Oops. My bad.

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.

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.

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:

1. Morcon! (Even if it kills me.)
2. Roasted Chicken.
3. Fideos with ham bone thrown in.
4. Steamed fish with mayo.
5. 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
6. Excellente hamonado or Adelina’s Fiesta Ham.
7. Sweets c/o Tita Uchie.

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

:D

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

:D

:D

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

:D

Secret muna.

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.

Davao.

(Retropost)

Oo nga . . .

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

Just a li'l bit of R. T.

Petty, but nice.

She's off to IL.

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.

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 . . .

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.

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 . . .

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?

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.

*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."

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. :)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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."

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.

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.

-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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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