New home.

Will be hanging out here for a while. 

Goody!

This is Jun's b'day gift for me this year. Come have a look! 

Hurtling.

Lately, all I seem to be doing is oscillate.

I bounce day to day from one project to the next, from one event to the next.

The furnishing of the new home had been fun, tiring, but adventure filled. We must have scoured every interesting nook and cranny of the Metro and nearby provinces looking for inexpensive, but tasteful finds. We were amazed at the amount of available material and most of our free time had been spent driving, walking, arguing, giggling, scoffing at outrageously priced/pompous merchandise, and winking at each other after scoring bargains. It’s nice that P and I can talk about anything. In all our years together, I’ve never been bored in his company (although I must add that he is impossibly useless in haggling and is a bit of a pahamak. He latches very obviously onto favorites; ruining our chance of getting discounts).

Some of our flea market finds.

2008 has been a great year and I'm sad to see it almost ending. In the second quarter of the year we have made our second real-estate purchase, a 2-bedroom condo unit which is a stone’s throw away from the bustling Boni Hi St. I told P that I could now walk to my favorite bookstore anytime. 

Last Oct., the land we bought in the South was turned over. Our plan was to build a home there in 2010, but, with the acquisition of the condo, it may have to wait awhile. But it was nice. Land is always nice. I told the turnover guy that nothing makes a Filipino person’s heart beat faster than the prospect and realization of owning land.

Our piece of earth.

A month ago we have been agog trying to find the perfect tree for our city home and we found it in a mall in Makati, just the right size, height, and bushiness. P woke me up one morning to set it up. Honestly, I tried a bit to help out, but left the designing to P, who is the more artistic one.

The Design Team.

So, a few days a week we go to our nest to play house. I do the cooking, like I used to when we were at our apartment in Mandaluyong and newly married. I remember going home then from the market with both arms laden with bayongs containing provisions good for two weeks. I cooked everything then: from dinuguan to pasta, and the crabs and other shellfishes that P is so fond of—steamed, baked, sauteed, or cooked with leftover red or white wine. In the markets of Edsa Central I learned for the first time about alimangong bakla, the fat of which is just the perfect consistency when cooked, not too hard.

(From top, CCW) Ginataang Tilapia, Almondigas,

White and milk chocolates for making into candies.

Now, it’s November, a few days and I’m turning 33. The winds in our Laguna home blow cool and regularly, the sun looks gentle on the leaves of trees. What else can I say? I’m grateful. I’m happy.   

Damn.

And so it is in the nature of big families (where you have siblings or cousins born a decade or more ahead of you) that there will be weird relationship dynamics—like you’ll probably have aunts younger than their nieces/nephews or children admonished by their mothers not to hit the new baby because, after all, he is an uncle (this sort of weirdness).

Recently, in an impromptu family gathering, I was told by a first cousin that her son has just become a father. After we all went ha-ha, God, you’re so old you have a son who’s a father! The laughter died a natural death in our throats when we realized that this bit of info. had once again altered the family dynamic. We now cease to be merely aunts, we’re . . .  we’re . . .

Yes, folks, at 32, I am now somebody’s lola.

What the . . .!

***

In another news . . .

A few days ago my husband’s cell phone signaled  an incoming text and I went to the fone to read his message (yes, this is just one of the perks of being a wife). Told him, “It’s work, they’re asking you to approve the text to an ad.” Hubby went to check message and said, “OK, na ‘to.”
Me: Shouldn’t the word “ur” in the ad, since it was used as a contraction of the words “you” and “are,” be written with an inverted comma, as in “u’r”?
Hubby: No, youth speak yan, ganyan talaga sila magsalita.
Me: Yes, I know, but shouldn’t media correct this as it’s an obvious error?
Hubby: No ganyan talaga yan.
Me: Kaya nga, shouldn’t you correct it . . .
Hubby: Sweetheart, youth nga e.
Me: (Laughs out loud) Walanghiya ka. OK, I get it.

Yes, folks, at 32,  my husband no longer considers me part of the “youth” segment.

Wiset.

The Sea.

La Mer

If it were up to me, I’d live near the sea. I’d live by the sea. Heck, I’d live in the sea. I’d wear starfishes and seaweeds in my hair. I’d play Chopin for the waves to undulate to. I’d ride the backs of whales. I’d talk to palm trees. I’d get me a gang of fish thugs and we’d roam the seafloors for action. At night, when the sea glitters like a jewel under the iridescent sky, I’d sit next to a crab.

Together, we’d howl our life stories to the moon.

Poetry.

Reading by the sea.

Last year, my friend, Jun, gifted me with a copy of an anthology of poetry where he had contributed some of his luminous works. It took me a while to finish reading the book because I only read it when I am near the sea.

For it seems we have longer summers now (because of global warming. Heh. I don’t know if this is cause for joy or not) and I have had several occasions last year and this year to visit some of our wonderful beaches (we’re so lucky we have some of the best beaches in the world!) and so I was able to close the last page to Latay sa Isipan: Mga Bagong Tulang Filipino (Cirilo Bautista, Allan Popa, eds. UST Publishing House, ‘07) only recently.

Reading beautiful poetry is like salve to a weary soul. Reading it near the sea--sparkling, radiant, endless sea-- is an experience (for me) that parallels no other.

Here are a few of my favorite selections in the book:
     

Excerpt from Ricardo Fernando III’s  “Despidida”

Nagpaalam ka naman ngunit hindi ko inakalang
    aalis ka ng bahay
sa gitna ng gabi habang ako’y natutulog sa
    inaamag nating kama,
hindi ako nakapaghanda
sa biglaang paggaan ng aking tabi kaya’t tila
    naalimpungatang
bumangon ako at nanaginip.

Excerpt from Sonia Gerilya’s “Bigat”

II
Sige. Gaaano ngayon kabigat
ang tadyang ko at balikat?
--dalawang pares na pambaba at pantaas
basa pa ang laylayan at manggas
--sabong panlaba sa karton ng gatas
--limang gatang  na bigas
--duyang may pekas
--sampares na medyas
--kolgeyt at tutbras
--isang ream ng Silyab na bagong labas
--posas
--isang supot ng pasas
--malong na kupas
--dalawang lata ng sardinas
--kopya ng GaMas
--limang oras
--armas
--at ikaw, isang kasamang pantas.

Excerpt from Jerry B. Gracio’s “Silip”

Nakatutuwang isipin
na sa ating pinakapribadong gawain,
Nakabantay ang Diyos,
nakikinig, nakatingin, at oo,
maaari nating itigil ang romansahan,
ipagpaliban ang pagtatalik
sa ibang araw, at iwanang
bitin ang diyos.

Excerpt from Mayo Uno Martin’s “Masdan Mo ang mga Bata”

Inaabisuhan ko po ang lahat ng magiging ina:
Mag-ingat sapagkat ang dinadala sa sinapupunan
ang maghahatid sa inyo sa hukay.

Excerpt from Rosmon Tuazon’s “Salansan”

4
Biglang sinapian ng lula ang mga uwak.
Walang-hanggan silang nangalalaglag.

Hindi masasaklaw ng kuwadro ang lawak

ng taniman. Ngunit makukutuban ang panginginig

ng mga uhay--
inaakalang anumang padapo, pasalakay.

***

And here are two of Jun Lisondra’s poems in full: 

“Nagpapaumanhin ang mga Kaluskos nilang Tinutungo ang Dawag”

Hindi magtatagal ang lahat
ng ito, aking panganay.

Nakabuslo sa puyo ni Aliguyon
ang mga nag-aamarilyong talahiban
ng Puncan, at dito sa kinatatayuan,
langhap natin ang nakaambang mga pangarap
sa anino nilang kinakanlong
ng malalayong gubat. Paano ko bang
ipasusukat sa iyo ang lalim ng halaga
ng kanilang awit, ng aming tula.
Humaharap sila sa ating mga hapag
tuwing gabi upang makidildiil sa ating asin.
Tinitimbang nila ang iyong mithi,
at pagkatapos, nag-iiwan sila sa atin
ng mga pangako at pasasalamat.
Nagpapaumanhin ang mga kaluskos
nilang tinutungo ang dawag. Hinaharap
kita habang iniilawan ng mga nagdaraang alitaptap
ang iyong mukha, at bago magtanong
ang mga mata, isang tapik ng pamamaalam
ang isinasagot ko sa iyong balikat.


“Patungo sa Matandang Pueblo”

Itinutulak
ng estrangherong dalagita
ang pedal paahon sa adobeng daan,
umiiwas sa lente ang batang
nakasilip sa pintuan
habang ako’y papalapit
sa kanilang casa roja.
Patungo sa matandang pueblo
itong mga paang nabato-balani
sa tayog ng mga antigong krus
sa Calle Real.
                    Nakatunghay
sa akin ngayon ang katotohanan
na winika ng isang pantas:
ibang hininga itong tumatagos
sa pagkatao tuwing nilalakbay
ang bayan ng iba. Sayang
at walang makakasama.
                    Naghahanap
itong aking palad
ng higpit, ng pisil. At ang dilang
sinusubuan nila ng banyagang palabra
ay nagnanais bumulong
sa iyong pisngi.
                    Kung
naririto ka lamang sana, makikiliti
kang malaman na sa pagbigkas,
ang tanging kinikilala ng Granada
ay ang katagang,
                    te amo,
sinta.

20 Junio 2005
Granada, Nicaragua

:D

Me: Ilan gusto mong hipon for your baon?
P: Apat parang Beatles. (PAUSES) Lima na lang parang The Cure.
Me: (Starts adding chicken nuggets next to prawns).
P: (Protests) Ang liit naman nung isang nugget!
Me: Ang takaw mo, ang taas na nga ng sugar mo!
P: Gawin mo na limang nuggets para lahat sampu, parang Polyphonic Spree.
Me: (Rolls eyeballs.)

Head in a spin.

(Retropost Sept.'08)

Everything melts in this heat.

Even my brain is mush.

The question is: why have I agreed to work on a book on Visual C++?

Well, let it not be said that I ever said no to work.

He he.

Philippine Opera Company's "La Boheme."

“In a world of disorder and disaster and fraud,
sometimes only beauty can be trusted.”--E. Gilbert

And so it was in search of beauty that P and I left our freshly scrubbed nest, on a perfectly overcast day (there was supposed to be a storm after all) to preview one of the world’s best-loved operas— La Boheme—performed on Philippine shores no less and acted in and directed by local talents.

La Boheme, an opera written by Giacomo Puccini (see also Turandot, Madama Butterfly, Gianni Schicchi), is mainly about the tragic love story between Rodolfo and Mimi, two characters who “live on the fringes of Paris society” in the 1800s and who are, as the title of the opera suggests, bohemians: Rodolfo is a struggling writer; Mimi an artist (actually a gifted seamstress). They meet, fall in love, fall out of love, fall in love again—only to be frustrated once more in the end when Mimi dies of tuberculosis.  

The very popular ‘90s hit musical, Rent (also later made into a movie with the same title) largely drew inspiration from this opera. There were many similarities between the two shows, including characters in Rent having names similar or almost similar to the characters in La Boheme, scenes that showcased similar action/dialogue, as well as songs from the original opera actually included in the Jonathan Larson opus. Rent is a wonderful, wonderful play, whose music continues to capture and enthrall audiences all over the world. Part of its following is maybe because of the sudden death of its very young and talented writer (Larson), who died on (or very near?) the opening of the show.

The La Boheme of the Philippine Opera Company (POC) is a very brave undertaking considering that opera does not have a big following in the country. Many still consider it as “high brow,” inaccessible, or only for the rich and old. Part of the challenge in staging this classic is how to make it current and appealing to the theater-going public, especially the younger generation who can only benefit from being introduced to one of the works of the great Puccini. Fortunately, this is a challenge that the POC unflinchingly takes on.

Although, POC’s La Boheme remains faithful to the original libretto (as its director, Floy Quintos, said, “Why mess with a good thing?”), the story and set have been updated to reflect contemporary Malate and the leads Rodolfo and Mimi transformed into “indie” artists.

Someone in the audience, a man who calls himself “The Jester” and who actually wears a jester’s hat, said: “The question is can (we) stand watching a 3-hour opera, sung in Italian, without falling asleep?” Nervous giggles went around. The truth is, just as the POC had been brave in showcasing what might potentially be a flop, the audience members (most of whom have never been to an opera show in their lives) were equally gung-ho to enjoy the show and be educated and elevated in terms of taste and experience. As they say, “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” Happily, it was an experience that many of us could bear to repeat. The fact that the show is conducted in Italian does not detract from its enjoyment. Music is the only true universal language and Italian, one of the most mellifluous, romantic, and beautiful languages in the world, certainly does not hurt the show, either.

In the movie The Mirror Has Two Faces, Streisand’s character said, “When we’re in love, we hear Puccini in our heads.” Catch the POC’s La Boheme (runs Oct. 3-4, 8 PM and Oct. 5, 3 PM at the CCP Main Theater) and see for yourselves why Puccini is considered one of the greatest composers that ever lived.

***

P. S. You can actually YouTube some of Puccini’s works including “Nessun Dorma” (from Turandot), “Un Bel Di Vedremo” (Madama Butterfly), and “O Mio Babbino Caro” (Gianni Schicchi). These are just some of the popular ones and all of them my personal favorites.

Watching La Boheme, I start missing my maternal grandfather, the late Vicente Antiporda, who was said to be one of the two leading baritones of note during his time and whose patronesses included former first lady Imelda Marcos (who used to gift him backstage with praises and barong Tagalogs). But, this deserves another post . . . 

Binatog.

     Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a taste of binatog (soft kernels of boiled corn seasoned with salt and grated coconut). Next to fresh taho, which was piously delivered every morning by a distinguished-looking lolo, binatog, hawked in the afternoons by kuyas on bikes popularly termed then as “racers,” was my next favorite merienda as a child. Wherever my playmates and I were in the house, whether busy at play or trying to fake a nap, once we heard the hearty call for “binaTOOOG!” (accent on the last syllable that was drawn out as long as possible. Street hawkers seem to have the most melodious, bell-like voices), our ears perked up trying to gauge how far off still the mama was so that we knew how fast we needed to scramble out the front door to call for his attention. 

     “Pabili nga ho ng dalawang baso at pakidagdagan ng niyog.” 

     The shy itinerant vendor would smile and oblige, putting the requested amount on banana leaves and giving the dagdag niyog AND binatog. My playments and I would eat our snack, savoring each tasty morsel, eating slowly to make the binatog last twice as long as usual (for we never knew when the mama would return to our neck of the woods again). Once finished, we’d pat our distended tummies where we’d imagine the corn kernels expanding to twice their size (that’s what carbohydrates do we were told), making our bellies heavy and making us sleepy.

     Oh! Don’t even get me started on other tasty treats—like dirty ice cream dipped in hot chocolate sauce that hardened when it came into contact with the cold treat—yum!

     Do kids nowadays still know binatog? Or dirty ice cream with the chocolate dip, or even palitaw?

     Sigh, a pity, what a great pity if they don’t then. 

"Look into your heart and you'll find love, love, love, love . . ." :)

Here in Mactan . . .

(Click to enlarge.)

Retro post June '08.

Has summer ended? Has the rainy season begun? There I was congratulating P and myself for having had the foresight to go to the beach early this year because we have foreseen that the rainy season will come early in May 

(and it had! Cutting short people's enjoyment of the sea) and what do we have in June but merciless, summer-like, humid days? 

Argh! I give up! It's official--we have succeeded in royally f*cking up the earth. 

Sorry, kids!

From O. Wilde's "De Profundis"

“The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is . . .”

Believing.

Sometimes the universe bestows on you the gift of knowing, just you and no one else, and you begin guarding this belief jealously as you would guard a beautiful secret.

Others may tell you that you are crazy, stubborn, maybe even arrogant to persist on something outmoded, impractical, or just plain silly, but in your gut you know, with a knowledge that defies all good sense that you are right.

Others may desert you, or mock  you, but everything else—time , circumstance, luck, serendipity, synchronicity, or whatever else you wish to f*cking call it—will conspire to give you your heart’s desire.

These are some of the things that I believe to be true:

1. It is possible to change for the better, to work at becoming your best self;
2. It is possible to forgive;
3. Soon, P and I will travel the rest of the world (but, really, we’ll settle happily with just traveling to Europe) together;
4. Anyone who has suffered (or is suffering) can become a more stronger, empathetic person;
5. There is an end to suffering;
6. If you trust in the goodness of the universe, you will receive goodness from the universe;
7. It’s good to smile;
8. It is stupid not to listen to well-meaning, sensible advice;
9. God will never forsake me (or you!);
10. To care is to love. People who care very little for others or care only for themselves do not know how to love and will, in turn, find love hard to attain.
11. In life, you should strive to play the role of “hero,” not “villain”;
12. I am blessed by the people I love and the people who love me. I may not hear about it, but I guess I, too, am a blessing to others sometimes;
13. Nothing beats the power of a fervent, honest prayer;
14. You can be wrong and it’s okay. Sometimes life will force you to your knees to learn lessons (like humility) and if you are not too stubborn, you can learn and prosper from your mistakes;
15. P will continue to love and cherish me just as he promised many years ago when I was confused and in another country. He said, “If you can’t find what you’re looking for, come back to me. I will take care of you." Awww . . .;
16. I will continue to love and cherish P because besides being a good, honest, hard-working man, he’s also a hunk! (Rrrr!) 

What do you believe in? :)

P in Ho Chi Minh '08

On novels.

“Expecting a novel to bear the weight of our whole disturbed society—to help solve our contemporary problems—seems to me a peculiarly American delusion. To write sentences of such authenticity that refuge can be taken in them. Isn’t this enough? Isn’t it a lot?” (J. Franzen)

The scent of Dama de Noche . . .

(Retro post)

The rains have come early this May and with it the scent of Dama de Noche. Some people do not like the Dama de Noche, but I grew up with its nocturnal scent. Even when not in bloom I think I can recreate its smell in my mind.

The scent of the Dama de Noche embeds itself into memory, so much so that one may eventually forget one’s name, but never the scent of Dama de Noche!

There’s really nothing else in the world quite like it.

He of the beautiful-sounding name . . .

Wasn’t it P. Neruda who said: “When I die, I want to be buried in a name, some especially chosen, beautiful-sounding name, so that its syllables will sing over my bones, near the sea”?

When I first came across the name W. Somerset Maugham in one of my literature classes in school and without actually knowing who he was or what books he had written, I immediately let the cadences of his name roll over my tongue like honey and sometimes even when I didn’t speak his name out loud, I spoke it in my mind. “Somerset Maugham”--beautiful, beautiful name and I couldn’t wait to grow up then and have children so that I could name one or two after him.

Maugham, a British novelist, playwright, and short-story writer, is the author of the very famous book, Of Human Bondage, said to be “one of the great (and passionate) novels of the twentieth century.” I became more enamored of him when he wrote in one of his autobiographies that when he was a young man trying to be a writer in Seville, Spain, he grew a moustache and smoked Filipino cigars. 

He has this to say (in one of his books) about the “simplicity of language”:

“Words thus strung (beautifully) together fall on the ear like music. The appeal is sensuous rather than intellectual, and the beauty of the sound leads you easily to conclude that you need not bother about the meaning. But words are tyrannical things, they exist for their meanings, and if you will not pay attention to these, you cannot pay attention at all. . ..Words have weight, sound and appearance; it is only by considering these that you can write a sentence that is good to look at and good to listen to .”

How amazingly said!

Adventures.

Sometimes I surprise even my own self. Here, at home, away from the excitements, as well as the uncertainties (and even perils) of travel, I am reminded everyday of my myriad pains, maladies, creeping midlife (well, in 12 years, anyway), and a possible weakening heart. But away from home—I am alive, I am young, I am strong. My dutiful legs take me places—to temples, mountains, across and under oceans, inside caves--and I feel my heart flapping wildly in my chest as if it were a newly caught bird.

In Oku-no-hosomichi (Narrow Road to the Interior), Basho (who was also periodically frail of health) mentioned something similar to this. Upon visiting the Tsubo-no-ishibumi in Ichikawa, an ancient monument of inspiring beauty, he said:

“...Tsubo-no-ishibumi inspired many a poet. Floods and landslides buried trails and markers, trees have grown and died, making this monument very difficult to find. The past remains hidden in clouds of memory. Still it returned us to memories from a thousand years before. Such a moment is the reason for a pilgrimage: infirmities forgotten, the ancients remembered, joyous tears trembled in my eyes . . .”

This made me reflect a bit on old age. We all grow old, but inside we can remain young. Contrary to the saying that “we are only as old as our knees,” :) we are actually only as old as we allow our hearts and souls to feel. Deep inside, if we work on it, we can remain happy, strong, and fearless as children.

Snorkelling in El Nido, Palawan ('07)

From "Before Night Falls: A Memoir" by R. Arenas . . .

“Trees have a secret life that is only revealed to those willing to climb them. To climb a tree is to slowly discover a unique world, rhythmic, magical, harmonious, with its worms, insects, birds and other living things, all apparently insignificant creatures, telling us their secrets.”

Mom @ 60.

Bella!

Speak softly . . .

As I grew older I learned to temper my “temper” and so some of the people who knew me only recently might swear that I could possibly be one of the few really amiable persons they have ever met. This is supported by the fact that I do tend to smile an awful lot (as they say, it takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown, etc.) and as a staunch believer in fairness, I try to treat everyone with equal respect and dignity— from waitpersons, sales clerks, janitors, office staff, to bosses. I may put up with boorish behavior for awhile because I was raised to be polite and to often make allowances and excuses for weaknesses in character (I can almost hear my good-hearted mother lecturing me on being more forgiving, kinder, and less mean of spirit), but honestly, I only put up with so much.

The truth, and many people may not know this until too late, is that I am very strict. This is a trait that is unique to me in my immediate family because I have not really seen others exhibit it to the extent that I am sometimes capable of exhibiting it. This strictness stems from my always trying to do what is right—ALWAYS. It is both boon and bane, both my virtue and my curse. So, although I can be very impulsive by nature, I am also very dependable: given a choice between letting things slide indefinitely just for the sake of keeping peace and confronting wrongdoing to the point that it gets ugly, you can depend on me to do the right thing even if it gets f*cking hideous.

So, let this serve as a caveat to people who may mistake me as docile. I may look harmless, but beware: I am a person VERY capable of raising HELL.

;)

THEN and NOW .

Happy 15th, P! Fun times, still fun times ahead. :*

(THEN: All '93 fotos were taken inside the editorial office of the college paper, the Ang Pamantasan, where I worked as writer and P as occasional artist,book reviewer, and poet. NOW, clockwise from left: after-concert snapshot, room; the outdoor bath of our garden villa in Buri; Buri Resort, Oriental Mindoro; MRT station, Singapore.)

On what kind of books to read.

"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for?"--F. Kafka

Amazing Race 3.

Just got back from a brief, brief visit to KL and a tour of Bangkok, Ho Chi Minh, and Singapore. 7 long days of travel, culture, shopping and hopping from one budget flight to the next. P and I started our very own Amazing Race in 2004 (when we traveled to Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia by plane, land, and sea), followed by visits to China, HK, and Macau in 2005  by plane, train, and ferry. Will blog about our most recent adventure and post pictures soon, but first I have to tend to other pressing adult matters like work, etc., etc.

Mood: Happy, happy! :D

Beauty amidst chaos.

Twelve-year-old Tutu .

Too busy to compose? Then, retro post!

Summer 2003

10:00 AM

I woke up early, 6 a.m., and found myself on the bed nearest the balcony (not the bed I originally slept in) and I wonder what time in the night I switched beds. Breakfast was not the first order of the day--I had to see to the washing of the clothes and the putting of the shirts in the small drawers. Summer mornings are pretty in Boracay, like a brown toddler in a yellow bathing suit. On my way to the terrace to hang the freshly laundered clothes, I spied several mayas going about their usual Tuesday morning rituals and I had to stop what I was doing to watch them for awhile.

5:45 PM

I am sitting here on the beach. While walking earlier, I saw a small boy utterly naked. I laughed. At least he could still get away with things like that. Most of the people around me look happy. Two middle-aged women dumped their beach things near me and smiled as if to say, “Hey, lady, watch our stuff, okay?” I smiled back. They went into the water wearing identical black T-shirts and long shorts, swam for awhile, and then sat very near each other on the bank. Everywhere kids are posing for snapshots and people are taking pictures of the horizon.

Me, I am content just watching the sun set.

7:00 PM

This is how I spend my days: Mornings,  I laze around in my nice, cool room. I go out the balcony to catch my bit of morning sun, watch the mayas at work, observe the other hotel guests as they go about the business of waking up. I try to fix myself a semblance of breakfast: Coffee or tea, Vienna sausages or Spam eaten straight from the can. Some days I watch a bit of TV or use the computer, other days I just go right back to sleep. My days start late in Boracay. After finding out that the sun rose at the other side of the island, morning walks along the beach became uninteresting. Around noon, I bathe and join my husband for lunch, scour the talipapa for souvenirs, or lounge in one of the restaurants/cafes serving sweets. Noons are busy here. Of course, everyone lunched, the unwise go swimming, tanning, sailing. There are always hundreds of people milling about--walking, idling, conversing.

Three p.m. to sunset, I go for swims, have Banana Choco Peanut shakes at Jonah’s; sometimes I go sailing, perched precariously on nets or nylon threads woven together on boats locally called “paraws.” At night, my husband and I have dinner and by midnight enjoy a beer each, while listening to Reggae music played by a live band . . . or stargazing. 

Away from the city, the stars here blaze oh so brightly.

Thank God the tickets were free.

Sleepy after the H. Connick Manila concert. At least Mom seemed to have gotten some joy out of Harry shaking his tush at the audience and, good god, sending balut eggs flying into the air (some hit the concrete partition between the orchestra and balcony seats, splattering several unfortunate souls below with the eggs' contents, they were dressed to kill pa naman).

Here are some fotos (the best I could do with a camera fone):

"Without you love, I am not only very alone, but . . . lonely, lonely, lonely."

Thank God P got back from KL already. I had been sleeping fitfully since he left. He brought home chocolates and an Apple USB modem for me. Yes, I still don't DSL or use cable Internet for I only use my computer for e-mails, blogging, a bit of Web surfing and reading, and occasional project tweaking. 

There are two motives for reading a book: one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it (Bertrand Russell).

What excuse except madness?

Two, three, sometimes four books acquired every weekend and not second-hand/bargain-priced or on-sale ones at that, but NEW ones, books still heavy with that fresh-off-the-box, fresh-off-the-press smell, the one (smell) that I secretly like burying my nose in because it reminds me of my youth, my early introduction to bookstores and libraries, the rainy days spent curled in bed when school was cancelled, and the summers when life itself acquired a languid, almost slow-as-molasses pace and the days seemed to stretch to forever. Ah, to have books to smell and to hold! Reading, after all, is as much a sensual and tactile activity as it is an interior/intellectual one, which is why I can never comprehend people who read books online. What is the point of reading a book if you can’t take it to bed? 

***

The problem with me is that I do a lot of buying, but not enough reading (I remember a friend, who shares this same affliction, admonishing me to buy him a DVD instead of a book for his birthday because his reading backlog, he said, “has become serious enough to be embarrassing”). And, of course, with the constant buying comes the cursed drain to the pocketbook and the niggling tug at the conscience, when the sensible other self tries to shame me into some degree of responsibility with admonitions like: “Do you really need another one of these?” Addict that I am, I often rationalize or counter-argue these situations away by snarling at this other self with, “Of course, goddammit, I need to buy the sequel to P. Neruda’s Memoirs because I will die if I don’t. Die, do you hear me?! The damn things read like poetry I tell you. They're sheer genius!”

In the meantime, books pile up. Some still in shrink wraps; some, believe it or not, are more than a decade old and languishing inside old boxes, their spines unwrinkled.

***

In the newest Twisted series by J. Zafra (Twisted 8: The Night of the Living Twisted, which is brilliant, by the way, with Zafra back in good form, although much can be said about the sloppy proofreading), the author posed a question to fellow biblioholics: “Do (we) buy books out of a pure love of books, or is it just avarice? . . . Is it really reading (we) love—or shopping?”

No serious bibliophile will admit to the latter. To buy books to be savored immediately . . . or later . . . (or never) is immaterial. I think that primarily we buy books out of a desire (for pleasure). The buying in itself appeases this desire. The reading lengthens the pleasure. And sometimes if a book is very good, the pleasure stays with us for a long, long time even after the book has been read to conclusion.

Some books, like good sex, linger. We simply sigh and stretch in bed after we've finished and marvel at how good they've been. 

Tell me on a Sunday, please . . .

Finally, Tell Me on a Sunday. Not the Marti Webb version, but the Denise Van Outen one, which is not bad, not bad at all. This is one of my, if not the most, favorites of Lloyd Webber’s musicals, which features such hit songs as “Unexpected Song,” “Come Back With the Same Look in Your Eyes,” “Take That Look Off Your Face,” and “Tell Me on a Sunday.”

P, who initiated me in so many things (wink), also introduced me to Webber and my first introduction to this particular musical was the few tracks included in those Best of Andrew Lloyd Webber cassettes made available in the early '90s.

And now this, the entire musical on CD brought fresh from HK. We’ve been trying to get the Marti Webb recording, but it’s been out of circulation it seems, but Van Outen does not disappoint. Not as edgy as Webb, but definitely competent and believable and just as enchanting. Thank God, Webber decided to make the musical into an entire one-act play and not just as a part of Song and Dance. Repertory Philippines staged Song and Dance in Greenbelt One last year and I remember holding my breath and squeezing P’s hand as the first few strains of my favorite songs were sung by the highly capable Carla Guevara. The second half, which was supposed to be the "dance" part, was a sleeper. The lead dancer was a bit too old to be believable as the protagonist’s “younger” love interest. But, nevertheless, we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. We hope that Rep. will (re)stage Tell Me on a Sunday (the one-act play) in the future, hopefully this year!

Birds.

. . . and because there are trees, there are birds (or is it the other way around?).

I woke up today to the trilling of birds from trees directly outside my bedroom windows. I did not wake up AND hear them, they were actually responsible for my having been roused from sleep. How vigorous they sounded today, how passionate and insistent. I thought, but of course--birds are the harbingers of summer!

Just the other day, Jun and I had been exchanging texts and e-mails about trees: the trees we grew up with, the trees we lost, and the various childhood memories evoked from our interactions with trees. Jun even wrote an amusing blog entry on Tarzan and Trees here.

And now this concerto.

Listening to the birds’ almost frenzied singing I am reassured that everything is all right with the world. Everything is as it should be. Birds still sing from trees! Thank God for the pleasure of hearing them sing, for the simple pleasure of being.   

On poets and poetry.

From the book "Memoirs":

". . . a certain kind of madness, often goes hand in hand with poetry. It would be difficult for predominantly rational people to be poets."--P. Neruda.

Oh, why can't I goof?

The older one gets, the harder it gets to goof.

I had a couple of work-less days this week (what with my new project scheduled to begin on Friday), but I insisted on spending them on my so-called “home projects.” Indeed, I have gotten ruthless with my 32-year-old self. I cannot let myself get away with mindless activities or with good, old-fashioned lazing around anymore. I always have to have something worthwhile to do now, which only means one thing—I have crossed over and allowed myself to become an adult (yech). I’m now officially one of the pod people.

***

Because I have a new toy, I have decided to finish editing my home movies. This is not an easy task as I have allowed my collection to mushroom to a good five years' worth of raw footage. Thankfully, my new toy has this nifty program that has prerecorded kick-ass music and SFX, as well as text and transition menus. It’s going to be as effortless as dragging and dropping for me, when before I had to orchestrate everything, which included trawling the net for free transition and SFX files, deciding on the music, etc.

But, still, I have to go over every raw footage, decide which to keep and which to clip out (tedious), and piece everything together into some semblance of sense and order. I have finished an entire project or what I titled as “Tagaytay ’05: P does a Howie S.” and I have four or five projects laid out next for editing, excluding the four or five projects still waiting to be downloaded from the vid. cam. Needless to say, I have my work cut out for me.

But, today, just today, I wish to plow into my books, watch a couple of movies on DVD, and vegetate (and yes, watch American Idol--go Ramiele!) 

Trees.

Every tree is in full bloom in our backyard this time of year.

As early as January, I have noticed that the Malay Apple tree (locally known as makopa/macopa) had started blooming with bunches of white tendril-like flowers that tend to fall to the ground as soon as the fruits are formed and which our house helps routinely complain about as being makalat.

The dainty langka tree also started forming its offering of one jack fruit per year. But because the tree is somewhat slender, and its branches very delicate, it cannot support its heavy fruit and so we always have to harvest its one baby earlier than necessary, letting the fruit ripen in one of the clean, dark corners of our bodega.

The kaimito tree is also heavy with fruits that people from near and far covet. This has been its most prolific year, it seems. Every other day we get requests from friends and strangers for permission to pick the tree’s fruits. We say yes to neighbors, but no, to strangers for obvious reasons. We just tell them to pick those that are accessible from outside the fence.

The kaimito has disgorged bushel after bushel of perfectly round and delicious fruits this year and still it continues to bear more. How wonderful and perfect God’s fruit-bearing trees are. Our unassuming, but dependable backyard tree has brought joy and nourishment to a good number of people this season. Why, just the other day I heard a young boy begging to be allowed to climb our tree, saying, “Sige na, Ate, gusto ko lang pong matikman . . .”

Today, I took two ripe kaimito fruits from the refrigerator and ate them. It had been awhile since I last tasted their sweetness. I dug into the halved fruits with my spoon and put the tender, milky flesh into my mouth. They’re still as good as when I first tasted them as a young girl many, many years ago.

Remembering to remember.

Sometimes memory falls through the cracks . . . and I, who used to pride myself with having an elephant’s memory, have been reduced to this woman who forgets things, misplaces objects, and asks silly questions . . . so much so that one day P demanded to know: “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

In one of his Panorama articles, Cirilo Bautista said that memory can sometimes be a writer’s worst enemy. So in an effort to arrest this seeming decline, I bought this book (see below) for enlightenment.

Big and red.

Strawberries are in season . . .

Isn't he romantic?

Aww, my husband is still sweet and romantic after all these years.

Damn, I'm hot! Hahaha! Loko lang. ;)

:D

From God Is No Laughing Matter by Julia Cameron:

"God knew we'd like slow dancing. And dirty dancing. And African dancing and spinning like the Sufis do, so your underpants show."

:D

:D

88-year-old Nanay: (Musing out loud) I lost my virginity at the altar of the Moonlit Terrace hotel in Azcarraga, Manila.

Me: Eww!

P: (Giggles.)

:D


Lola still feisty at 88.

They were purty . . .

Dagnabbit.

Last night I dreamt that I had written words of utter beauty. They were so spectacular and so moving that had it not been a dream I’m sure I would have been incapable of writing them (heh). But, as soon as the dream ended, the words, too, disappeared into ether. I could no longer retrieve them hard as I tried; memory, it seems, has foiled me yet again.

Damn you, brain, damn you.

He's loverly.

Sometimes (not often because, after all, he is a quiet and shy man) he says the most WONDERFUL things to me and I start feeling tenderly, oh so tenderly toward him and I go around beaming, very much like a sunflower beams at the sun.

Mmm, mmm, mmm!

You know how a whiff of Hawaiian Tropic sunblocks can mentally transport you to a sunny beach and how, like me, you probably often wished that someone would bottle that smell into a perfume, something you could spray on yourself on a whim? Well Lush has come up with products nearly as good--a shampoo (Trichomania), conditioner (Coolaulin), and soap (I Should Coco) that smell brilliantly of coconut milk, cocoa butter, and other divine things. I looove them! They don't come very cheaply, but I'd gladly save up, cut back on food and books (two of my absolute favorite things) just so I could buy and bathe in these products whenever the mood striked. After using them, you will feel sooo clean, I tell you (remember coconuts have antibacterial, anti-protozoal, and antiviral properties). You'll probably end up bathing more that once a day, they're that addictive. The soap can be drying so moisturizing afterwards is recommended. I don't really recommend the shampoo as it comes in solid form and may cause dandruff, but the conditioner and soap are must-buys. E-mail me if you like them, too, so that we can gush together! 

'La lang. 'Lang magawa . . .

Sitting side by side,
in knee-deep water,
you wondered out loud
what it would be like
to touch a starfish.
After all, how could you not
when one such beauty
lay enticingly
very near your hand?

I cautioned you against touching
unknown things.
There is always the danger of getting pricked
and getting hurt.
You grinned--
a silly quarter-moon grin--
and we left things at that.

Skipping stones,
we laughed
as we searched the shallows for the smoothest,
flattest rocks.
The trick, you said, is in the correct bending of the back,
the right angling of the elbow,
and the proper warming and caressing of the stone . . .
as if one is warming and caressing a heart.

Hold it, you said, neither too tightly
nor too loosely,
and when the stone is ready,
with a flick of the wrist and very quickly,
let it go.

Kiara et Tutu.

For Doris, who loves Kiara just as much as we do (maybe more! He he he). 


Pensive.


Posing.


Rare moment of truce.

(Read Kiara's story here.