"And you say, leaning in. 'The World!'"

I have a long list of films I want my children and my grandchildren to see; a lot of them are my favorites, the rest are just remarkable enough to leave me wonderstruck. I used to marvel over the fact that there thousands upon thousands of films I have yet to see. As a child, I grew up seeing compact discs of the Star Wars trilogy on the top shelf, together with the movies we rented from Video City. Those were the heydays of my childhood, with my parents introducing me to movies and TV shows. I remember the Home Alone features playing a vital role in my childhood, amongst other Christmas movies. I loved festive movies, especially the Christmas-themed ones because the mood always changes whenever I hear a children’s choir singing Christmas carols. I’m eighteen now and I still find The Polar Express entertaining; adulthood made this movie a tear-jerker for me, I don’t know why.

I've never really established a favorite director, up until recently (last year). I guess I've always paid attention to the movies, not the directors--which is a great mistake I've been listlessly committing since the dawn of my enthusiasm over films. Apparently, paying close attention to both director and film brings you glorious amounts of detail because you can't help but notice the styles and habits brought about by the director her/himself. Plus, you feel this connection (friendship!!!) with them, even the slightest bit. It's great knowing that you've grown aware of what your favorite director might do next, because no matter how familiarized you already are with their films, you still somehow consider yourself inferior to what they're about to show you in the future, because you never really know. 

That's the thing I love about Wes Anderson. I don't think my rusty writing skills would ever do his films justice because I AM NOT WORTHY. I guess the connection I felt with his films sparked the brightest with my five-year-old self. It was the time when my parents were, well, Not On Good Terms. All his features showed me the childhood I've always wanted, but never had. I guess you could say I was forced to grow up at an early age, with my parents' disintegrating marriage right beside me. 

Maybe his films gave me my dream childhood, even if it's 14 years too late. 

There are a few things I've learned from reading the whole collection. One was the undeniable fact that I didn't want to finish the book just yet, but at the same time, I'm itching to see through the whole book. I would read the main articles furtively, careful not to see the pictures and the anecdotes around just because. That's how I treated myself with the book; I would check out the pictures and the notes last, because the torture is exquisite while I save the best for last. 

Anyway, these are my favorites from the book! I have a lot of favorites (how can i NOT have a LOT of favorites, really), but I chose not to spoil the whole book because you might actually buy it after seeing these, so as not to kill the thrill I will leave you here!

I don't know why The Royal Tenenbaums wasn't an instant favorite of mine. I loved every scene from the film, but I fell in love over again after reading the the Tenenbaum part! It was a full-on retelling of how I wanted to escape my sad childhood. The film cultivates this trip down to memory lane for me, but I liked it, no matter how it was all vividly tragic back then. It's my favorite now, along with Darjeeling. 

It felt kind of special to me, reading Wes’ insights on every film he did from 1996 to 2012. Like I said, (and I’m going to say this again because it feels great knowing that I have this connection with him even though it’s totally one-sided [it’s only ME who’s feeling things but WHATEVER] and very biased), there’s this little connection, and I loved it because I read his parts in his pristine, professional, eager voice. I even watched a bunch of his interviews before reading the book because I wanted to savor the whole reading experience, like he’s right there beside me, talking and “hmm”-ing. 

Also, can we please talk about how Wes' handwriting can be a potential font? 

guilty pleasures and connections

I don’t remember the first time I commuted all the way from Las Piñas to España. But I’m sure I was alone that time, because I remember the anxiety creep all over me as I guess which jeep I should take. I remember whispering “I hope Brigette was with me right now,” every now and then, because she was the one who was with me when we first went to school to pick up our uniforms. She was the one who taught me how to go to school, the convenient way. Now she lives in a dorm nearby our school, and I’m starting to miss those shuttle rides with her.

I wish I hadn’t forgotten about that first time I rode a shuttle all by myself. I could have written about it in here (or in my journal, if I was a little keener on keeping one last year) and it would be blissful to read about it now, exactly a year later.

Going home felt like a vacation to me. It’s exhausting as HELL, but I can’t bring it to myself to deny the fact that riding the shuttle, the jeep, or the tricycle always evoked a nice, fuzzy, dreamy feel in me. I guess you could say public transport is a guilty pleasure of mine, because I never admitted to anyone how I love commuting. (Please raise your hand if I told you a story about my strange fetish.)

Driving lessons are interesting enough for me to convince (force) my dad that he should give me one, but I never made it enough of a big deal; I guess it’s because it felt more of an obligation than a want or need. It’s not that I don’t want it, but because I’m not ready yet—probably because I grew up having someone who does it for me, and being the one who actually does it sounds so strange. I have no absolute idea why I’m dwelling so much on something I would probably do, anyways. Driving seems an impossible feat as of this moment, because I think I’m too hung up on a lot of things like, you know, commuting. 

So I take you back on the public transport fetish.

I guess it’s because of the fast-paced life outside I see on the windows of a bus. Everyone seems to be in a hurry, and I’m stuck inside this vessel with people I don’t know. It’s the strange connection I feel with them, as we watch the world outside. The street lights add up to it, too. Plus the music blaring through your earphones kind of just… does it justice. Either you listen to Jack White or Etta James or Ang Bandang Shirley, you see it, the life outside.

It’s the scene outside that makes you feel as if you’re this little viewing the insides of a dollhouse. You see the cars race past you, people rushing to catch the next bus, the street lights getting brighter and brighter as the night goes deeper. 

When you’re driving, you only see the road ahead of you. But when you’re sitting beside the window of a bus, or a train, you see everything. You tilt your head to the right and you see kids running around. You turn to your left and you see two cars beating the red light as they race through the road. And then you suddenly think about a lot of things. And you love it, no matter the thought that whizzed past your head, because you’re thinking. You’re being you in a different world, beyond the valley of the now and most certainly beyond the valley of reality.

I remember being on a bus on the way home, at nine-thirty in the evening. It was raining, so the windows were drenched with droplets of water, and makes everything outside look like a scene from a blurry dream you had. I was listening to Up Dharma Down’s Sugarcoats and Heartbeats. The track had crowd noises at the beginning. It was that same noise that made me realize I was connected and somehow disconnected, at the same time, with the people who are on the same bus I’m in.

We were all thinking that time, I know. There were only a few people in the bus because it was already late, so you can see how everyone is seated. The bus wasn’t even full, and it was kind of eerie when you see it. But it was a blissful sight to see, something very rare. There was a TV at the front, but it only showed us the face of Kris Aquino and Boy Abunda, with static and glitch sans the sound. But I was very stuck in that moment that I had to look for over seven seconds because I’ve never seen such a peaceful sight inside a bus, like there’s something going on. That scene in Battle Royale always comes to mind but I didn’t give it much thought. I didn’t want to ruin the moment and creep myself out.

Public transport has shown me a lot of things. You feel all kinds of things as you look at the window, the people around you, and you create these stories inside your head just to pass time. I don’t know how I fell in love with commuting, but one year of riding to the North from the South did me well. I can say, that amongst other things, commuting helped me build myself. Sure, it instilled the self-independence I needed to survive the harrowing world of college, but it really taught me well when it comes to connecting with people. It showed me the real wonders of empathy, as I walk with people from different walks of life.

One UV ride made me think of all this. I wonder if driving induces the same emotion as commuting does. I’ll probably let you know, sooner or later.