IN THE WORKS @going-lightly - Tumblr Blog

Another shot, a semi-fresh chance -- still the same old (super) Mags.

And yet again: a manifesto

How many fucking times have I said, “I should write more?” Over this past year alone, I’ve probably uttered my intent to write (read: blog) more often around 10 times — I’ve probably written the thought down thrice as many times. And yet, here we are: a new post, months after the last.

It’s not like I don’t try. I mean, I start sometimes— I jot down ideas, I write the beginnings of posts. But man, there just isn’t any follow through. And I always thought that was okay because part of my job is writing. But recently, I’ve let go of “the job a million girls would kill for” to move on up the publishing ladder. Ladies and gents, I’m now the Art Director of all of Rogue Media’s digital assets. While that might be thrice the workload, that means almost 0 writing for me soon.

That’s where this whole blog thingamajig comes in. Or well, at least, I hope it is. Hopefully, my upcoming trip to New York starts a spark in me. But really, who knows if I’ll end up blogging regularly again?

As always, as ever: wish me luck.

Yesterday, I found myself in the middle of a conversation about forgiveness -- take note, a conversation not wherein sorries were exchanged but where the idea of apologies and all that come with ‘em was discussed.

While the conversation itself was really specific as it was trying to address a personal matter, I guess the conclusion we arrived at is something worth sharing. It’s not entirely new but sometimes we need to be reminded of it:

When it comes to doing things -- anything really, I suppose, but with saying you’re sorry most especially -- you have to do it because you want to do it. And if you really wanna do it, if the person and your relationship with him/her really matter enough, you will do it. It can be scary, yeah, but fear is just another excuse. And really, when you can stomach any excuse at all not to do something (aka apologize), you probably just don’t want to do it enough. The person and the relationship you have with him/her just probably isn’t worth the trouble to you.

You can say that each situation is different, yeah I guess. But really think about it at its core: you don’t say sorry to be forgiven (that’s a welcome reaction, though), you say sorry to let the person know you’re sorry -- that you regret what you did or what happened. To only apologize when you know you’ll be forgiven... Doesn’t that seem to lack sincerity?

Been trying to draw more again

Backtracking 002

Wherein I post thoughts haphazardly strung together on notepads and paper scraps

Fix yourself, the voice in my head that oddly sounds like my own tells me for the nth time. A heaviness I can’t control runs through my veins and weighs me down. It’s a Monday morning and I feel like shit. But what’s new? Not this feeling, that’s for sure. I can feel contented — happy, even — for months and then this blackness comes back. It’s never new, just fleeting.

Last night I found myself praying for love — not a romantic relationship, I found that about half a decade ago. After mulling over a horrible hate crime, I found myself asking for a greater capacity for kindness, for a default predisposition to goodness. There is so much hate in this world already (too much, to be honest) that the shade and sass I dump on social media every day no longer merits space. Why am I so hateful? Why is there a need to resent others so much? Who says that my way is the best way, anyway?

I talk about my disdain for the internet a lot. Although it has helped us rocket into the future in unimaginable speeds, I honestly think it’s making us regress. I think it makes us compare more, envy more, hate more. I think it opens us up to idiotic ideas that were probably disproved in the past but are somehow convincing as conspiracy theories online. I think it makes us all pretty horrible after a certain point of saturation. Or, well, at the very least it’s making the worst parts of humanity (if you can call it that) known.

Backtracking 001

Wherein I post thoughts haphazardly strung together on notepads and paper scraps

It’s a cold Monday night — my first night back at work and back in the city from a very long Easter Weekend. I time out and make my way to the sidewalk to wait for a jeepney to take home. I feel the slight chill in the air and hear the clacking of my low, block-heeled sandals against the grey concrete and somewhat suddenly, I catch myself smiling. Somehow, at the end of a long commute back into the city and an even longer work day peppered with boxes of Dunkin Donuts and interactions with missed friends, I realize that my life is good — that I’m happy.

This feeling carries on.

Today, it’s Thursday and I still feel a constant little shot of contentment running through my veins. It keeps my spirits lifted, it makes me work better. I don’t want for much lately, not in a material sense or emotional sense or spiritual sense. I smile more, I laugh more. I realize that this is what is called gratefulness.

This is how it starts — trust me, I know it well. One day he'll take an hour to get back to your message and the next he'll take two. It snowballs intro three and four and five until he starts beginning to reply in intervals consisting of days. It won't matter if it's a simple hello or a straightforward plea for his attention because perhaps you're sad, or mad, or just a little lonely. From there, he starts to tell you that he loves you nore often. It becomes a punctuation mark to all of his sentences. "Love you." "Love you." "Love you." But without the "I," doesn't it sound more like something he's convincing himself to do rather than a declarative statement of truth? And then he'll cancel plans, one after the other. He'll always be too busy. He'll always be unavailable. He'll always have his hands full — hah. Although pet names were never a common practice between you two, he will slowly stop calling you by name. It'll sounds sweet — adorable, even. But it's just because he can't allow himself to mess things up. One day you'll get a message from a concerned friend that doesn't mean to meddle but does so for your own good. Him. A girl. That girl not being you. The story will swirl in your head and burn images in your brain. You won't want to believe it and you initially don't — but you ask him anyway. He denies it just to take it back 30 minutes later. "But what if I do like her?" And that's the moment your heart breaks, the moment you slink into a shell and you lose virtually all of your faith and trust in the world. And after that, nothing is or ever will be the same in the way your innards work. Your system will adapt, you will find strength. But you will also find coldness. Lots of it. From here on out, you will feel the looming presence of the possiblity of not being enough for someone. A black cloud of fear will hang over your head — it's only a matter of time before everything falls to ruin again. And so you turn colder. And someday, because of this one guy who cheated on you, you might just freeze to death. Trust me. I know it well.

샐러드의 날

Jullian Culas of Professional Models Association of the Philippines (PMAP)wears Salad Day Photography by Andrea Beldua Styling, Art Direction by Mags Ocampo Grooming by Joma Bernardo Creative Direction, Production by Andrea Beldua and Mags Ocampo

Full set here.

#photoshoot #salad day #fashion #weird #asian

Tonight I feel fleeting. I feel temporary — in so, so many ways.

Do you ever wonder how people will remember you when you leave? If they do at all, that is.

There is so much — too much — digital noise.

Everyday we are bombarded with other people’s images, words, thoughts, and opinions, pummeling towards our screens a million miles a minute. We are vulnerable to comparison due to our introspective natures and to instant dissatisfaction thanks to the possibility of instant gratification. And for some reason, we think we can combat all the turmoil inside of us — all the negativity that burns our intestines like sharp acid — by putting ourselves out there more.

Do more, post more, show more, share more.

We think if we can appear happy enough online, maybe we’ll be living lives worth being happy about. We think that if we try hard enough to match the people that make us want to rip ourselves into tiny shreds, we’ll somehow be okay. We think that if we could only be a little more popular, a little more well-liked, perhaps we’d finally like ourselves, too.

But external validation can only get one so far. Opening your heart to the world and baring your soul — those are things not to be taken lightly. In a world where anonymity is an option and hate spreads like a plague every now and then, we might just be doing more damage to ourselves than good.

For all the help it’s able to extend in terms of education and communication, I’ve somehow come to hate the internet. Yet, simultaneously and sadly, I cannot live without it.

It’s 2016 and now, more than ever, we have so much information at our disposal — all kinds of data ebbs and flows through the invisible pathways of cyberspace.

It’s 2016 and I really just want less. I just want it to be quiet.

Question: What if I never left?

But why does that even matter?

There is no love quite like a grandfather's.

I forgot your birthday

Yesterday was an ex-friend’s birthday and I felt horrible for forgetting.

Yup, you read that last sentence right. For the past four years, I’ve greeted this friend on the dot as the clock struck twelve to mark her birthday, I’ve gotten her gifts and given her hugs. This is a friend who spoke about eyelashes like waterfalls and faces that remind her of sunflowers at my 18th birthday. This was a friend who I genuinely thought I’d keep forever.

But things change and people change and friendships end and life goes on and on and on.

Is it just me, or do you ever wistfully think of the people you’ve lost in life even when you were the one who decided to pull away? Even when you honestly know your life is better off without them?

There’s a certain sort of regret that comes with letting go of people you feel like you’ve come to know so well. There’s a pang of guilt that comes with not being able to share the latest news on certain topics with people that you know would really appreciate it (be excited, even) but that you are now estranged with. There’s an odd feeling of wasted time and effort — you could have shared the special moments of your life with people who’d stick around longer — even if you know deep in your heart that whatever era of your life you did spend with them, you spent full of genuine love.

I want to say I miss certain people and certain points in my life without having anyone misconstrue it as me wanting any of that back. I look back at certain memories fondly but would rather not relive them — does that make sense?

I am better off without these people, I know that. What happened between us happened and that can’t be changed — I don’t need it to change nor do I want it to. What happened opened my eyes as to what they were really like as human beings and I didn’t like it. I want to say I still don’t like it but hey, I hardly even know them anymore. My sentiments wouldn’t be valid.

My point is, a part of me does feel bad because there were some parts of those relationships worth saving — there were bits and pieces of the people I once knew still gleaming in the sunlight. But again, what happened between us happened and I’m okay with that. I’m okay with this. In fact, most days I think I’m happier without the weight and toxicity of those failed friendships.

But, I’m still sorry I forgot your birthday.

For Miko, for Bianca, forever ago

It was a cold Friday morning and we had just debated about the flat and stark whiteness of the gloomy sky — a personal pet peeve of mine but apparently a blessing of diffusion to photographers like you. You snapped away at the food we were there to feature. We'd been working together to bring this story to life for the past two weeks and throughout that time, I'd like to believe we found ways to deepen our friendship. Then the familiar intro echoed throughout the empty coffee shop. You jumped up in surprise, a huge smile across your face. I laughed at the uncanny coincidence — you were, after all, singing the same song just the night before. You took the seat beside me and some sort of solemnity suddenly came across your face. You told me how it was a Sunday when for some odd reason you had Bon Iver's For Emma on repeat. Your band used to cover this song a lot and on that particular lazy day, you had the live version on loop. But then you got the call. She told you that one minute he was there and the next he was gone. Life had changed in an ordinary instant. Your bandmate, your friend — just like that, gone. And I sat next to you, blinking back tears. I knew all too well how much weight that kind of news chucks onto you — how the sudden impact seems to linger endlessly, how the heaviness never goes away. We shared stories of loved ones and potential friends that we've lost. We laughed at our own tears because, really, what else could we do? We talked about life and death and the little in-betweens. We fondly remembered those who've gone ahead and reminded ourselves that their memories will always be more than just "forever ago."

Remember me as a time of day.

Perhaps to you I am dawn -- a sign of new hope, of new beginnings, a peaceful quiet that lets light leak in gradually. Perhaps I am your motivation, like a tall glass of milk at six in the morning or the light stretches you do before your five-AM jog. Perhaps I am your daybreak, something in me has started something in you.

Or perhaps to you I am noon -- the peak of sunshine, a touch of warmth, a break from a busy day. Perhaps I am your release, like a cigarette break three minutes after one or a quick trip to the salad bar down the road at a quarter to twelve. Perhaps I am your midday, a part of you that cannot be evaded.

Or perhaps, still, to you I am dusk -- a dangerously alluring mystery, a moon with many phases, a sky of stars. Perhaps you have seen the worst in me. Perhaps you’ve watched my colors drain from pink to orange to black -- the blackest of blacks. Perhaps you see in me a light from the past, distant memories you will to keep alive. Perhaps all that’s left between you and me is residue -- stardust -- and the artificially warm glow of hazy street lamps.

tiny truths on being unpretty

Most days I’m okay with the fact that I no longer see myself as attractive. That may come off as surprising from a 21-year-old girl — I mean, it’s not like I’ve lost my youth or anything. Plus, aren’t twenty-somethings supposed to be into themselves? It’s definitely (for some unknown reason) socially acceptable at this damn age to think you’re the hottest shit in town.

But I do not.

Lately, I’ve been avoiding cameras and mirrors. For some reason, seeing my own face displeases me. There is something about the sum of my parts that just doesn’t seem right — as though things don’t add up properly. I like my eyes. I like my lips. My nose could be better but I don’t hate it. I’m happy to have a long, slender neck and deep-set collarbones. I personally think my haircut is cool and that my brows are always on fleek. But somehow, when I zoom out and look at everything together, I cringe. I walk away. I hide.

But as I said, I’m okay with that on most days. I’ve learned to live with it. It’s not like I’ve given up on my self presentation — I still love dressing up (I still believe I’m fairly good at it) and I still love getting made up (I’ve even been experimenting a lot lately — blue eyeliner, black lips, etc.) — it’s just that I’ve given up on the thought that I’m pretty in any way. Interesting, perhaps. Pretty, I guess not.

But today is not one of those days. Today is one of the few days I feel the pangs of being unpretty in my early 20s. At this point in my life, I am bombarded by confident (or at least seemingly confident) young women with hot bods, flawless faces, and boys dangling off of every single finger of both of their hands. And even if the last part isn’t anything I aspire to have at all in this life, I feel left out. I feel insecure. I feel like I am not enough.

Lord knows how many years I’ve battled with that last feeling — in many ways, not just regarding my physicality.

On days like this, I find myself just a tad bitter, a tiny bit resentful. And, of course, I end up angry — mostly at myself for caring so much, admittedly at other women who just aren’t unpretty. I allow myself to feel this anger for a bit. I know it’ll pass and I know that I need to let myself feel. Still, I also know that being angry over this is stupid — that I just shouldn’t be, you know?

So I try to convince myself that I am more — that beyond my pudgy nose and saddle-bagged thighs, I have a creative mind, a way with words, an unbeatable drive, and so much more to offer this world, to offer to people. Sometimes, I retort, “but do people really care about any of that anymore?” And it really does take a while to answer myself each time I ask. It gets harder and harder because I see people who get so many privileges just because of their looks — because of good genetics, something granted to them by chance.

And the only way to truly help myself get over, well, myself is to work. Work, work, work. When you’re busy, there’s not time to feel bad about or for yourself. There is only work.

So despite the fact that I want to bury my head in a pillow, scream, then proceed to Google random WikiHows and Pinterest hacks to make myself beautiful, I have opened TextEdit and my work e-mail. Here’s to another all-nighter.

#personal

I am much more guarded than I used to be. When, how, or why that changed, I still don’t know.

All I know is I went from that girl in high school who could fit in with anyone from any clique and make a conversation last for more than 5 minutes, the girl with the blog who told complete strangers her life story and didn’t regret any of it to the girl who doesn’t know how to make new friends in alien spaces, the girl who sneers at social media and just can’t believe that anyone is real anymore and therefore chooses not to participate.

To be honest, I liked the former more than the latter. I’ve learned a lot in this 22-year-long life and I’ve gone through the motions of love, joy, pain, grief, anger, and disdain. I wouldn’t give up any of that -- I like what I know, I like how I am. Except, I don’t like how I have my guards up.

I need to re-learn how to let the people close to me all the way in and how to let other people have a peek of my soul just to know about me about -- just to somehow test the waters, to see if we can click.

Social media has made me a cynic. And I fucking hate it. I’m scared of coming off as gratuitous or looking like I’m ingenuine -- those are things I would never wanna be. But I don’t really know where to begin breaking my walls. I don’t know how to.

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