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

Happy birthday, Mom!

Mom @ 59.

L'été est ici!

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

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."

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

Lovely, lovely.

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:

“Habang may gulay, may buhay.”

My two sisters. :)

Purties!

LOL

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.” 

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. 

Whoa, handsome. 

Between too little and too much social interaction.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 . . .

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.

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. 

Happy birthday, buddy! Mwa!

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.

This film is hot.

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!

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

Meet Auring.

Every obsessive-compulsive person should have his or her own mini paper shredder. Mine even has my name and contact nos. for just in case, I, um, misplace it at home. 

Sulong, laban, 'wag uurong!

God, I’m high on the SEA Games. Our athletes are phenomenal. They possess the spirit of lions--brave, persevering, and noble even in the face of inadequate support and antiquated training equipment and facilities. They fight on, laban lang nang laban, for the country’s glory. As early as now, the medals are trickling in; the home crowd doing wonders in encouraging them to give their all.

I admire the Philippine athlete!

Sulong, laban, Pilipino!

. . . . . . . .

On the same note, let me just say that I just love the new Globe commercial for the SEA Games. Sung by Rico Blanco of Rivermaya, the lyrics are full of rousing patriotism:

"Posible kayang labanan ang agos ng paghamon?
Mabuwal at madapa man, sabay tayong aahon.
Posible kayang mabura ang alinlangan sa sarili?
Ang tapang sa loob makikita. Taglay mo ang dugong bayani! "Sulong, laban, 'wag uurong. Pakinggan sa 'yong puso ang sigaw na dati'y bulong.
Sulong, laban, 'wag uurong. Pakinggan sa 'yong puso ang sigaw na dati'y bulong.
Posible!

"Posible kayang matikman tamis ng gintong minimithi?
Sa kagat ng bawat laban magtatagumpay kang muli!

"Sulong, laban, 'wag uurong. Pakinggan sa 'yong puso ang sigaw na dati'y bulong.
Posible!
Sulong, laban, 'wag uurong. Pakinggan sa 'yong puso ang sigaw na dati'y bulong.
Posible!

"Sulong, laban, 'wag uurong. Pakinggan sa 'yong puso ang sigaw na dati'y bulong.
Posible!
Sulong, laban, Pilipino! Pakinggan sa 'yong puso ang sigaw na dati'y bulong.
Posible! (3x)."

Dear friend,

Ian Casocot and Jun Lisondra provided a link to me in their wonderful blogs and just like that, I've been introduced to the blogging world. I'm grateful if, a bit, unworthy. It's nice having friends. Ian--a multi-awarded writer, teacher, performance artist, stage director, photographer, and film buff--and I met seven years ago. We met through letters, introduced to each other by a beautiful friend who thought we should know of each other's existence. He was just Ian then, oh, but he was already someone of note--a journalist and well-traveled scholar--but to me he was just Ian, the nice guy. Over the years we've managed to stay in touch through e-mail and his blogs. Through the years he has managed to remain a nice guy. He invites me to make written contributions to some of his projects. He publishes my work, often side-by-side, with well-known writers and, of course, this thrills me to no end. He, single-handedly, put me on the WWW map, my name next to Zoilo Galang, in a roster of Philippine writers--great company, indeed!

Jun, a writer, photographer, researcher/computer guy, multimedia and performance artist, guru and future porn star, whom I met also seven years ago, was hardly the nice guy. We fought with, irritated, and amused each other and our banters had always been playful, even rowdy, but always truthful. I was not afraid to be my horrid self with him. I could cuss, talk of the most abysmal things, and still feel safe in our friendship. We have gotten into the habit of sending each other gifts--books, music cds--things we think the other would like. He also promotes me in his Web sites and critiques some of my written works. Since becoming a student and practitioner of pranic healing, he even conducted remote healing sessions with me and they made me feel better, honestly. The thought alone of having someone concerned about my health, concerned about helping me get well, was enough to put me in a more positive frame of mind. The heart and mind welcomed the possibility of becoming healed and the body followed.

It is nice having friends. Not for any utilitarian reason, not because they're there to use, but because without having to say a word, they already know what you need and how to make you happy. I read somewhere that a friend is a recognition of your soul in another. He comes into your life not by accident, but by God's design. He is a gift, a treasure. I, therefore, thank the universe for gifting me with an Ian and a Jun who are good friends--quality friends. 

Dear friend,

Yesterday, around noon, I took a pause from what I was doing to grab a bite and stretch my legs. The gentle November sun was at its zenith and it covered the quiet neighborhood in light reminiscent of an Amorsolo painting. I smiled, grabbed a bottle of cashew nuts from the pantry, and went back to work. Sitting with my back to an open window, I felt the sun's silken caress on my nape and shoulders. I bit into a cashew nut and it felt like biting into one of those perfect summer days of old.

Isch wasch nisch.

It was nice turning 30. VERY nice. 

30!

So, this is how 30 feels . . . exactly the way I felt when I was 29.

Click!

Our babies. 

Weekend out.

Camp John Hay.