documenting life through photos
My back phone camera didn’t work when I went to my home country, the Philippines, in early 2024. I barely have any photos of my homecoming. Only Snapchat memories of my face, random bits of my grandmother's house and small glimpses of scenery. I had to twist and turn my phone around to imperfectly capture the mountains of Tagaytay, the soft beaches of Boracay and the dizzying structure of Mall of Asia. I wrote about it in my Writing Creative Nonfiction1 class
It was cringey and a bit deluded with immigrant melancholy, like an exotic animal displaying my emotions and feelings for voyeurs to pry on. Maybe the reason why I wrote so much was to overcome the sparse collection of photographic memorabilia I had. Everyone is taking photos and videos at concerts and birthday parties to have a piece for themselves to take home, but I barely have any. Most of the photos and videos here are from the 30 videos and photos from Snapchat, and one from my mum. I tried to remember everything on that trip because I was afraid I would forget my lolo’s calloused hands and my lola’s soft hands, and now, trying to remember what it feels like wading through a thick haze, everything is abstract and not quite put together, like a fever dream.
The process of memory and cameras has changed within the digital world. Brian Resnick wrote a fantastic article for Vox on smartphone photography and how it affects our memories, stating that we forget that “...Powerful experiences in the real world are immersive and often engage all the senses” in comparison to photos and videos from our phones. It might be the perfect angle and be in line with the rule of thirds, but it’s incomparable to feeling the heat on your skin or feeding the stray cats outside my grandparents’ house at night while sitting on rickety plastic chairs2.
I think there’s a clear difference between digital photos that live on our phones and the analogue photo albums that we have hidden in the dusty parts of our home. There are baby photos of me in the living room, a wedding photo of my parents in Manila and my brother’s high school graduation. Most other photos live on the Meta cloud. On the rare occasion that I log onto Facebook, I’m jumpscared by the first few months living in Melbourne through awkward selfies, photos of the backyard and terrible Facebook posts. My parents didn’t bother to have physical photos of the meeting with the immigration lawyer in Manila.
That span of nine years only lives in a folktale between my parents. I don’t have any powerful sensations to extract memories from it. There’s nothing for me but a blank void and early adolescence in Manila, where I was worried about buying pellet guns from the vendors and if I had enough money to go to the sari-sari store.
A part of me wants to pivot into physical photos. There’s an effort in holding the weight of a camera and going through the process of developing a film, waiting for the Polaroid to develop or going to a print store to get my digitals processed. I want to record pieces of myself into dusty photo books with awkward angles and an awful red eye. I think it’s why I enjoyed using the photobooth; it was intimate and strange. I had to physically sit on a chair and work out the strange machine. It took physical effort in straining against the flash, thinking of a pose and waiting for the portrait to process. I wouldn’t be surprised if we make a return to analogue pictures, but the precious intent would most likely be gobbled up by capitalistic fast trends.
I still take the time to take an Instagram-worthy picture, I’m not going to lie to you. The importance of aestheticism and performed authenticity triumphs my need to document a coffee run with my friends, or going to the Fitzroy markets with my second-cousin and sister. The need to perform will leak if I bother getting a digital or Polaroid camera.
Maybe it explains my need to pursue scrapbooking as a form of journaling. There’s a physical effort in ripping apart newspapers, forming words and writing about what happened that day. I’m sure there’s a tip somewhere floating about how writers should write every day, and maybe scrapbooking is some sort of writing, through some invisible visual language and following grammatical rules (however it exists) just for an intimate audience.
I’ve been thinking about taking more of my photographs for this blog as a way of immersion and documentation. These pieces reflect a piece of me at that specific time. But maybe some things aren’t meant for a wider audience. If my back camera had worked in 2024, what would I have done? Would it have helped me create a better Instagram photodump? Create the perfect Pinterest photo? Would I have done something genuinely interesting with those photos? Unlikely.
what’s been happening with my life: rejoice people! job search is over!!!!! your girl is working in retail now (woo…) and i’ve just finished watching olympo on netflix and it feels like elite’s smarter sibling because the plot and characterisation actually make senses while maintaining that horny, sexy atmosphere.
what i’ve been reading: finally finished the goldfinch and it was so… mediocre… moving into the thousand autumns of jacob de zoet (one chapter in and i undecided if i like it) and this dark romance gay smutty book called god of fury the plotline and characterisation has the same energy as wattpad but the smut is not so bad…3
how i’m going: well the fact that my former pm has his head stuck in his ass regarding the us bombing iran is irritating me… it’s strange to think that when i left my home country for a better life i would be indirectly contributing to the extinction and subjugation of the global south. maybe it’s why i’m kinda slowly moving away from these nonfiction pieces about my soft feelings and sadness about immigration and guilt.
next post?: i’m thinking about editing and posting my experience with haircuts, i got mine done at the biba hair academy at melbourne central a while ago (right outside the main rmit building) and it was definitely an experience. i keep forgetting that there’s so much at drafts in my laptop that’s just sitting there collecting dust.
so what now?: read, research, read, educate, help your neighbours.
“The next day I sneak off to a guy’s resort room by making an excuse that I’m getting souvenirs. He doesn’t make fun of my imperfect Tagalog. After sleeping together, we talk on the bed. I learn that he’s Filipino living in Adelaide. I learn that he’s with his cousins. I learn that he’s in his early twenties and works in a preschool. The sun makes him out to be perfect and I’m on an episode of White Lotus. Queer Filipinos are outcasts in our land, despite our existence as deities[1] and healers[2]. Now here we are: two strangers exchanging sacred secrets under the blankets. He tells me to come out with him tonight at the various clubs and bars. I tell him that I’m suppose to be on my good behaviour. He tells me he’ll visit me when he comes to Melbourne in March.”
[1] One deity named Lakapati is described as both being a man and a woman.
[2] Shamans known as Baybaylan are fluid with their gender.“
The next paragraph in my Writing Creative Nonfiction piece:
“Two hours later my father is cracking open a crab for me. My hands are sticky with shells, sauce and skin. I’m consolidating everything and anything into my memory bank: the chewiness of crab, it’s sweet and spicy sauce, the sun on my face, my cousin whispering and giggling to my sister. I’m fearful whenever I forget all of this, a part of me will leave as well.”
I’m also wondering how they can just fuck at a whim. Is everyone in this world just naturally douched?