Owie Burns-Dela Cruz.
6. Books (which are like friends, only they don’t stop talking about themselves) I’ve read recently: J. R. Ward’s Lover Avenged, Cassandra Clare’s Mortal Instruments (all of it), Michael Scott’s The Secrets Of The Immortal Nicolas Flamel (all of it), George R. R. Martin’s A Song Of Fire And Ice (all five frustrating, thick books of it), L. E. Modesitt’s Spellsong Cycle (the first book there, anyway).
7. The real story behind the Techy Romantics‘ newest single, Escape.
8. How I got all starstruck when I sat between Raimund Marasigan (Sandwich, Eraserheads) and Cyril Sorongon (Silverfilter, Lovecore, producer of the Techy Romantics’ new album) and they talked music.
9. The Techy Romantics’ new digital albume: because it’s that good and it deserves a post all by itself.
10. Maginhawa hits mixed with New Jersey weirdness.
11. Comedy Cartel with my cousin + Chihuahua Mexican Restaurant.
12. Tarsem Singh’s The Immortals, and why I like it despite violent disapproval.
13. Watching New Girl episodes with my lovely cousin Adrienne.
14. Reaching the turn where 2011 becomes 2012 – and how it is all lovely, crazy, quiet, and smooth.
15. Carlos Castano and Julianne’s song “Permanence.”
16. Rediscovering post-core/progressive rock music, and I missed all this crunchiness and grit in my life.
17. My new things: longboarding, fly yoga, MBA.
18. Going through you (yes, you) to know that it is possible for love to be defrauded, and to move on from you, and reach out for more of that real, true, deep, big love that waits for me so sweetly.
19. And since we’re on love: the big flood of love I feel for my clan. Mine, they are mine, and they are crazy and loud and super fly.

I just need to find a quiet spot to sit down and write out my thoughts. December spins on like crazy.

By the way, I’m a self-professed aholidayist (kind of like an atheist, only I believe in God, I just don’t believe in holidays), so here’s an awesome Christmas carol from one of my favorite godbrothers (they’re all talented like heck in their own ways):

I worked in the advertising industry for three years. I was an accounts executive for a tiny design company that handled below-the-line needs for real estate developers, banks, and the occasional restaurant. It was fun, totally educational, and prepared me for everything that I ever needed to learn to be a marketer. I got yelled at, learned how to put on make up and how to wear a skirt, and more importantly, I learned that Murphy’s Law didn’t become a law for nothing.

One of the most important lessons I learned while I was in the “industry” was about the tenacious and fragile line between letting your client have what he/she wants and exerting your own rights as a design firm. When we decided to trade ideas and creativity in exchange for money, we already chose to be on the losing side. After all, how can anyone really put a price on creativity? On ideas? On those squiggles of lines that you’ve put in an ad that made it look extra cool and had people actually believing that sad tag line? So you don’t want to be exploited. Neither do you want to be underrated.

One of my informal roles as an account executive was to make sure that the line between client and design firm will be respected at all times. Here’s why: because you don’t want an Annoying Client and you don’t want to be the Obnoxiously Self-Righteous Design Firm.

The theory: We get the clients that we deserve. If we let them, our clients can easily become The Client From Hell. To avoid this, all we account executives need to say is: “No, we can’t do that.” That sentence can mean you’re probably turning down extra income, but it also ensures that you get a STEADY stream of income for the coming months because Client will never have the chance to become Annoying Client, and will instead become Client Who Totally Respects You For Being A Professional. Not many account executives learn this, sadly, and so they become those irritating and dumb sales professionals that nobody ever really wants to work with because they promise too much to clients and let their clients have their way one too many times. (You know you’re one of them when people don’t want to have lunch with you at work.)

At the same time, your artists, if given the chance, have the tendency to become the soul of an Obnoxiously Self-Righteous Design Firm. Graphic artists, no matter how talented they are, will not put in the extra work if they can get away with it. Who wants to do that? They get paid the same amount anyway, because they get billed by the hour.

One of the things I had to learn was how to think like an artist. I asked them to teach me Photoshop and Illustrator and InDesign (I drew the line at Corel, that stuff’s complicated), and all the programs that they use, and then asked them to talk to me about design processes and watched them while they’re at work. This meant that I really know what I’m talking about when I tell clients that “no, we can’t do that,” and it also means that I know when to yell “BLUFF” when my artist says “no, I can’t do that.”

It’s a beautiful balance. And one which I wish most people would get now that I’m in marketing and business development, and I’m watching all these sales people going around trying to close that sale and reach those seemingly impossible goals. It’s kind of sad to see them bungle up an account simply because they promised too much or let their clients talk too much or because they didn’t even bother to learn the production process.

There’s a line. Learn where it lies, then reinforce the hell out of it.

This will help you sleep better at night. (Might also mean closing sales.)

Baler was the chillest weekend in the history of chill weekends. And I had plenty of them this 2011 (weekends that stretched out into the weekdays, and then blurred into each other until I couldn’t tell where one started and one ended).

It was the first Surf & Music Festival organized by Travel Factor (this travel group that I always joined because, well, my cousin sometimes works for them) and Aloha Boardsports. My office mates were joining me, and my cousins, too. And their friends. And their friends’ cousins. And there was the Travel Factor people, who always managed to make things crazy and wild and fun.

I can just type “It was crazy and wild and fun, that weekend. Hedonism at its funnest.” and that would be the entire weekend in a nutshell. But where’s the fun in that, right?

If you’re in the mood, well, here’s the blow-by-blow:

We left Ortigas at 11PM on Friday night. It wasn’t the world’s most comfortable bus ride; I’d just come from a killer yoga sesh and my legs were aching. In Tagalog, nangangawit like hell. When I woke up we were in Baler, and it was 7AM. We were checked-in just like that, and next thing I know we were exploring the long stretch of beach (sand was black, like it was mixed with soil or loam, which makes sense to me as Aurora seemed very lush and verdant) and by the time we reached the lighthouse, where they’d set up the registration for the surfing lessons, we were told to go back, get our rash guards, and get our free surf lessons.

It was a day of good waves. Like the sun, surf and wind were conspiring to give us the best welcome to Baler. So we surfed. I’m happy to report that I finally learned how to pump and how to duck under the waves with my board. I also stood up a lot, which is a relief, because I’m the world’s laziest surfer.

After surfing, we went to the BBQ lunch, where my friend Dane went all competitive on our asses and won herself one of the nice shirts from Travel Factor. Spent the early afternoon lazing around beside the ocean, nonsensical conversations, a lot of cold drinks nearby, and the wind in our hair. After that, we spread our sarongs under some coconut trees, and slept.

And slept.

And took photos.

And slept.

The first night’s line-up was awesome. Coffeebreak Island got us all dancing and grooving and my cousin’s surfing instructor jumped up on stage and sang the entire song from memory. Tropical Depression was… well… Tropical Depression. It was at this point that I realized that I can’t handle reggae for more than 20 minutes. After that I just feel stoned and sleepy. So it was that by the time Franco came on, I felt like I was having one of the worst trips in my life.

The good news is: Franco took his shirt off. That’s all you need to know.

Oh, alright, maybe the crowd went wild, and ALL OF US knew the lyrics to ALL the songs. Because that’s Franco yo. He knows how to get us electric. I love that he did Collie Herb. Best throwback to reggae ever.

Also, must note that we turned the “oh-my-gawds” of the female host of Night 1 into a drinking game. I am no light drinker, but I found myself tipsy before Franco came on. She even managed a double “oh-my-gawd.” (Worth two quick shots.) I didn’t know that was possible.

Good thing Franco took his shirt off.

Alright, moving on…

The second day dawned with grey clouds and rain. Didn’t stop the amateur surfing competition from happening, though. We camped out at the beach, all 600 of us participants, with our beach blankets, food, and alcohol. Which we weren’t supposed to have. Which we kept getting told we shouldn’t have. Which everybody tried to dispose of by ingesting, of course. (You’re in the Philippines, after all.) Note: This is a MUST in all beach trips. No beach trip is complete if you do not sit by the side of the ocean and just watch the waves with food by your side. I mean, what’s the point of a beach trip if you do not willingly degenerate into a vegetative state?

I ended up being quite the stage cousin and risked dignity (the waves were strong enough to drag my bikini bottom with it) and pride (who is my lovely Lumix, my baby, etc) just so I can get videos and photos of my awesome cousin Ayla, who, even with sore muscles, was able to get into the semis.

I can’t remember anymore what we did in the afternoon. All I know is that suddenly it was evening and we were on our way to the town to buy the second bottle of tequila and we were setting up tables in front of our rooms and all of our friends were trying to hear Foster The People from the dingy iPad.

A blur, then, of people dancing crazily (CRAZILY) to DJ Joey Santos (who I remember from those days when I used to beat the mob that showed up at Ponti for Take Me Back Tuesdays), and then to Pedicab (who was waving a long red stick… phallic much?), and then it was Wolfgang.

It was epic.

The next day was our last day, and most of it was spent packing. Okay, I lie: we went to the beach for one last morning in the sun, where I tried and figured out how to match the color of my arms to my tummy (fail, that), and then I went for a swim, and we were in the bus before I even knew what was happening. Note: I really love swimming in the ocean, especially one that’s unapologetically strong-waved. It is like getting punched in the stomach and then shoved down and makes for quite a refreshing thing. Nothing like it. What I do is I dive down under the wave, right at the moment before it curls. And you hear a roar like nothing else.

A part of me wished that I stayed (I could’ve, with my cousin Ayla), but I knew that if I stayed it would take me at least a week to get over being stoked.

All in all, a satisfying adventure. One that I will make sure to replicate next year.

I want to talk about how my body rebelled its way into eating healthy, or to put it more bluntly: how it forced me into healthy living.

Every time I try to eat pork or junk food or mystery meat (translated: cheeseburgers, Quarter Pounders, and lately, even my much-loved Whoppers), I either throw up within the first 24 hours, or have really bad bowel movement for the next two or three days. This past week, when I tried to eat pork (lechon kawali and bagnet) and burgers for four straight days, I finally ended up becoming painfully sick until yesterday. I was actually unable to get out of bed from debilitating, burning pain and diarrhea.

Maybe it’s yoga’s fault.

This isn’t the first time that I heard of a yoga practitioner suddenly unable to eat meat. And the effects of pork is very real for us. Suddenly, we can smell every burnt strand of meat, and when we do eat pork, we sweat it, and the smell of cooked meat on your flesh is just… nasty. Eating pork also makes us heavier, tighter,… all this inexplicable weirdness. So we just avoid pork. Much the same way that Eragon suddenly couldn’t eat meat anymore when he started studying with the elves. ¹

Or maybe because I actually started eating right and now my body realized that hey, eating right is good for us. We’re lighter, stronger, more focused, and less prone to depression and emo-ness. Let’s keep going at it. If Ailene doesn’t want to help us out, let’s make her sick until she sticks with the plan (which, I think, is: EAT WHOLE FOOD ONLY).

So this is a good thing, I know.

I don’t know how many pounds I’ve lost exactly, but I don’t really care. (I hate numbers.) All I know is that I’m lighter, I can fit in my 0P (read: size zero-petite) clothes again, and rediscovering my the curves and dips of my own body. (Because, hurrah, curves and dips are in the right places again.) The best part is that I can run longer, exercise longer, and can do even more ridiculous things with yoga that sufficiently grosses out and fascinates my friends.

I also seem to have a diet that works for me. I eat a crazy heavy breakfast that’s full of carbohydrates and proteins and anything I want, for lunch it’s anything high-fiber (which is usually just one corn on the cob and a tiny little cup of yogurt and jelly), for dinner I’ll snarf down a soup or salad, or a light sandwich. Then I eat fruit in between. It also helps that I only drink alcohol once a month. Do you know that there are around 300 calories in ONE bottle of Red Horse? I love Red Horse, but that’s a LOT of calories. And I would binge on wine, as I heard it has antioxidants, and antioxidants are supposedly good for me, but the only wine I would deign to drink is in the P1000++ and up category, and that’s too much money for antioxidants. I also started just choosing to eat right. Water instead of iced tea or soda, fish over chicken, vegetables over fish. Definitely no pork unless I want to live in the toilet again for the next two days. And water, water, water, water. Just hydrate myself to death.

So far, so good.

It’s just that I miss pork like crazy. I’m Ilocano, and not eating pork is blasphemous to my heritage.

But if I keep going at this, then I know that in no time I’ll be heading on to my next goal after yoga: aerial silk.

It was totally unexpected that I’d find myself in a spacious Saguijo ¹ last Thursday night. Julie ² had a long set there and I’d just come from Rica (Playphonics) and Aia’s (Imago) gig in Elements, Greenbelt. I wasn’t even sure I would make it to Julie’s gig (I barely had enough money for a cab), but I was with my cousin, and he was more than willing to pay for the damages.

It was unexpected how much pleasure I took from the music that I heard that night.

I have always been a groupie (always have, and always will be), but for the past year or so, there’s just not been anything that made me wax poetic about music. “I’m losing my spark,” I kept whining to my friends.

Maybe it was a combination of a lot of things: my being thirsty for “real” music after such a long period of musical wilderness, the emotional landscape I was caught up in, my excitement that I was barely 24 hours away from traveling to a new place, or that Rica, Aia and Julie are women very dear and close to my heart. That before I met them and loved them, I loved their music first. I remember stalking Imago back in the Noughties, memorizing Imago’s hit songs that seem to be the fodder for videoke these days. Rica’s voice has always overshadowed the rest of her band’s prowess for me. She sings with such dark haunting spirit, and she will always be, for me, equal to Bjork’s musicality. Julie, on the other hand, is all peaches and cream and introspection and she always manages to sing the music that walks hands in hand with my heart.

And to have that one Thursday night where it was all about my lovely ladies and their music… It was pure pleasure and magic. It was kind of funny because all three ladies said the same thing before their sets: “I can’t wait to play!”

Later that night, (or early Friday morning), I was just sitting in a corner of Saguijo, listening to the Hard Hat Area forget about performing and just make music. If you’re a musician, you know what I’m talking about: there is a deep kind of pleasure that you only get with unpretentious music, music that enjoys itself and the company of people it was with, and just takes pleasure by the hand and dances with it.

I thought it was a fitting way to start a long weekend.