Notes from Elsewhere

New home.

2008-12-17T16:21:00.005+08:00

Will be hanging out here for a while.

Goody!

2008-12-03T22:49:00.008+08:00

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

Hurtling.

2008-11-13T17:24:00.009+08:00

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.

2008-11-09T23:13:00.000+08:00

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.

2008-11-09T23:09:00.001+08:00

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.

2008-10-09T08:01:00.008+08:00

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

2008-10-08T08:00:00.003+08:00

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.

2008-10-02T16:53:00.000+08:00

(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."

2008-10-01T22:43:00.008+08:00

“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.

2008-07-27T23:57:00.009+08:00

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 . . ." :)

2008-07-13T22:00:00.001+08:00

Here in Mactan . . .

2008-07-08T11:23:00.006+08:00

(Click to enlarge.)

Retro post June '08.

2008-07-06T15:35:00.002+08:00

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"

2008-07-02T09:20:00.000+08:00

“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.

2008-07-02T09:19:00.018+08:00

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:

It is possible to change for the better, to work at becoming your best self;
It is possible to forgive;
Soon, P and I will travel the rest of the world (but, really, we’ll settle happily with just traveling to Europe) together;
Anyone who has suffered (or is suffering) can become a more stronger, empathetic person;
There is an end to suffering;
If you trust in the goodness of the universe, you will receive goodness from the universe;
It’s good to smile;
It is stupid not to listen to well-meaning, sensible advice;
God will never forsake me (or you!);
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.
In life, you should strive to play the role of “hero,” not “villain”;
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;
Nothing beats the power of a fervent, honest prayer;
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;
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 . . .;
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.

2008-07-02T09:19:00.010+08:00

“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 . . .

2008-05-24T09:18:00.001+08:00

(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 . . .

2008-05-23T17:30:00.018+08:00

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.

2008-05-23T17:30:00.017+08:00

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 . . .

2008-05-23T16:22:00.001+08:00

“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.

2008-05-14T17:30:00.008+08:00

Bella!

Speak softly . . .

2008-05-14T17:29:00.003+08:00

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.

;)

2008-05-02T17:50:00.006+08:00

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.

2008-04-13T22:23:00.001+08:00

"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.

2008-04-12T16:10:00.003+08:00

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.

2008-03-18T23:24:00.000+08:00

Twelve-year-old Tutu .

Too busy to compose? Then, retro post!

2008-03-18T23:05:00.001+08:00

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.

2008-03-16T01:03:00.000+08:00

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."

2008-03-15T13:13:00.002+08:00

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).

2008-03-15T13:00:00.006+08:00

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 . . .

2008-03-15T12:58:00.007+08:00

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.

2008-03-15T12:02:00.006+08:00

. . . 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.

2008-03-01T00:17:00.005+08:00

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?

2008-02-28T12:01:00.007+08:00

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.

2008-02-24T22:30:00.005+08:00

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.

2008-02-24T22:27:00.002+08:00

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.

2008-02-21T14:44:00.000+08:00

Strawberries are in season . . .

Isn't he romantic?

2008-02-14T15:12:00.001+08:00

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

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

:D

2008-02-03T22:56:00.000+08:00

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

2008-01-23T20:05:00.002+08:00

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 . . .

2008-01-23T20:00:00.001+08:00

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.

2008-01-20T22:10:00.001+08:00

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!

2008-01-20T22:05:00.002+08:00

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 . . .

2008-01-20T22:00:00.001+08:00

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.

2008-01-09T16:14:00.002+08:00

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.

Oops. My bad.

2007-12-14T23:50:00.000+08:00

My essay in Condo Central Mag. ("Free, at last") appeared in the Nov. issue (not Dec.) . . .

O, bili na kayo. :)

Available pa ata sa National Bookstore, Filbar's, and Booksale. ;)

A whirlwind of a year.

2007-12-13T21:23:00.001+08:00

Because according to S. B. Heath, part of the exercise of being a good person is not using (one’s) free time frivolously, I have been busy, busy, busy! I finally finished some of my targeted projects for the year, but I still have a hell of a lot of way to go before I have everything laid out just the way I like it. I have this day as breather before I put my nose back to the grindstone and what do I do but spend it blogging (he he)? I’m so uncool. Anyway, Danny tells me that my essay has been published in Condo Central, Dec. issue. I have yet to see it in magazine stands, but, hey, thank you very much, Danny!

X'mas handa.

2007-12-13T21:20:00.000+08:00

Glutton P has been, day in and day out, pestering me about our Noche Buena. He asks and asks and asks, “Ano’ng handa?” I would say, “Wala ka na ba nasa isip kungdi pagkain?” It doesn’t help that in the fourteen years I’ve known him, he still has, more or less, the svelte Vic Sotto/Hugh Grant (ha ha ha) profile that I’ve fallen for, but now, sadly, with a slight rounding in the tummy.

I must admit that Noche Buena has ceased to be the elaborate to-do that it had been before, although my dear, old Tita Uchie (my mother’s sister) still tries to replicate Christmas Eve repasts of old (when Lola was still strong and, being a former chef, could whip up a feast), at least in the sweets department. We still have leche flan with dayap, and kick-ass fruit salad, macaroni salad, and potato salad. Although, I’m no slack in the kitchen department myself, pasta, baked dishes, and Filipino cuisine being my specialties (half of me is Kapampangan after all, the other half Southern Tagalog—Rizal and Binan to be precise), I have gotten lazy. Why bother cooking morcon or galantina when these could be procured from a store and stashed in the freezer until ready to serve? Besides, I have forever been traumatized by this one Christmas when my lola suddenly burst into tears in the middle of dinner after cooking morcon, because she said that she was just “so damned tired.” Plus, with a sister who eats like a bird, a mother with high blood pressure/cholesterol, and a lola who refuses to wear her teeth anymore, what is the stupid point?

But, because P is simply adorable and I so hate to disappoint him (he has lambent eyes that can give Puss in Boots’ pity-wawa look competition), I shall make some effort this year. (Drum roll) here, I present you with the Galang-Monis 2007 Noche Buena feast:

Morcon! (Even if it kills me.)
Roasted Chicken.
Fideos with ham bone thrown in.
Steamed fish with mayo.
~~Paella~~ (no, no we mustn’t be too ambitious, but maybe for New Year’s Media Noche, partnered with callos). Assorted veggies with shrimps, cashews, and quail’s eggs cooked Chinese style na lang para kunwari may gulay. :D
Excellente hamonado or Adelina’s Fiesta Ham.
Sweets c/o Tita Uchie.

So, there! I hope you’re happy now, P!

:D

2007-12-13T21:18:00.000+08:00

Me: (While eating precooked tikoy rolled in sesame seeds) Saan kaya galing ang sesame seeds?
P: Saan pa, e di sa Sesame St.

:D

2007-12-13T21:15:00.000+08:00

Me: (Reacting to my 88-year-old lola's puttering by the sink) Nay, whatchadoing?
Nanay: Eto, brushing my gums.

Secret muna.

2007-12-13T21:14:00.000+08:00

P made two banner studies for my Web site. The site will contain my works (theater, print) from early '90s to present. Will unveil it soon.

Way to go, Smurfette, way to go.

2007-12-13T14:27:00.000+08:00

Davao.

2007-12-13T14:23:00.000+08:00

(Retropost)

Oo nga . . .

2007-12-13T14:20:00.000+08:00

“The first lesson reading teaches us is how to be alone.”—J. Franzen

Just a li'l bit of R. T.

2007-12-13T14:18:00.000+08:00

Petty, but nice.

She's off to IL.

2007-12-08T05:00:00.000+08:00

Dropped Sis. off at the airport for her white Christmas. Well, I say: Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Something happened at the framer's.

2007-10-17T22:23:00.001+08:00

I was at a frame shop located in a somewhat seedy part of Makati last Saturday (I’m cheap, I tell you) and waiting for the manager to issue a receipt for our transaction, when I heard ghastly screaming outside the second-floor window. “What was that?!” I asked the manager. She glanced nonchalantly at the direction of the sound and shrugged, “A, wala 'yan” as if commotions of the sort were an everyday occurrence there. I walked back to the car where P was waiting and he said, “What took you so long? Akala ko maba-Babel na ako rito (referring to the movie where the character of Cate Blanchett [an American] was accidentally shot by a Moroccan boy and the whole fiasco was blown out of proportion back in the United States as a terrorist attack).”

According to P, while I was at the framer’s, a cop went running to a group of men, brandished his gun (Western-movie style), and collared someone. Since he was on foot and alone (go figure), he had to drag the man amidst the loud protestations of the man's family and friends. He then hailed a pedicab, kasi nga naglalakad, or what people here call a trisikad or padyak (because this conveyance is really a bicycle, fashioned as a tricycle). Anyway, he hailed a pedicab, threw his quarry in, and shouted to the driver, “Sige, dalhin dun!” which we could only surmise he meant as his office, the police station. The female relatives of the collared man were crying and told his group of tambay friends, “Sundan n’yo! Dali, sundan n’yo!” Someone produced a jeepney where everyone piled in (butcher, baker, candlestick-maker) and soon the bigger vehicle was behind the much-slower padyak, both traveling at maybe 5-10 km per hour.

One might probably laugh out loud at this comedy that is law enforcement in the Philippines, if the reality of the farce was not already too painful.

--------
P’s artwork, titled Ang Paborito Kong Aso, mixed media on canvas:

Yo solo quiero caminar . . .

2007-10-17T22:20:00.000+08:00

From the text of an invitation to a dance performance at the CCP, titled I Just Want to Go On:

"I want to go on because I refuse to be just meat in the hands of time."

:D

Weee.

2007-10-17T22:17:00.000+08:00

Thanks to the camera's digital zoom, we got this close to Elliot Yamin in Glorietta. I had to peek at him in between the necks of people who seemed to have no problem having their personal spaces invaded . . . and vice versa. We stayed at the second floor of the mall because hazarding a spot at the ground floor activity area was suicide. Believe me I tried. If the mass of humanity pressing on me was not deterrent enough, the collective smell of people sweating in delirious anticipation proved to be my undoing.

After the show, the organizers permitted a meet and greet with the artist. I pushed and shoved like the best of them only to be told at the front that only a select few may approach the artist. My legendary charm (believe me I have gotten through a modest number of traffic-violation tickets simply by acting coy. Hey, it's not something to be proud of, but you get what I mean) failed to move the sentries. I silently fumed inside as I saw the privileged few paw and kiss Elliot and I murmured to the fetid air, "Damn you, Ayala Malls . . ."

But, thanks to a husband who is nothing short of Superman and who has a vast network of friends in the right places, I got myself a fourth-row-VIP ticket to his ATC show. Bwahahaha!

Boy was Elliot handsome . . .

and talented . . .

As I prepared to enter the meet-and-greet area with the much-coveted pass, I saw mothers, with their children, begging the guards to at least be allowed to have their CD sleeves signed. I saw teenagers in tears, throwing fits as their horrified parents looked helplessly on. I wanted to help them, I really did, but what could I do? I had one meet-and-greet pass.

Life's a bitch.

Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay . . .

2007-09-27T22:54:00.000+08:00

Whenever I feel mishandled by the world, I find myself retreating to a safe and small space where I can control the chaos raging without (and within) with a simple closing of a door. In this perfect square of a room is a haven where I can curl and listen to the soothing rustle of the wind through the trees outside as it says, It's all right . . . it's all right. Here, the sun, too, cheerfully spills through the window and the birds twitter as energetically as always. I realize, life, in its resilience, goes on. However much I try to escape from the external and the helter-skelter, I simply cannot shut the door to life. It will, again and again, attempt to intrude and herein lies its beauty. It simply implies that the world will not give up on one who will not give up on the world.

I don't know what is causing me to feel out of sorts lately. Maybe it's the full moon. Maybe it's the depressing topic of the manuscript I just finished working on. Maybe it was Pico Iyer and his insistence on finding the lonely and dismal in his travels. Maybe it's because I'm constantly getting news of people dying or getting sick or people getting sick and dying. Maybe it's all of the above. So as a way of coping I again feel this need to withdraw, to crawl into my hole, and nurse myself into some semblance of equilibrium.

In the face of ugliness my natural inclination is to seek beauty, always beauty. I pawed through my books and films in search of the perfect escape and found it today in re-watching one of Almodovar's films. As before, I see myself identifying with the character who often cries when confronted with the "exquisite." There was a time in the past when I, too, was moved to silly tears during a scene in a stage play that I was watching. It was so true and wonderful, it wounded me. My tears just kept falling and falling and I found myself squeezing the life out of P's hand because I just didn't know what came over me.

As I got to the part in the movie where Caetano Veloso rendered a slow and touching version of "Cucurrucucú Paloma" and the character that I identify with once again cried, it dawned on me that contrary to what others might think, we are really not alone in our misery.

Loneliness, too, like love, is universal.

What fresh hell is this?

2007-09-09T20:25:00.000+08:00

People are wondering about this infernal heat. Why, they say, does it feel like summer when it’s the start of the “ber” months already (otherwise known as pre-Christmas time in Pinas and characterized with the cooling of the weather and the onslaught of Yuletide-song playing). As soon as September 1 rolled in, I heard Christmas carols being played in department stores and I couldn’t help smiling at the Pinoys’ eagerness to get the Christmas spirit going.

According to PAGASA, the heat is caused by a high-pressure area and that we (in the Philippines) can expect “fine” weather by day and thunderstorms at night. Temperatures have reached fever proportions in Q. C. at 37ºC recently. Honestly, this is the warmest I’ve felt this year. Not even the sweltering summer a few months ago, which got everyone talking about global warming, El Niño, and water rationing, got me complaining this much. One can really stir the air with a spoon, it is that heavy. I told Nanay (my grandmother), this must be how a heat wave feels like! I’m absolutely debilitated by it!

My agony is worsened by the coming of a cold, which I probably contracted last weekend in Clark when I had to repeatedly dash from and to the car trying to avoid the rain because P kept forgetting to bring our umbrella. I woke up today in a foul mood, having slept for only two hours, and immediately blamed P for my condition. I moaned and groaned and said to P: “I wish I could ask you to stay and take care of me, but you’ve already been absent from work this week (we attended a funeral).” To say that I’m impossible to deal with when I’m sick is an understatement. I simply don’t believe in suffering in silence. I cry, I whine, I complain, I toss and turn. P knows that the only way to shut me up is to baby me. He took out a mentholated rub from the cabinet and spread some on my back, chest, and neck. “Not too much,” I whimpered. I felt P rolling his eyeballs. He then lay beside me, although he should be getting ready for work already, and rubbed my legs with his (we call this “kiskisan”). I immediately fell asleep and woke up cheerier than a few hours earlier.

I say thank God for husbands, thank God.

Ilyot in Manila.

2007-09-09T20:24:00.001+08:00

*Gets panty out of a twist*

Elliot Yamin is coming to Manila this September. YES! He was our bet in American Idol, but lost to Taylor Hicks aka “The Silver Fox” (my sister and I still chortle over this) and Katherine McPhee. No matter, that’s a good sign I guess as all Idol winners so far, save for Kelly Clarkson, have not really “made” it internationally. But, we have high hopes for Elliot (we fondly call him Ilyot at home) and had been waiting for his album release in Manila for what seemed like forever. Now it’s here, produced by Sony BMG, and our Ilyot will be promoting the album in a series of concerts in Ayala Malls: TriNoma on Sept. 21; Glorietta, Sept. 22; Market! Market!, Sept. 23; Ayala Center Cebu, Sept. 26; and ATC, Sept. 28.

P excitedly told me that he saw a billboard announcing the concerts and asked if I wanted to see one or maybe all. I said, “Hell, yeah!”

I immediately told my sister about the events. Our convo went:

Me: Huy, si Ilyot magko-concert dito. Nuod tayo!
Sis: Hell, yeah!
Me: Panuorin natin lahat!
Sis: Sure! Ang pogi na n’ya, ha!
Me: Oo, ang ganda na ng ngipin n’ya . . .
Sis: Kulot na rin ang buhok n’ya . . .
Me/Sis: Hekhekhekhekhek . . .

But makeover or no makeover, what we are really sold on is his talent and his tortured-soul/artiste look (he is reportedly deaf in one ear, has diabetes, and has wrestled internally with himself in terms of whether or not to pursue his artistic dreams). But, what a talent! He said in one of his interviews that he’s more confident now in his singing and expressing himself. Honestly, he started so wonderfully in the first few A. I. elimination rounds, but my family thinks that he choked in the last, deciding rounds. We kept waiting for him to bust out, you know, raise the ante of his performances—in short get crazy—but he never did. We were aghast when he lost to Katherine McPhee, but was comforted by the belief that he’d find his own spot in the music world soon enough.

I know his new album features original songs, but I hope he also considers remaking some jazz tunes in the future, similar to the songs he performed in A. I. In fact, I would love to buy a recording of the songs he sang in A. I.

Well, Ilyot, dear, dear boy, you've finally arrived!

Go ahead, shine, bebe, shine!

"You never see a bald man with gray hair."

2007-09-02T23:51:00.001+08:00

How true is the belief that a person’s white hairs represent his or her myriad worries? See, at 31, I have a smattering of them already—20 strands or more plus those at the back of my head that I can neither see nor count—and I wonder, is it normal to have this much white hair at my age or have I been inordinately worried the past years?

I started noticing one or two white strands five or so years ago and I’ve gotten to the habit of plucking them since. It is believed that plucking “gray” hair causes two to grow back. But then, men of science have declared this to be a myth. According to them, “graying” is simply a result of the aging process, something to do with hair losing color due to a decrease in melanin production.

This leaves me with the theory that hair turn white due to worries. I try to recall some major heartaches in the past that may have been the culprits to my “graying” and part of this list was my uncle’s seven-year battle with cancer (which ended in 2004). Since I’m a natural worrier (my philosophy is that if I worry and obsess about something enough, maybe it wouldn’t happen), I still worry over trifles, but things are so much better for me now that I wake up thanking God everyday for my good, uneventful little life.

So, how to make peace with these unsightly, stringy white hairs on my head? Some say to look at them as signs that one is growing in wisdom; others say that they are simply signs that one is growing old. Me, I guess I’ll start regarding them as badges—markers that I’ve survived this much and this long. Others my age have unfortunately perished for some reason or another: poverty, illness, bad luck. Some have simply given up. But, me, I’m alive, in one piece, none the worse for wear, a bit banged up, yes, but ultimately still optimistic, happy.

We have a live one. :)

2007-08-07T18:06:00.000+08:00

Danny, salamat sa e-mail mo, ha? Kinilig naman ako. :) Pasens'ya ka na at ngayon lang ako nakapagcheck ng e-mail, masamang ugali ko na yan na kinaiinisan ng marami kasi kailangan pa ako i-text ng mga tao para icheck ko ang e-mails ko.

Masaya ako na kahit papaano ay napasaya kita sa paglathala ng tula mo sa blog ko. Sana sumulat ka pa ng maraming tula dahil mahusay ka naman. Naibigan ko rin ang ipinadala mong bagong tula, sana okay lang sa'yo kung i-post kong muli ito sa blog, kasama na rin ng liham mo (at liham ko) para magmukha talagang correspondence ng idol at fan. Nyahaha.

Wag kang mag-alala, ugali ng marami ang i-Google ang kanilang sarili. Buti ka nga paminsan-minsan lang, ako nga madalas. :P

Ingat ka at aabangan ko palagi ang mga bago mong katha.

Polaris

From: "Danilo R. dela Cruz, Jr."
To: polarisns@hotmail.com
Subject: Salamat
Date: Wed, 25 Jul 2007 11:40:01 +0800

Hi!

Ugali ko nang i-Google ang pangalan ko paminsan-minsan. Maaaring sanhi ito ng banidad o kaburyungan sa trabaho ko o baka naman paghahanap lang ito sa nawawalang sarili - ako, sabi ng iba, makata. Kinalimutan ko na muna ang pagtula o ako ang kinalimutan ng tula. Naging abala ako sa iba't ibang trabaho sa maraming taon at pakiramdam ko'y unti-unting nababaog ang aking lenggwahe sa pagtula, sa paglikha, sa paghahanap ng kahulugan sa wala. At wala, wala akong magawa kahit anong pilit kong sumulat ng isa o dalawang linya sa gabi. At kapag ganoon, hinahayaan ko na lamang. Wala akong laban kapag ganoon. Hanggang sa makita ko nga na ipinaskil mo sa blog mo ang isang tula ko. Makatutulong iyon sa akin na muling makapagsulat kasama ng iba pang inspirasyon. Maraming salamat kung sino ka man. Gusto ko uling makaniig ang Salita.

Tula ko. Wala lang.

Lahat Tayo ay Nakatayo

Lahat tayo ay nakatayo
sa palengke,
sa pabrika,
sa opisina,
sa bukid,
sa eskuwela,
sa kalsada,
sa Palasyo,
sa silid,
sa kubeta,
sa plasa,
sa simbahan,
at sa mga lugar ng pag-ibig at digmaan.
Walang gustong umupo
dahil baka nga naman mawalan tayo
ng bigas,
ng prutas,
ng isda,
ng karne,
ng gamot,
ng tubig,
ng damit,
at ng asin.
Pati, ng alak,
ng sigarilyo,
ng kantot,
ng gigil,
at ng aliw.
Walang dahilan upang umupo,
lalo't nagkakadaskulan tayo
sa kakaunting grasya at ganansiya.
Sino nga naman ang may gusto
ng barya at disgrasya?
Ng galit at pagdurusa?
At kung may isa man sa atin
ang makaramdam ng hapo
at maisipang umupo,
bigla rin namang tatayo.

Road trip.

2007-08-01T21:00:00.001+08:00

It had been awhile since P and I went road tripping and we both decided to go to Subic for a bit of R & R. We stayed at the Subic Bay Yacht Club (our first time) and luckily got a room with a view of the Marina. Subic is a convenient destination. Something about its antiseptic look also appeals to us. On ordinary days, the place is quiet and sleepy, like a ghost town. The streets inside the Freeport zone are almost always deserted and everything, except some restaurants near the Boardwalk, promptly closes at 8 PM. There’s really nothing much to do in Subic except shop and eat, maybe engage in water sports like jet skiing, parasailing, scuba diving if one is inclined to do these sort of things. Honestly the beaches are not that remarkable, but they’re nice enough. I remember the time P and I went there for a day’s excursion. We just did the rounds of the Duty-free shops, ate steaks, then parked our car, windows down, under a tree, facing the sea. The serene environment made me prop my feet up on the dashboard as I allowed the cool sea breezes to lull me to sleep.

By 4 PM we were back again on the road, hoping that we’d reach the North Luzon Expressway before rush hour (this was during the construction of said road. Now, going back and forth to the North is a cinch). What makes the Subic experience even more spectacular is not just getting there, but the journey in getting there. For us the romance starts as we hit the expressway, that wide expanse of road, with the car cruising at the speed of 100 or more kilometers per hour, and driving by bridges that seem to stretch forever, while absorbing the beauty of rural Philippines—the rice fields, the small lakes and tentative waterways, the fruit orchards, the elevations (which never cease to remind me of the time when as a young girl traveling the early mornings with my tatay to visit family in Sta. Lucia or San Fernando, he pointed Mt. Arayat out to me, his voice low and happy, and I remember looking at its outline in the mist, my eyes still cloaked in sleep, and then turning to face my father to smile as if the mountain was a secret we shared), the mud crabs sold in makeshift bamboo stalls from Pampanga to Olongapo, the Razon and Mekeni stores, the various home and religious artifacts sold on either side of the road, each skillfully fashioned/carved by the crafty hands of Kapampangans, and P, energetically jabbering away next to me, telling me story after story, and me, smiling and laughing, my heart full, content, happy, happy.

Heaven is a five-storey bookstore.

2007-07-22T23:59:00.003+08:00

P and I have been frequenting the newly opened book/music store on Bonifacio High St. Upon entry to the store, P and I say a cheery goodbye to each other, temporarily divorcing, as he heads to the fourth floor to browse art books and CDs, while I start my pilgrimage at the ground floor, paying homage to books by category (this is my obsessive-compulsive thing. I must always begin my scouring in an organized manner, the same way I do my grocery shopping, i.e., aisle per aisle. This is to avoid missing anything. If I do not do it this way, the whole experience is ruined for me). Some books are competitively priced in this store, but others are expensive by 10-30 pesos compared to competing bookstores. Oh, well, at least their inventory is extensive and of quality. My blood secretly rippled in delight. I almost made myself dizzy going from floor to floor, inwardly wrestling with the desire to buy new books because of the recent moratorium on book and DVD buying that I imposed on P and myself, but, eventually giving in and buying books and CDs with a promise not to buy anymore in the future, that these purchases are the absolute last!

In the store, we bump into friends, fellow book/CD addicts, and after perfunctory hellos, we each quiz each other’s buys or recommend new ones. This is the only bookstore in the country with a Starbucks. I don’t know how remarkable this is because I’m not a Starbucks habitué as I’m not addicted to coffee, I’m more a tea person and I’m very particular about my teas so no Stash or Gold Leaf for me. Besides, things are expensive in Starbucks although I’m currently addicted to their "Banoffis."

One time, I was waiting for P to finish working in an event sponsored by his company and I went to this bookstore’s Starbucks to have a snack. The crew very politely inquired if the sandwich and juice I ordered was dinner, whether I’m alone, if I would like a glass of water, and if I’m attending the Christina Aguilera concert. I always get these sort of inquiries from people, something about me must encourage small talk. I’m the type who can start conversations with strangers and when we say goodbye to each other we’re already friends. This aspect of my personality is alarming to introverted P to the point that he sometimes shushes me or frowns when I get into gregarious mode. I can’t help it. I’m honestly interested in people. I’m the type who’ll help old ladies cross streets or pick up dropped things, or give advice or offer my services to strangers. With the amount of distrust people have against other people these days, P said that I should temper my outgoing nature because people might misconstrue my intentions. Like, when we were abroad, I offered to take this woman’s picture because she was traveling solo. I saw her stop to think if I were only offering to take her picture so that I could run off with her camera. She looked me up and down and decided that I was safe. When we bumped into each other at the airport we waved at each other and inquired about each other’s destination. There was also this one time when we were on this rickety boat in China, on our way to sample the local cooking of a seaside town, I tried to start a conversation with a guy asking him where he was from (Ireland), if he was traveling alone, if he thought that traveling alone was romantic, etc. I saw P roll his eyeballs. The guy probably wanted to be left alone to his thoughts. He looked a bit like Gerard Depardieu.

Anyway, back to the bookstore. At the cash register, I fingered the Moleskine merchandise as I waited for P to pay for our purchases. Said to be the notebook used by the likes of Hemingway, Picasso, and Chatwin, Moleskine is leather bound and expensive (at 800-1,000+ pesos a pop). I had to reconsider as I still have a lot of notebooks and journals given by P, E, and E. I have never bought an expensive notebook in my life because even though I love them, I’m too stingy to spend too much on parchment. I’m all for recycling and mostly just use the backs of used bond papers for composition (que horror!). Also, I’m a bit of a messy writer. I sometimes can’t even read my own handwriting. Ha-ha. E recently got me two pocketsize, leather-bound notebooks from abroad. Not Moleskine, but equally beautiful and made in Italy. I can’t wait to use them!

The light was great.

2007-07-22T23:59:00.002+08:00

We just came from Serendra and on our way to another mall. It was drizzling, traffic was bumper to bumper, P was talking, I opened the cosmetic mirror, saw that the light was good, and started taking pictures . . .

Baby Grand.

2007-07-22T23:57:00.001+08:00

In 2010, I’ll buy me this baby and I’ll play on it lovely music on weekends (something Patrick Doyle or Dario Marianelli), whilst P paints his abstractions in his studio slash my library.

P’s Meditating on Puddles (13”x10”, watercolor on paper).

Religion.

2007-07-15T20:50:00.000+08:00

After attending Mass, P just blurted out: “You know, according to Nietzsche, religion is for the weak.”

I rolled my eyeballs. “Of course, he was a socialist,” I said.

“No, contrary to what most people think, Nietzsche actually liked religion. He once said, ‘What is morality without religion?’ We actually need religion . . .”

“To keep us in line.” I cut him off.

“Precisely.”

“Me, I’d rather believe in something than nothing,” I said.

“Nietzsche didn’t believe that we should pander to the poor because the Bible said that the poor would inherit the earth . . .”

“I think that what is meant by that is that Jesus wanted the non-poor to share what they had with the poor. Remember he said that what we do to the least of his brothers, whether good or bad, we do to him?” I said.

“But, Nietzsche said that the poor should not be satisfied with being poor. They should work hard to rise from poverty.”

“You know, there’s a reason why there are poor and rich people and I’m not talking about capitalism. In life there should be balance. We can’t all be rich; otherwise, no one will agree to work the industries anymore . . .”

“No, what Nietzsche meant is that people should excel in their chosen profession, they should aim for perfection. If you’re a blue-collar worker, say a cook, you should try to be the best cook. People should not use poverty as a crutch. To say that this is all I can be, this is my lot in life because I am poor.”

“Agree,” I said.

“I should read more Nietzsche,” P said.

:D

2007-07-14T22:29:00.000+08:00

What the Dog Says

I lie belly-up
In the sunshine, happier than
You ever will be.

Today I sniffed
Many dog butts — I celebrate
By kissing your face.

I sound the alarm!
Paperboy — come to kill us all —
Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!

I sound the alarm!
Garbage man — come to kill us all —
Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!

I lift my leg and
Whiz on each bush. Hello, Spot —
Sniff this and weep.

I hate my choke chain —
Look, world, they strangle me! Ack
Ack Ack Ack Ack Ack!

Sleeping here, my chin
On your foot — no greater bliss — well,
Maybe catching cats.

Posted by: "SS Alzona"

Because "poetry doesn't belong to those who wrote it, but to those who need it."

2007-07-09T09:00:00.000+08:00

Even though we only have two seasons in Pinas, I always do my major cleaning and organizing in spring (April, May, or June). While organizing this year, I came across poems that I’ve clipped from newspapers and magazines as far back as 1990. I reread them, threw majority of them out, but managed to keep these two:

Huwag Kang Kukurap
Ni Manolito Castillo Sulit

Minsan, gusto mong isiping
madyikero ang pagkakataon.
Na ang sangbeses na pagtatagpo
sa burger house
ay mauuwi sa ganito.
At sasabihin mong sana’y
di na lumakad nang napakalayo
ang gayong sandali,
mula sa pagtanaw mo sa kanya
sa isang mesa
at sa pagitan ng subo at nguya
ay walang anumang sabing,
“Parang artista nung 1950s, ano?”
Hanggang doon na lamang sana
sa sandaling bahagya siyang umirap.

Subalit madyikero nga ang pagkakataon.
At gaya ng rabbit o kalapating
dinukot sa sombrero,
mamanghain ka ng lobo,
bulaklak, hanggang sa sandali’y
maging panyo

at panyo lamang.

Nagmamadaling mga Taludtod
(kay Abbey)
Ni Danilo R. Dela Cruz Jr.

Pinagbaga ng aking marubdob na pag-ibig
ang iyong talampakan,
at pumaimbulog kang
lapnos ang damdamin at isip
sa kalawakan ng walang katiyakang paglukso
ng mga gunitang para sa iyo, para sa akin,
gaano man ito kalupit.

For lack of things to do.

2007-07-08T22:22:00.001+08:00

Last Friday, I asked P what plans we have for the weekend. He said, “I thought we were watching that play at the CCP?” I said, “No, the play I wanted to see had been shown already.” P said, “Hmm, so wala pala tayo gagawin this weekend?” I said, “Wala . . .” He said, “Okay, let’s just stay home and have lots of s*x.” Ha-ha.

But Saturday actually brought us to a group exhibit at a museum in Makati where an acquaintance had two of what he said were old paintings. That done, we ate at a favorite restaurant, dropped by MW to buy “dibidis,” went home, and settled in bed for marathon movie watching. Unfortunately, the pickings were slim in MW. We started the film fest. with As You Like It, directed by Kenneth Branagh. We got really excited when we saw this in MW because Branagh is, to quote P, “Adik kay Shakespeare” and we still have fond memories of a Shakespearean adaptation of his that we were able to watch way back in the early nineties (Much Ado about Nothing).

As You Like It is one of my favorite Shakespearean plays. I even wrote a paper on said comedy in my Drama class. The very popular quote: “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players" came from this play. Branagh’s film was interestingly set in nineteenth-century Japan and although P and I marveled at the lush look and feel of the movie, we both agreed that we found it too "experimental." It is difficult enough reading Shakespeare’s Elizabethan prose in print, but to watch actors deliver them in staccato speech (Shakespeare wrote in iambic pentameter and the reading of the stage verses has to have an aural pattern or beat), with some of them careless in their enunciation, is even harder. Compound this with the fact that as one watches Branagh’s adaptation, one can’t help but ask, “What the hell are these people doing in nineteenth-century Japan?” Bryce Howard’s “Rosalind” also failed to sparkle for me. Romola Garai (I first saw and appreciated her as the young lead in the film I Capture the Castle) as Celia almost upstaged her. The film dragged and lacked the witty repartees of the original script. I have yet to finish the film because I fell asleep halfway through. The next movie in our marathon was aptly titled Next (starring Nicolas Cage as a man who can foretell the future), but I was still so sleepy from the first film, I slept through this one, too. P had to nudge me awake. He said, “Ano ka ba tulog ka nang tulog!” I snarled, “E, bakit ka ba nanggigising?”

After my afternoon “nap” of 4 hours, I told P that I was ready for Baz Luhrmann’s Strictly Ballroom. I first saw this film as a teenager and had chanced upon the film maybe twice or thrice in the cable movie channels in the past. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, I can still bear to see it “one more time.” The film just transcends time, plus, I’m really a sucker for “dance” movies. One of my favorite dialogues in the film is “a life lived in fear is no life at all” (this kind of theme echoes in other Luhrmann films, like in Moulin Rouge where the lead actor, in one scene, declares, “A life without love is no life at all.”) Now, whenever I come across something that paralyzes me with dread, like killing a cockroach for example, I tell myself, “A life lived in fear is no life at all!” It helps. It really does.

It surprised me to learn that Luhrmann currently has only three films to his credit (there’s Strictly, then Romeo + Juliet, then Moulin Rouge). As is typical of other Luhrmann movies, Strictly is fast-paced, cinematographically beautiful (and colorful), and has kick-ass music. Here's a scene where the two lead characters dance on the rooftop of their studio (a Coca-Cola billboard as backdrop) with “Time after Time” as score:

According to P, the reason why I only truly like films that are beautifully set, written, acted in, and directed is because watching a film for me is a total experience of the senses. Therefore, in order for me to appreciate any film, it has to blow my mind away. It has to appeal to me both on a cerebral and emotional level. Totoo ba yan?! Boo! He-he-he.

Anyway, since P scoffs at my Korean and Japanese contemporary film fixation, I let him sleep while I watched Isamu Nakae's widely accepted coming-of-age film, Sugar and Spice. It stars two award-winning young actors (Yuya Yagira and Erika Sawajiri) said to be the “future of Japanese cinema.” The film is about a seventeen-year-old boy about to transition into adulthood. It is a bittersweet tale of “firsts”—first love, first heartbreak. I like the film because it is totally relatable, it provides wonderful and real insights into life and relationships, and has beautiful dialogue like:

“Relationships that are allowed to mature over time and effort can be the best kind.”

And, my favorite:

“When something fragile seems about to break, what choice do I have but to treat it gently?”

Random things.

2007-06-15T16:39:00.001+08:00

-The glucose sourced from carbohydrates (said to be a no-no food group when one is trying to lose weight) is important brain food. The brain needs this to function optimally. This tidbit gives an added dimension to the term “meat head.” The more protein you eat, the less intelligent you are.

-In the Ruffa-Yilmaz Bektas ruckus, Yilmaz said that Ruffa is a “Brutus” or a traitor for conniving with her mother never to return to Istanbul with their children (in Julius Caesar, Marcus Brutus, one of Caesar’s most trusted friends, collaborated in his assassination. When Caesar realized his treachery, he cried, “Et tu, Brute?”). Ruffa has been seen whining on television, “Brutus? Nagmumukha na nga akong Olive Oyl sa mga problema. Ang payat payat ko na.” She thought Yilmaz was referring to the beefy antagonist in Popeye (which, incidentally, is called “Bluto”).

-Jun has updated his blog. Hooray! He has an entertaining entry on cats. I’ve never raised cats, although I have been friendly to some. I remember, when I was younger, my friend, Paul, brought a box of kittens to my home. It was flooding season in Mandaluyong and someone just left a box full of kittens at their gate. My friends and I fussed and cooed over the kittens, but Lola made me return them to Paul. Paul’s family didn’t want them either, so I was forced to just leave them where Paul found them. I cried as I left them on the ledge of Paul’s gate and my heart broke as I heard their pitiful caterwauling (for food or their mother?). I knew that if the water rose higher (it has been known to rise to half the height of a two-storey apartment), they would probably drown.

Eventually, my family welcomed an old, fat cat in our home, but this one just came to take care of the mice and eventually left. It lived under the stairs and I would often try to coax it out to play, but it usually ignored me.

When we moved to the suburbs, most of the kittens that would get lost in our yard would be dispatched, posthaste, in a sack to some far and undisclosed location. Lola said that cats are dirty and bring fleas and diseases. Maybe Lola is just a dog person. J

-Btw, Laura Miller has an interesting essay in Salon.com titled, “Cat people vs. dog people.” Read it here.

Me, I guess I’m a dog person. Although I have also shown kindness to cats who looked like they needed sustenance, I don’t really care for cats. Once, I came across a pregnant cat, which I named Marimar (after the lead in a famous telenovela at that time), and started giving it scraps. My dog, Fifi, had died of old age by then so no one harassed her and she was given free rein of the yard. At meal times, I would call out to her and she’d come bouncing to the door and then sit and wait patiently, tail swishing, for me to lay down her dish of food. After doing this for quite some time, I made the mistake of thinking that we were already friends. Marimar was white and lovely and usually I’d run over my hand on her coat and pet her. One time, I did this while she was eating and she hissed and scratched my arm. I stopped caring for her then.

But cats are like that. They’re not famous for loyalty. This leads me to the topic of cat people. I must say that I’m wary of them. Once, I got into a convo with a girl and we started discussing our pets. When she learned that I mostly raised dogs, she lifted a brow and said condescendingly, “Oh, so you’re a dog person?” Then she proceeded to tell me why cats are better pets—they’re more intelligent, choosy of their owners, less stupid-looking, yada yada, in short how fabulous she is for being a cat person. I don’t get it. Not once have I come across other people who claimed they were superior for raising dogs, birds, or reptiles. Another time I had another cat person rattle a list of famous personalities who owned cats like Virginia Woolf, Abraham Lincoln, and others—like owning a cat automatically made one a better person. How obnoxious.

-P is rather naïve. He is so easy to trip. I can turn to him with a straight face and say the most preposterous things and he’d believe me. One time he had a bad cough and I said, “Alam mo ang kasabihan, ang buhok ng aso magaling sa ubo.” He turned to me, amazed, and said, “Talaga?”

-P can find me anywhere. Maybe it’s because we have a deep connection, maybe it’s because I’m just easy to read. When we were still in school, he managed to bump into me all the time—at the library, at the cafeteria, at the registrar’s office. When we were still bf-gf, I only needed to wish that he were with me and he’d magically appear at my gate. When I’m sad, he can tell; when I’m pissed and about to pull someone’s hair, he manages to stop me; when I’m craving cakes, he’ll arrive home with them. I would often ask, “Pa’no mo nalaman nandito ako?” He’d say, “Wala, I had a feeling.” Aww. He’s my lobster.

-My sister and I are tree huggers. Although we’re not outdoorsy people, we both love nature and our Laguna home is surrounded by trees and plants. Without spouting environmental slogans, we know the importance of growing trees. Once, when we were contemplating on building a second garage for a new car, we asked the contractor if he could manage to snake the construction around the trees so that we needn’t cut them. Recently, Mom hired someone to cut off one of our coconut trees. “Sepa (our househelp) said it’s dead,” said Mom. My sister and I both cried, “Patay na ba? Patay na ba talaga?” The drama, right?

-I asked P to buy me the new Regina Spektor album. I once scoffed that she was just another Tori Amos wannabe when I first saw her in a guest appearance in one of the late-night American cable shows, but I admit that I spoke too soon. I love the cuts in her newest album. The melodies and lyrics (esp. “Samson”) are nothing to scoff at. Her voice is unique and just plain lovely.

-I never wear makeup. To me it’s a waste of time and money. How women find the time and energy to fuss with their faces every morning and apply a variety of cosmetic products is beyond me. Plus makeup can clog pores and age the skin. But since turning thirty, I find myself opening up to things that I swear never to do before. You see, I’ve always been the do-it-yourself kind of girl. I do my own nails, my own facials, my own hot-oil treatments at home. They’re cheaper and safer that way. I simply don’t want other people poking around my cuticles. Now, after reading that makeup actually buffers the skin against pollution, UV light, and other free radicals in the environment, I find myself contemplating wearing makeup. The problem is I don’t know how to apply makeup. I may have to go to school to do this.

-Once when we were dining at Casa Armas, there was a guy (probably a cat person. He he) who was making the lives of the restaurant staff miserable. Although, I have been known to complain about bad service, I don’t agree with people who are disagreeable just for the sake of being disagreeable. The first thing also that any smart person learns when eating out is to BE NICE TO CHEFS/WAIT PERSONS. One never knows what takes place behind a restaurant’s kitchen doors. Chefs/waiters have the power to make sure that you get your orders on time and correctly or they can make you suffer needlessly (see “When Chefs Attack” for examples of the atrocities done by chefs to whiny customers). So this guy was complaining very loudly and making a spectacle of himself. First he complained that the orders came in late and then he complained about the lengua. He asked to see the cook and proceeded to shout the 101 ways the lengua was inferior. The cook said that they follow a particular recipe in the restaurant and that they prepare their lengua the same way, over and over, according to the recipe. The man started throwing invectives and thumping on the table. He said, “Put*ngina, I know my f*cking lengua! Wag n’yo ko gawing tanga. That is not lengua!” He went on and on about how this particular lengua was a poor facsimile. “Give me Mr. Armas’s telephone numbers! He has to know what incompetents you all are.” The store manager had no choice but to give him the telephone numbers. The last words I heard as the gorilla was walking out the door were, “Hello, Mr. Armas …” Later I saw him smirking as if congratulating himself for a job well done. The jerk. I don’t know which Mr. Armas he was talking to because I read that the owner had been dead since 2004. I pity the fool.

Wala lang.

2007-06-07T11:29:00.001+08:00

This is P and me in Baguio circa 2003. To date, Baguio has remained our favorite Philippine city and at the flimsiest excuse, P and I would hie off, with a few days’ worth of clothing, to cool our bums in the summer capital. We started going there in our early twenties, often with a group of friends, sometimes with P’s colleagues when he had work there, but lately just the two of us. :)We go twice or thrice a year, in summer for our anniversary and in November for my birthday. Usually P would set aside money for our vacation, which we’d spend on accommodation, food, and pasalubong, and then we’d go home nearly broke, with only a few hundred pesos in our pockets (that we would still spend on a movie and dinner upon reaching Manila). Why not, right? God, we were fools.

Being the creatures of habit that we are, we observe little rituals when there . . .

ON DAY ONE:

1. Arrive early; coerce hotel staff to admit us ahead of check-in time, sleep a little.
2. Breakfast either at the Swiss Baker (ham, eggs, and coffee) or Café by the Ruins.
3. Go to the usual tourist traps (like the Botanical Gardens, Mines View, Maryknoll or Tamawan, etc.).
4. Lunch maybe at the Star Café, Rose Bowl, Mario’s or Sizzling Plate, or the Prince Plaza Hotel.
5. Back to our hotel for a nap.
6. 3 PM—walk along Session, peer inside stores, etc. (ASIDE: One time when we were headed to Swiss Baker for tea and cakes, we saw a guy hawking alimango. Good seafood, like crabs, shrimps, fish, and other shellfish, are a novelty in Baguio because it’s just not situated near bodies of fresh or salt water, so I thought this guy must have come from the lowlands. The hawker caught the eye of an old couple, both Baguio natives, and started to sales talk them. The woman asked the guy where the crabs came from. The guy answered that they were from Pampanga. The woman said, “Are you sure it’s Pampanga and not Tarlac?” The guy said, “Opo.” The woman said, “Kasi 'yang mga alimango sa Tarlac kumakain ng tae.” Hahaha! Good grief! But, seriously, is there truth to this? E-mail me an explanation at polarisns@hotmail.com. Believe me, I kill for this kind of information).
7. . . . or go to Narda’s, the Easter Weaving Room, Pink Sisters’ Convent.
8. Merienda maybe at the Swiss Baker (white chiffon cake and tea), Café by the Ruins, or Forest House (carrot cake and tea).
9. 5 PM is always Camp John Hay to catch the setting sun, which provides perfect lighting for kickass pictures.
10. Dinner at Salud (when it was still there), or Forest House (love the suwam na mais and bagnet before the entree), or Manor Hotel.
11. When the bar scene was still great, it was usually Legarda St. for music, beer, and R. Lapid’s chicharon until 12 AM.
12. Sleep (wink).

DAY TWO:

1. Aimless walk until Mass time.
2. Mass at the Baguio Cathedral or St. Joseph’s.
3. Lourdes Grotto for special intentions.
4. Good Shepherd’s and market for pasalubong.
5. Lunch.
6. Head for home.

We hate SM Baguio, it forced a lot of establishments to close shop and drove Salud (with its lovely Mediterranean cuisine) to Laguna (where they only offer so-so Philippine/Asian [fusion?] cuisine), but then how can anyone stay mad at SM? Now, we go there for toiletries and massages (at Body Tune).

Btw, this is our current favorite boutique hotel in Baguio (the interior is said to have been designed by Tessa Prieto-Valdes). As far as Baguio accommodations go, it’s a bit pricey at PhP3K++ a night, but, hell, we deserve it.

Goof day.

2007-06-07T08:00:00.000+08:00

Today is goof day. Before I start work on what the office said would be a series of textbooks for grade school kids (levels one to six), I shall vegetate at home doing any or all of the following:

1. Blog.
2. Watch DVD.
3. Watch TV.
4. Nap.
5. Read.

Late last night, I went through a mental checklist of my favorite feel-good films and I decided on re-watching the romantic-comedy Green Card (G. Depardieu, A. MacDowell, d. Peter Weir). I first saw this in the early nineties, upon P’s recommendation, and instantly loved the plot, loved the score, loved how the narrative of the film unfolded (almost sleepily), loved the picturesque cinematography of New York and its parks and gardens, and, of course, loved the competent acting. I am partial to movies that are set beautifully, movies that are almost silent—where interior conflicts are played up through sparse dialogue. I also love Andie Macdowell in this film, she’s such a beauty. P later saw a DVD copy of Green Card at a video shop and bought it for my collection. I love P. He is very thoughtful. He always thinks of ways to make me happy.

Here’s one of my favorite scenes in the movie:

Wouldn't you say that it's perfect for a rainy June day?

Weird day.

2007-06-04T22:00:00.000+08:00

So P went on leave today and we decided to drive Mom to SM Las Piñas to facilitate the replacement of the defective refrigerator she bought a few weeks ago. Mind you this was already her second request for replacement because the first unit (Electrolux) was also defective, so Mom decided to switch to Condura, which turned out to be defective as well—all this grief because Mom decided to replace her old National refrigerator which still worked, anyway.

On the way to the mall, P visibly winced and said that someone ran over a dog. I looked and saw that it was a cat. I thought to myself: If all dogs go to heaven, do cats as well? Or does the fact that they already enjoy nine lives cancel that one out?

Whatever.

At the mall, we waited patiently for the customer service personnel (CSP) to man his booth. When he arrived, he was accosted by a livid woman demanding to know what happened to her defective thermos. CSP mumbled something about delays and the woman said in a very loud voice, “’Yan ang hirap sa inyo. Kaya nga kami bumibili dito sa ganitong lugar para wala na kaming problema, tapos ganito? Pareho rin pala? Mahihirapan din kami!” CSP mumbled something about returning in two days and the woman said, “Sinabi mo 'yan, ha? Babalikan kita. I’ll take you at your word.”

While Mom was eyeing the refrigerators, trying to decide which one was least likely to be defective, a male SM sales staff fainted against the door leading to the “authorized personnel” quarters, a small pool of liquid—the color of urine—collected at his feet. Everyone gasped and being the domineering person that I am, I jumped up and instructed the other sales staff to pick the boy up and bring him to the clinic. I also shooed away the usiseros by telling them to clear the way for the ill boy. The boy was carried out of the area only to be returned to the staff quarters upon “supervisor’s” orders, we were told. Eventually someone came out to say that the boy had been revived and said that he fainted because he still had not eaten breakfast and lunch. This was at 3 PM. We asked, “Bakit hindi s’ya kumain?” We were told “nagpigil” daw. We said, “Dapat kumain kayo pag gutom kayo, kahit biscuit.” “Bawal ho kumain dito, ma’am,” came the sheepish reply. We again encouraged the SM people to have the boy looked at in a hospital or clinic, but then by that time we also had to leave. It was at this point that I marveled at how people could easily walk away from things especially if they were not involved. One minute I was scared that the boy might die, the next minute I was happily munching on the squid and shrimp balls P bought for me.

On the way to my office to sign the payment forms I forgot to sign the other day, specifically near the Nichol’s toll plaza, I saw several kids running almost halfway through the northbound expressway to throw stones at zooming cars. These were kids from the squatters’ area situated along the riles. I’m talking about five- to seven-year-old boys running to halfway the middle of SLEX just to throw stones at cars. They also looked kind of pissed off. When we came abreast of them and they threw a volley of stones in our direction, P and I instinctively ducked inside the car. Luckily, we were spared. I immediately called the PNCC hotline to report the incident because not only were they posing a danger to motorists, they were also posing a danger to themselves.

After running errands at the office and at the mall, P and I went to ATC to bum around. We ate dinner at Cibo’s. There, I decided to give up our table to a family of four. They took the table, but did not acknowledge our kindness. After supper, we browsed books at the bookstore and once tired of that, we decided to leave for home. Before heading to the parking lot, I went to the CR to pee. There I noticed that the toilet I used flushed repeatedly every few seconds or so. I told the maintenance person, “Sira 'yung isang 'yun. Flush nang flush. Sayang ang tubig.” She said, “Ganyan lang ho talaga 'yan, ma’am.” I said, “Pero sayang ang tubig?” The janitress just shrugged and skedaddled away to chat with the lounge receptionist.

It's better to cross the line.

2007-05-10T12:50:00.004+08:00

“It’s better to cross the line and suffer the consequences than to just stare at the line for the rest of your life.” (Rule in patintero.)

Old journal entries.

2007-05-10T12:50:00.003+08:00

Found some of my old electronic-journal doodling whilst cleaning my laptop. It’s always nice to look back to the way things were.

Are we brave?

Which is braver living or dying?

“We’re brave because everyone wakes up in the morning and sets off into life without blowing their brains out.” – Skinny Felix, Crazy by Benjamin Lebert.

6/25/02

Powersale

PowerBooks had a sale last week. I think it ended yesterday. My sister and I went there Tuesday, June 11, and we didn’t do so badly. The prices for the bargain books were outrageously low. As in f*cking, get-out-of-here-you’re-going-to-give-me-a-heart-attack kind of low. There were four tables that said P25-, P50-, P95- and P195-. My sister and I eyed each other. I saw her lips curl, as I felt my left eye twitch. We nodded at each other and like two surgeons out to perform the most complicated and dangerous of organ transplants, we each cornered a table and proceeded to methodically pore over every title for the best buys. Not bad . . . not bad at all, I said to myself with a quiver. Most of the books were hardcovers and some were still in shrink wraps. I walked away with Marketing Strategies for Writers by Michael Sedge (softbound, before P659, now P99.00); Crazy by Benjamin Lebert (hardbound, before P825.00, now P99.00); Destiny by Tim Parks (HB, before P999.00, now P99.00); and The Monica Lewinski Story by Andrew Morton for P99.00, SB, which I bought for my LolsiePolsie (read: grandmamma). Moe got three books: one was a guide to tarot reading, another a book of incantations, and the third one she told me was a book of rituals for every season. My sister, the Blair witch, ladies and gentlemen. I wanted to get more, but I didn’t want to be that crazy. The cashier rung up my purchases and the register showed the total price sans discount. It amounted to P2K+, but I actually paid only P400+. What else can I say, except that I’m very happy? =)

6/17/02

More on books.

Saturday, June 15, I dragged my husband to Megamall and then to Makati. After reading Marketing Strategies for Writers (which is my new writer’s bible at the moment) and finishing Crazy (which was great as all coming-of-age books are bound to be great), I am convinced that more finds could be had at PowerBooks. The Megamall branch gave stingy discounts to bargain books, but Penguin Classics were on sale for P69-/copy. I asked my husband if we could go to the Makati branch instead and he said, okay. Yay. But, first we had to look for a store that sold rain sticks. We found one at the fourth floor of Bldg. A. The Museum Shop is one of my favorite stores. It sells a nice collection of curio items—from handmade paper to masks to antiques to artworks to rain sticks. I first saw a rain stick being used as an indigenous musical instrument during Aba Dalena’s band’s performance at the launching of Beauty for Ashes, a book tribute for the late Maningning C. Miclat in UP Diliman last year. It’s a yard-long bamboo stick, about 3 or 4 inches in diameter, hollow, and filled with minute seashells. Titling the stick produces a sound that uncannily mimics rain =). I wanted to have one ever since. My husband asked me what for. I said, “Because, I hardly hear the rain anymore.” Our apartment is an inner unit and since we’re at the xth floor, the rain hardly ever goes noticed, except when it’s a deluge. I wanted to be able to recreate the sound of rain in my own bedroom. The rain stick at the Museum Shop was a bit overpriced at P900+. I remember seeing a less maporma one at a kiosk in Glorietta 4 for P400-. Oh, well. I have to think it over and besides, my husband dampened my spirit by saying that it sounded like shells inside a hollow bamboo stick and not like rain at all. Pooey.

At the PowerBooks branch in Makati, the books on the four bargain tables had been greatly reduced. I saw a couple that were interesting, but I didn’t buy them. They were not that interesting. I went and bought Kilometro Zero by Eugene Y. Evasco at P300-, instead. It’s a compilation of his poetry. I like his works very much. His poems are breathtaking in their simplicity and he writes in Filipino—a great combination as far as I am concerned. I saw “Tess of the D’Urbervilles” by Thomas Hardy among the Penguin Classics on sale, but didn’t get it. I still have a lot of books to read at home and I want to prove to my husband that I’m not the book druggie he claims me to be.

6/17/02

The cleaning sponge at home is starting to grow black, dotty things. I snip at them with scissors. I'm actually growing some really vile stuff here.

5/22/02

There's no peace in this world. The main idea is to move and to move relentlessly, pursuing dreams, ambitions, and agendas. Very few people value stillness or silence.

1/21/01

Happy birthday, Mom!

2007-04-23T10:00:00.000+08:00

Mom @ 59.

L'été est ici!

2007-02-23T17:58:00.002+08:00

On Feb. 23, 2006, my journal entry reads: Summer is here! Exactly a year later, I write the same thing—summer is here! And indeed, summer IS here. Everything around me acknowledges this fact. The 32-33.5°C reading on the weather thermometer admits it is summer. The lazy dogs sprawled on the stone floors sigh in agreement that it is summer. The motionless trees state the obvious. The dying tarragon I tried desperately to coax to life all of December and January finally expired this week, its browning leaves a testament to my lack of horticultural skills and stupidity in growing a delicate herb in the humid plains of the south. The mating calls of feral cats in the dead of the night prove that it is in fact the warmest season of the year already.

Ah, summer, sweet summer. It was but a couple of weeks ago when everyone was enjoying the cool breezes coming all the way from China and before anyone at home knew what the hell was going on, before it was even reported in the news, I knew it was the northeasterly winds or “hanging amihan” because I’m simply a know-it-all like that.

Now, all of that was just a memory. Summer is back with a vengeance (blame global warming). Ah, but beyond the infernal heat, beyond the bladder acting up, summer and I have a shared history of happiness together. It was during the summers of my life that I did a lot of my growing up, suffered heartaches, and met new loves. It was summer when I learned how to bike and ride the skateboard. Summer when I danced my heart out and felt how wonderful it was to be young and alive. Summer when I read a lot of good books and discovered poetry and passion. It was summer when I had a boy tell me that I had the softest hands. Summer when I had my first tentative kiss and embrace. It was also summer when I met the boy with the gorgeous, kind eyes; who courted and wrote me poetry; gave me flowers and hickeys (he he); brought me to new places and introduced me to exotic things, and, eventually, married me (ha, fooled him!). So if only for the fact that summer led me to the wonderful life I now have, I say hooray summer! Hooray!

Sonnet 116

2007-02-14T23:01:00.000+08:00

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

William Shakespeare
(1564 - 1616)

Beautiful then, still beautiful now.

In photography, one must have the "eye."

2007-02-12T17:46:00.001+08:00

P's early attempt at digital photography using our first digital camera: a very low tech. Sony @ 2.something megapixels.

Lovely, lovely.

2007-02-10T15:00:00.001+08:00

I love the mundane. Today, around noon, after having been forced by necessity to bathe the dogs (because they already stank), I walked out to a beautiful “vacation” weather. The sun was shining; making things (like plants, houses, and garden chairs) cast playful shadows on the pavement. I smiled at the pillowcases I soaped earlier in a basin of water and left out for sunning. The bubbles winked their hellos. There’s something about the afternoons here in the suburbs that hint of romance. Instead of the headache-inducing noise of the city, here, the lazy whirring of fans is broken only by the sounds made by house chores—the tink and clink of dishes being washed, the screeching of furniture being moved, and the scrubbing sounds emanating from the bathrooms. The house cook noisily putters around the kitchen creating a medley of her own sounds: chopping, beating, pounding, sautéing, frying, boiling. In the backyard, the sound of birds calling is sometimes overpowered by the occasional metallic “birds” that seem to hover a tad too close to rooftops for comfort, their engines like giant bees buzzing indifferently.

There is a quality to the Philippine daylight that borders on the exotic and intoxicating. Fernando Amorsolo had captured the myriad nuances of the Philippine sun in his many paintings. The afternoons in the Philippines are comparable to my idea of afternoons in the French or Italian countryside—the brilliance; the unapologetic heat that almost, but not quite, makes life grind to a halt or at most to a lazy stroll; the balmy breezes that are conducive to naps or lovemaking—or both!

Seen on the mud guard of a privately owned jeep:

2007-02-09T21:00:00.000+08:00

“Habang may gulay, may buhay.”

My two sisters. :)

2007-01-05T13:31:00.000+08:00

Purties!

LOL

2006-12-14T18:00:00.001+08:00

Mentioned in Negotiating with the Dead (M. Atwood): “Wanting to meet an author because you like his work is like wanting to meet a duck because you like pâté.”

2006-12-10T23:55:00.001+08:00

P brought me to Baguio and Vigan to celebrate my 31st b'day. 31--tsk, tsk. I'll probably have to start lying about my age by next year.

2006-12-10T23:40:00.002+08:00

Whoa, handsome.

Between too little and too much social interaction.

2006-10-07T15:06:00.000+08:00

Lifted from Jane Austen: A Life:

“The ability to sustain long works of fiction is at least partially dependent on establishing a delicate balance between solitude and interaction. Too much human noise during the writing of a novel distracts from the cleanliness of its over-arching plan. Too little social interruption, on the other hand, distorts a writer’s sense of reality and allows feeling to ‘prey’ on the consciousness.”

One hundred and one.

2006-10-07T12:55:00.000+08:00

While waiting for people to disperse from the Nokia Care counter so that I could have my phone serviced, P and I wandered into Tower Records/PowerBooks. I was magnetized to the books section; P twirled his way to the records section (thank God the Ramoses thought of combining both businesses in just one store. They should be credited for keeping couples happy with each other. When before I used to frown into a unibrow or expel long, tortured sighs whenever P whined about wanting to buy music, when really all I wanted to do was fall into a coma everytime I had to wait for him to painstakingly choose between two albums by the same artist/group whose name I had never heard of or didn’t really care about. P would vacillate between CD A and CD B [Which should I get? This or This? I’d roll my eyes and say, For God’s sake buy them both!]. This would prompt him to run around the store some more, almost feverish, eyes glazed like a heroin addict, and end up buying five albums [which explains why we are still poor]. Now, with the advent of the bookslashmusic store, we can leave each other in peace).

I remember the time we were in Hong Kong for a week. P made daily pilgrimages to HMV and nearby music stores. I say “pilgrimages” because he made several trips there in a day. I kid you not when I say that he opened and closed the CD stores in Kowloon (the ones nearest our hotel). I would be splayed on our hotel room bed, muscles aching all over, at 12 AM, and he’d say, Just relax, okay, I’ll just make a quick trip to HMV . . . do you want me to bring you chicken? He knew how to make me pliant and willing like that. Speaking of HK, they have a wonderful assortment of classic movies on DVD and they’re cheap (and original). I bought a couple of my favorites, those that I find difficult to source in Pinas like old Woody Allen movies, a Robert Quine classic, a couple of Zhang Yi Mous, and an early Ang Lee and Wong Kar Wai.

Going back to our day at Tower Records/PowerBooks, P made several purchases: a couple of local, award-winning digital films and a compilation of classic tunes which he claimed were all for me (his way of saying that he’s still entitled to purchases that are just for him next time). I bought a book which contains a lovely quote that says, “The books we choose, choose us too.” I made a mental nod to myself, while my brain whispered, “How true . . . how true.” I recalled the many times I bought a book only because it seemed to jump at me. While at the cash register, my eyes drifted on the book the cashier was reading. The cover screamed 101 Ways to Spoil Your Husband in bold letters. I looked at the young woman’s face and, though it was very pretty, I could tell that she was very tired. Well, I thought, of course! Who wouldn’t be tired being a cashier by day and going home at night to perform 101 favors for a husband? The lucky bastard . . .

Happy.

2006-08-16T10:00:00.001+08:00

Dear friend,

I walked out today to a beautiful, almost spring-like weather. The wind was rustling through the leaves of the trees like a lullaby . . .

Rapture.

2006-08-16T10:00:00.000+08:00

From “Painterly, innermost reflections,” Gary C. Devilles, PDI, Aug. 14, ’06:

“Rapture is everywhere and in the mundane. Whether we sit idly watching the sunrise or take an afternoon stroll in tree-lined streets, the day strangely radiates to our immense delight. Wisdom and beauty, we see, can only come from within.”

How beautifully said!

Where I go to kick back.

2006-08-02T12:07:00.000+08:00

After submitting what I hope to be the last of my revisions to one of my latest projects, I went to the bookshop with P to unwind. Since the bookstore is appended with a music store, both owned by the same family—the Rs, P did some unwinding of his own, too.

I have great affection for bookshops and libraries. This may sound odd, but when I’m in them I sort of get the tingles. I love running my fingers over the titles on the shelves and furtively sniffing at a book or two (I do this with crayons, too). I like rummaging through the bargain tables because this is where I find my great buys and because, sometimes, I can be a bit niggardly. I go into spasms just thinking about the abundance of information contained in said spaces—all keys to unlocking the mysteries of the universe. (I love all kinds of information. Nothing is trivial to me. I will get the same kick reading about how the cosmos was built to reading how a pencil is made.)

So I went to the bookstore to relax and ended up buying a couple of books: Jane Austen, A Life (for me); A Million Little Pieces (for Mom because I know she’s curious to find out what the whole Oprah hullabaloo was all about), and The Glass Castle for Lola because it looked interesting enough. I can never walk out of a bookstore without buying something (the same way P cannot walk out of a CD shop without a purchase, which is a sad, sad thing when one is trying to save money) even though I still have a lot of books lying unread at home and, well, even though I read books for a living.

I should be working, but . . .

2006-07-26T11:56:00.000+08:00

I bit into a grape this morning and closed my eyes. It was so sweet and fresh. I could almost sense the process it went through to achieve this perfect ripeness—how it grew from a bud and day by day became heavy on the vine. How the sun must have kissed its dew-wet skin in the mornings and bore into it at noon . . .

First May rains.

2006-05-22T00:00:00.001+08:00

Dear friend,

The first May rains fell as P and I were on our way to the car for a night out and I swear I could almost feel steam rise out of the concrete that had been beaten mercilessly, day in and out, with 34–36°C heat (one point short of a fever) in one of the most punishing warm summers of my life. I could almost hear the earth go “aaah” and, of course, all around was alimuom (is there an equivalent English term?), the sweet scent that mingles with the steam rising from the earth during rainfall—heady and addictive—one of my peculiar favorites. I felt a smile well inside me. A few days earlier, I saw my first gamu-gamo circling the dining room lamp and I realized that just as summer came early this year, so have the rains. The showers come everyday now—sometimes tentative, other times in torrents and even though I said in my earlier letter that summers excite me, I must also say that the rains bring me an altogether different joy. A sense of peace, a Zen-like calm, descends upon me during times of rain and often it makes me feel capable of loving everybody.

2006-05-11T08:00:00.000+08:00

Happy birthday, buddy! Mwa!

2006-05-10T16:47:00.000+08:00

Dear friend,

Why do I keep going back to the familiar? Always the past shadows me like a parallel universe I can slip in and out of. Like osmosis. A whiff of a scent, an idea, an idle thought and I disappear, my mind's eye bringing me back to old places and haunts; to past sensations and occasions. Like today, I was just reading a book when suddenly I remembered our house in Mandaluyong, the one I grew up in--that rickety, old apartment--and just like that I was there again, standing in one of the second-floor rooms. I could actually feel the coolness of the floorboards against my bare feet; feel its polished smoothness broken occasionally by the chips on the wood here and there. I could walk to one of the gothic-looking windows and peer at the lone narra right across the street--resplendent in summer, bursting with yellow blooms in May--delicate buds that fall gently to the ground that my friends and I liked to throw in the air and kick around--and barren in November, its branches splaying out like bony fingers. I could also see the huge metal post where I once had my picture taken while wearing my sailor outfit, my hair in pigtails. The same metal post my friends and I liked to hug when playing hide-and-seek; liked to throw stones at just to hear it clang like a bell.

I also remembered the time I sat on the hood of a green VW beetle, a boy at my feet. We were just shooting the breeze, talking about unimportant things, when he looked at me, smiled, and told me about a girl he liked. "She has a mole near the lip," he said. I thought of my pretty friend M and so I said, "You mean M?" "No, not M," he said, looking intently at my face. "It's not really a mole. More like . . . a thing. An indention near the upper lip, right under the nose." "Oh," I said and looked away. He grinned. I thought of the tiny mark under my nose created by the tip of a pencil I had the habit of pressing there when thinking in school. It never went away and I have it to this day. I felt a warm gladness spread through me then--from my toes to the tips of my hair--making me giddy. I was seven, he was ten.

2006-04-04T18:47:00.000+08:00

This film is hot.

2006-03-30T00:14:00.001+08:00

Dear friend,

I thought, for the longest time, that I was the rainy season kind of gal. I loved everything about the rain--the sound it makes on the roof; the sweet, sweet smell it coaxes out of the earth; and the way it gives the impression of purity, of freshness, and renewal at the end of a nice, long downpour. I even bought a rain stick once, you know, one of those cylindrical bamboo poles containing hundreds of minute shells, to mimic the sound of rain whenever I felt the need for it. But, it just recently dawned on me that what I am really is a summer gal.

I know that I start pissing and moaning at the slightest hint of perspiration on my skin, but I realize that I actually like sweating. I like how rooms get awfully warm at noon and the heat ceases to be a thing I imagine, but a thing I feel. I like how it presses on me--it's tangible, it's in my face--a living, breathing thing. I like the way it quickens my pulse to a throb, makes the blood rush to my face--makes every intake of breath, literally, the intake of life. Summers make me feel alive!

2006-03-21T14:49:00.001+08:00

Ah, finally, a breather! Deadlines have been moved. I am (for a few hours, at least) free to look at flowers.