is still
but soon will drift
(the years, the days,
the hours)
to somewhere else
and so much would have been lost
the moment we decide
not to be strangers
anymore.
By then I would have gone
or you, yes, why not you?
and all we--you, and I--
will be left with
are shadows
digging in agony
for that place in our minds
where we are not
strangers.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
SAMSON (by Regina Spektor)
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth
I have to go, I have to go
Your hair was long when we first met
Samson went back to bed
Not much hair left on his head
He ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed
And history books forgot about us and the bible didn't mention us
The bible didn't mention us, not even once
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first , I loved you first
Beneath the stars came falling on our heads
But they're just soft light, they're just soft light
Your hair was long when we first met
Samson came to my bed
Told me that my hair was red
He told me i was beautiful and came into my bed
Oh I cut his hair myself one night
A pair of dull scissors and the yellow light
And he told me that I'd done alright
and kissed me till the morning light, the morning light
and he kissed me till the morning light
Samson came back to bed
not much hair left on his head
Ate a slice of wonderbread and went right back to bed
Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down
Yeah we couldn't destroy a single one
And history books forgot about us
And the bible didn't mention us, not even once
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first
I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth
I have to go, I have to go
Your hair was long when we first met
Samson went back to bed
Not much hair left on his head
He ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed
And history books forgot about us and the bible didn't mention us
The bible didn't mention us, not even once
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first , I loved you first
Beneath the stars came falling on our heads
But they're just soft light, they're just soft light
Your hair was long when we first met
Samson came to my bed
Told me that my hair was red
He told me i was beautiful and came into my bed
Oh I cut his hair myself one night
A pair of dull scissors and the yellow light
And he told me that I'd done alright
and kissed me till the morning light, the morning light
and he kissed me till the morning light
Samson came back to bed
not much hair left on his head
Ate a slice of wonderbread and went right back to bed
Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down
Yeah we couldn't destroy a single one
And history books forgot about us
And the bible didn't mention us, not even once
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Reposted from my previous blog(s)
July 18, 2006
Nothing, Whatsoever
When I was a whole lot younger than I am now (yep, I feel old), my favorite weekend pastime was sulking and giving everybody that get-out-of-my-way look, barging into my room as if the rest of the house was on fire, plopping into my unmade, books-and-papers-and-whathaveyous-filled bed and reading myself to death, vegetating like a piece of broccolli (i love this veggie, by the way) left out in the sun until my eyes would droop and so would the rest of me (how convenient that a pillow is nearby and I can just get lost in dreamland and meet Eustacia Vye on her way to meet The Native, or, maybe, just maybe, the great Holden Caulfield himself). Whew. Long sentence, wasn't it? But where was I? Oh, Holden--no, dreamland? I forgot. Totally lost track of my thoughts. What was I writing about? Sulking, I think, or maybe something to do with being young? I am typing, typing, typing and I don't care if I am making sense, or not. Are the punctuations correct? Is my grammar okay? Whatever. The point is...well,the point is that I don't have a point. I am rambling and how I started would tell you what kind of a person I am. Or maybe not. I mean, the last book I read was like a week ago, and it's taking me ages to finish the great Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five. I remember reading Slapstick when i was thirteen years old and not being able to make heads and tails out of it. It was my dad's, by the way. Yep, the great Dad who boasts of not having gone through the Hardy Boys and going straight to Moby Dick, from whom I got my copy of Faulkner's Light In August which is still in my bookshelf to this very day, pages tattered and browning away and browning some more, and all. Where was I, again? Oh, yeah, Slapstick. Fast forward to seven years later: One of my favorite English teachers, Prof. Thelma E. Arambulo (she says she hates her first name, but a heck of a woman she was!) tells us, her English majors-- and by the way, Contemporary American Lit just rocks!-- that the great Kurt would write in bits of paper and compile them into a piece of work that is so incoherent it would have your eyes glued on to the pages until everything would make sense. Where are you, James Merrill! Theodore Roethke! You Beat poets! Adrienne Rich! Omigawd my punctuation is so downright sloppy but I don't care I'm writing can't you see. I wonder, why this difficulty with Slaughterhouse Five? I mean, I read The Hours, Mrs. Dalloway and An Invisible Sign of My Own (which I bought at a booksale for a hundred and ten bucks and turned out to have been autographed by Amy Bender herself!) in a span of, like, four days. Is it just laziness? Is my brain deteriorating into something awful? Is it Vonnegut? The answer to this is: I don't know. I really don't. And I still don't know what my point is. I have no idea what shape this entry is taking. And, really, why is it called an entry? Because you enter the words into the keypad and they pop out into the screen? Who first thought of calling it an entry? Did it have, in any way, a likeness with how James Joyce started using the word epiphany to mean something else other than the feast of the three kings (were they really kings?)? I am so lost. Other words/names to think about today: canon, pathos, incoherent, James Thurber (where in the world can I find a book by him, aside from the UP CAL library?), lunch (or breakfast first?), sleep. Yep, sleep. I think it's lack of sleep that got me started, lack of sleep that made me go on, and on, and on. Stop. This is so much fun I'm dozing off.
October 27, 2006
From Billy to Randall
Correction: It's AIMEE, not Amy Bender. Sorry for that. I happened to look at my bookshelf this weekend and saw the mistake I had made. A whoops! moment, right there.
Slaughterhouse-Five was a real blast! Yes, I have finally finished the book, and managed to swallow Faulkner's As I Lay Dying in between. Now, S-5 (that's what I've taken to calling it) is about this guy named Billy Pilgrim who's become unstuck in time (sounds so glamorous, doesn't it?) and gets abducted by the Trafalmadorians (hope I spelled that right) who, by the way, are a group of aliens who have taken a keen interest in the human race. Now, what the book implies(or what I have gleaned from it, whichever) is that Billy began to have these hallucinations (they could just as well have been real, for all we know) after he survived the 2nd World War (why does this phrase always have to be in caps?), the climax of which (in Billy's experience, at least) was the bombing of Dresden, Germany. Slaughterhouse-Five is the name of the structure which housed the Americans (Billy included), and which miraculously escaped the bombing (yep, it was supposedly that disastrous).
Now, what am I doing? I am boring myself to death. I didn't come out here to give a summary of the book! No way! Go and read it yourself! But why should you, right? Why the @#**#$% should you read a book written by some guy (sorry, Vonnegut fans. No insult intended, none at all) who had nothing better to do than write a book about some crazy war survivor who had, in turn, nothing better to do than walk in and out of time zones?
I am so incoherent. This is what non-writing (is there such a word?) does to people who used to write like writing was breathing. And so I have taken to coming up with patches of script that I am hoping would turn out to be worth this page, anyhow. Or your time. Now that was downright smug. I mean, am I really writing this with the thought that someone would even care to read it? But then again, there's always the zeitgeist, the invisible audience (reader, whatever) one has in mind when one is writing. I mean, come on, give me that luxury, at least! The only person I'm pretty sure would read this is the friend who gave the book to me. So, there.
Well, back to Dresden. Reading about the bombing made me remember Randall Jarrell, a contemporary American poet who was a fighter pilot during the WWII, who wrote about what it was like to be up in the air and just fire and fire away at a piece of geography (it mustn't have seemed real to them, at all, just a part of the map they were ordered to annihilate). That there were people being killed, living beings being shred to pieces by the ammunition raining like fire from the sky-- these would hardly have occurred to them, at all, at least while they were at it. What Jarrell's poem ("Losses," that was the title) seems to be pointing at is the unreality of what was happening, to them who were no more than just pilots with an assignment. What was real enough must have been what came after, that moment when the task is done and they land and hear about it from the news, look at the photo spreads of the ravages of war, the deaths, the shattered limbs, the ashes. And then they say, or think: Hey. That was me. Us. I did that. We did that. And then the sadness. The ache of guilt. And everything else.
I have no idea how to end this. A period would, I think, have to do for now.
So there.
Nothing, Whatsoever
When I was a whole lot younger than I am now (yep, I feel old), my favorite weekend pastime was sulking and giving everybody that get-out-of-my-way look, barging into my room as if the rest of the house was on fire, plopping into my unmade, books-and-papers-and-whathaveyous-filled bed and reading myself to death, vegetating like a piece of broccolli (i love this veggie, by the way) left out in the sun until my eyes would droop and so would the rest of me (how convenient that a pillow is nearby and I can just get lost in dreamland and meet Eustacia Vye on her way to meet The Native, or, maybe, just maybe, the great Holden Caulfield himself). Whew. Long sentence, wasn't it? But where was I? Oh, Holden--no, dreamland? I forgot. Totally lost track of my thoughts. What was I writing about? Sulking, I think, or maybe something to do with being young? I am typing, typing, typing and I don't care if I am making sense, or not. Are the punctuations correct? Is my grammar okay? Whatever. The point is...well,the point is that I don't have a point. I am rambling and how I started would tell you what kind of a person I am. Or maybe not. I mean, the last book I read was like a week ago, and it's taking me ages to finish the great Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five. I remember reading Slapstick when i was thirteen years old and not being able to make heads and tails out of it. It was my dad's, by the way. Yep, the great Dad who boasts of not having gone through the Hardy Boys and going straight to Moby Dick, from whom I got my copy of Faulkner's Light In August which is still in my bookshelf to this very day, pages tattered and browning away and browning some more, and all. Where was I, again? Oh, yeah, Slapstick. Fast forward to seven years later: One of my favorite English teachers, Prof. Thelma E. Arambulo (she says she hates her first name, but a heck of a woman she was!) tells us, her English majors-- and by the way, Contemporary American Lit just rocks!-- that the great Kurt would write in bits of paper and compile them into a piece of work that is so incoherent it would have your eyes glued on to the pages until everything would make sense. Where are you, James Merrill! Theodore Roethke! You Beat poets! Adrienne Rich! Omigawd my punctuation is so downright sloppy but I don't care I'm writing can't you see. I wonder, why this difficulty with Slaughterhouse Five? I mean, I read The Hours, Mrs. Dalloway and An Invisible Sign of My Own (which I bought at a booksale for a hundred and ten bucks and turned out to have been autographed by Amy Bender herself!) in a span of, like, four days. Is it just laziness? Is my brain deteriorating into something awful? Is it Vonnegut? The answer to this is: I don't know. I really don't. And I still don't know what my point is. I have no idea what shape this entry is taking. And, really, why is it called an entry? Because you enter the words into the keypad and they pop out into the screen? Who first thought of calling it an entry? Did it have, in any way, a likeness with how James Joyce started using the word epiphany to mean something else other than the feast of the three kings (were they really kings?)? I am so lost. Other words/names to think about today: canon, pathos, incoherent, James Thurber (where in the world can I find a book by him, aside from the UP CAL library?), lunch (or breakfast first?), sleep. Yep, sleep. I think it's lack of sleep that got me started, lack of sleep that made me go on, and on, and on. Stop. This is so much fun I'm dozing off.
October 27, 2006
From Billy to Randall
Correction: It's AIMEE, not Amy Bender. Sorry for that. I happened to look at my bookshelf this weekend and saw the mistake I had made. A whoops! moment, right there.
Slaughterhouse-Five was a real blast! Yes, I have finally finished the book, and managed to swallow Faulkner's As I Lay Dying in between. Now, S-5 (that's what I've taken to calling it) is about this guy named Billy Pilgrim who's become unstuck in time (sounds so glamorous, doesn't it?) and gets abducted by the Trafalmadorians (hope I spelled that right) who, by the way, are a group of aliens who have taken a keen interest in the human race. Now, what the book implies(or what I have gleaned from it, whichever) is that Billy began to have these hallucinations (they could just as well have been real, for all we know) after he survived the 2nd World War (why does this phrase always have to be in caps?), the climax of which (in Billy's experience, at least) was the bombing of Dresden, Germany. Slaughterhouse-Five is the name of the structure which housed the Americans (Billy included), and which miraculously escaped the bombing (yep, it was supposedly that disastrous).
Now, what am I doing? I am boring myself to death. I didn't come out here to give a summary of the book! No way! Go and read it yourself! But why should you, right? Why the @#**#$% should you read a book written by some guy (sorry, Vonnegut fans. No insult intended, none at all) who had nothing better to do than write a book about some crazy war survivor who had, in turn, nothing better to do than walk in and out of time zones?
I am so incoherent. This is what non-writing (is there such a word?) does to people who used to write like writing was breathing. And so I have taken to coming up with patches of script that I am hoping would turn out to be worth this page, anyhow. Or your time. Now that was downright smug. I mean, am I really writing this with the thought that someone would even care to read it? But then again, there's always the zeitgeist, the invisible audience (reader, whatever) one has in mind when one is writing. I mean, come on, give me that luxury, at least! The only person I'm pretty sure would read this is the friend who gave the book to me. So, there.
Well, back to Dresden. Reading about the bombing made me remember Randall Jarrell, a contemporary American poet who was a fighter pilot during the WWII, who wrote about what it was like to be up in the air and just fire and fire away at a piece of geography (it mustn't have seemed real to them, at all, just a part of the map they were ordered to annihilate). That there were people being killed, living beings being shred to pieces by the ammunition raining like fire from the sky-- these would hardly have occurred to them, at all, at least while they were at it. What Jarrell's poem ("Losses," that was the title) seems to be pointing at is the unreality of what was happening, to them who were no more than just pilots with an assignment. What was real enough must have been what came after, that moment when the task is done and they land and hear about it from the news, look at the photo spreads of the ravages of war, the deaths, the shattered limbs, the ashes. And then they say, or think: Hey. That was me. Us. I did that. We did that. And then the sadness. The ache of guilt. And everything else.
I have no idea how to end this. A period would, I think, have to do for now.
So there.
Borrowed
"In the end, life is no more than the sum of contingent facts, a chronicle of chance intersections, of flukes, of random events that divulge nothing but their own lack of purpose."
-Paul Auster, "The Locked Room," The New York Trilogy-
"Is not an event in fact more significant and noteworthy the greater number of fortuities necessary to bring it about? Chance and chance alone has a message for us. Everything that occurs out of necessity, everything expected, repeated day in and day out, is mute. Only chance can speak to us. We read its message much as the gypsies read the images made by coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup."
-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being-
-Paul Auster, "The Locked Room," The New York Trilogy-
"Is not an event in fact more significant and noteworthy the greater number of fortuities necessary to bring it about? Chance and chance alone has a message for us. Everything that occurs out of necessity, everything expected, repeated day in and day out, is mute. Only chance can speak to us. We read its message much as the gypsies read the images made by coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup."
-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being-
THE WATCHER (excerpt)
this was a story that I wrote for my Writing Class under Luis Katigbak
Once, during the night, I had the strange feeling that she had seen me--really seen me--for the first time.
She was sitting up in bed, reading under the yellow light of the lamp, her black-rimmed glasses framing her eyes. It was very quiet and all that I kept hearing, for the last half hour and in intervals, was the sound of her fingers flipping through the book's pages. Then she yawned, dropped the book to her side and leaned deeper into the thick pillows propped up on the headboard. She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes with her palms, after which her gaze landed on me.
For what seemed like a very long stretch of minutes, she looked at me, just looked at me, with her dark-circled eyes. I saw questions, thoughts skimming her countenance in fleeting hosts. I felt her really look at me, past the layers of shadow and dust, ending the certainty of never being seen. Or so I liked to think.
This girl--whose name I did not even know--looked at me as if she really saw me, as if I was real, was more than what I had been for so long. And, inside me, a flicker of something that made me feel more alive than I had ever been began to stir. The hope that, perhaps, this girl was going to care enough to look for me, to find me.
And then, the moment passed. Overcome by fatigue, perhaps, or simply by the lateness of the hour, her eyes started drooping. She drifted off to sleep and I watched her, praying, please look at me once more, the way you looked at me tonight.
Once, during the night, I had the strange feeling that she had seen me--really seen me--for the first time.
She was sitting up in bed, reading under the yellow light of the lamp, her black-rimmed glasses framing her eyes. It was very quiet and all that I kept hearing, for the last half hour and in intervals, was the sound of her fingers flipping through the book's pages. Then she yawned, dropped the book to her side and leaned deeper into the thick pillows propped up on the headboard. She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes with her palms, after which her gaze landed on me.
For what seemed like a very long stretch of minutes, she looked at me, just looked at me, with her dark-circled eyes. I saw questions, thoughts skimming her countenance in fleeting hosts. I felt her really look at me, past the layers of shadow and dust, ending the certainty of never being seen. Or so I liked to think.
This girl--whose name I did not even know--looked at me as if she really saw me, as if I was real, was more than what I had been for so long. And, inside me, a flicker of something that made me feel more alive than I had ever been began to stir. The hope that, perhaps, this girl was going to care enough to look for me, to find me.
And then, the moment passed. Overcome by fatigue, perhaps, or simply by the lateness of the hour, her eyes started drooping. She drifted off to sleep and I watched her, praying, please look at me once more, the way you looked at me tonight.
War Stories
There was this feature on The History Channel wherein they juxtaposed ancient warfare to modern ones, and it was chilling to see that, yes, history does repeat itself.
Here are the ones that I remember:
First, suicide bombing. The catastrophe at the World Trade Center has its roots in Japanese history, wherein the Japanese army of World War II, out of a desperate attempt to win the war and save their country's honor (they were quite big on this one), deployed young fighter pilots (17 to 22 years old-- you figure out why) to crash their planes on the American fleet anchored on Japanese waters. They are better known as the Kamikazees.
Next, Bioweaponry, like the Anthrax scare of several years ago. Some centuries before, the Mongols employed the first (known) biological warfare by starting the outbreak of one of the deadliest pandemics in history-- the bubonic plague of Medieval Europe known as the Black Death. The Mongols, unable to penetrate the strong walls of Rome in a war that they were desperate (notice the re-appearance of this term) to win, slung out corpses that were in numerous forms of putrefaction. Their purpose was to terrorize; they ended up killing two-thirds of Europe's population, a terrifying enough ratio, but one which even the perpetrators did not count on producing.
History is fraught with war. And war is, ultimately, the result of man's greed-- even hunger-- for domination. The tales of conquest that fathers tell their sons (why not their daughters, one might wonder) for purposes of inspiration and entertainment, aren't so inspiring, or entertaining, after all. What they are, it seems, are stories of horror that we should rightly be scared of, because history teaches that wars like the ones that have already been waged, are sure to be waged again, as long as man lusts after power. And that is a disease that, sadly, will just not let itself be cured.
Here are the ones that I remember:
First, suicide bombing. The catastrophe at the World Trade Center has its roots in Japanese history, wherein the Japanese army of World War II, out of a desperate attempt to win the war and save their country's honor (they were quite big on this one), deployed young fighter pilots (17 to 22 years old-- you figure out why) to crash their planes on the American fleet anchored on Japanese waters. They are better known as the Kamikazees.
Next, Bioweaponry, like the Anthrax scare of several years ago. Some centuries before, the Mongols employed the first (known) biological warfare by starting the outbreak of one of the deadliest pandemics in history-- the bubonic plague of Medieval Europe known as the Black Death. The Mongols, unable to penetrate the strong walls of Rome in a war that they were desperate (notice the re-appearance of this term) to win, slung out corpses that were in numerous forms of putrefaction. Their purpose was to terrorize; they ended up killing two-thirds of Europe's population, a terrifying enough ratio, but one which even the perpetrators did not count on producing.
History is fraught with war. And war is, ultimately, the result of man's greed-- even hunger-- for domination. The tales of conquest that fathers tell their sons (why not their daughters, one might wonder) for purposes of inspiration and entertainment, aren't so inspiring, or entertaining, after all. What they are, it seems, are stories of horror that we should rightly be scared of, because history teaches that wars like the ones that have already been waged, are sure to be waged again, as long as man lusts after power. And that is a disease that, sadly, will just not let itself be cured.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Antidotes to Sadness
To all of you out there who find yourselves being visited by melancholia much too often (and would like to do something about it), here are some friendly suggestions:
1. A good book that doesn't take itself too seriously (I recommend the Jeeves collection by P. G. Wodehouse, Jessica Zafra's Twisted series or any book by James Thurber);
2. A cup of frappucino, a cozy coffee shop and three buddies (who aren't half as predisposed to depression as you are);
3. A rummage through your closet should do some good--you'd realize how blessed you are to have the nice clothes that you own; what more, you can sew the hole on that favorite old shirt;
4. There's nothing like a good, intelligent show on TV to steer your thoughts from the blues; your mind will turn (or be forced to) and you'd be all the better for it. Remember, the cliche "an idle mind is the devil's workshop" wasn't coined for nothing. So watch The History Channel and refresh yourself on those History classes in school that you never paid attention to;
5. When all else fails, sing! This happens to be my favorite reminder to myself. Music is the cure-all for every kind of sadness out there. So try it, it just might do you some good.
1. A good book that doesn't take itself too seriously (I recommend the Jeeves collection by P. G. Wodehouse, Jessica Zafra's Twisted series or any book by James Thurber);
2. A cup of frappucino, a cozy coffee shop and three buddies (who aren't half as predisposed to depression as you are);
3. A rummage through your closet should do some good--you'd realize how blessed you are to have the nice clothes that you own; what more, you can sew the hole on that favorite old shirt;
4. There's nothing like a good, intelligent show on TV to steer your thoughts from the blues; your mind will turn (or be forced to) and you'd be all the better for it. Remember, the cliche "an idle mind is the devil's workshop" wasn't coined for nothing. So watch The History Channel and refresh yourself on those History classes in school that you never paid attention to;
5. When all else fails, sing! This happens to be my favorite reminder to myself. Music is the cure-all for every kind of sadness out there. So try it, it just might do you some good.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Darker Circles Around My Eyes
I admit, I've been losing sleep over it. But I don't really care.
That I know more now about the French Revolution and the Rennaissance than I used to, is worth all the winks I've missed.
I look back and trace this fascination back to my days as a grade 8 student, when one of my favorite teachers, Ms. Perez, made me fall in love with Asian History (yep, map quizzes, Hammurabi and all).
But then again, no.
It actually dates back earlier than that. I do remember being in grade school and leafing through the first set of encyclopedias nestled in a long, white shelf in our living room, and finding myself glued to the pictures of the Egyptian pyramids and the paintings of Da Vinci and the sculptures of Michaelangelo, and reading about The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the tragedy of Pompeii, the sophistication of the Roman empire. It was an addiction that stayed with me throughout my days as a student, which was refueled by the documentaries on The Discovery Channel (wherein I learned, among so many things, that what really caused the defeat of the Spanish Armada was a colossal navigational error, that Marie Antoinette never really uttered the line "let them eat cake," that Napoleon died of arsenic poisoning, that it was the Cavaliers who won in the Battle of Hastings and that its story is forever preserved in a beautiful tapestry called "The Carmen.")
And now, here comes The History Channel, which has made me topple over with excitement, that finally, there is an entire channel devoted to one of the biggest loves of my life! Its well-made documentaries have, for the time being, deviated my attention from books (I have yet to finish the one I started reading 3 weeks ago!). But it's a fair deal. That I now know who Maximillan Robespierre is, that the visual arts don't start and end with Da Vinci and Michaelangelo, that the Coliseum was originally called "The Plebeian Ampitheater," that Augustus was the first Roman Emperor and that Nero was not a rightful heir to the Roman throne, makes me feel that I have become richer.
In knowledge, not in money.
Now that is an entirely different thing (which I also lose sleep on. But come now, don't we all?)
That I know more now about the French Revolution and the Rennaissance than I used to, is worth all the winks I've missed.
I look back and trace this fascination back to my days as a grade 8 student, when one of my favorite teachers, Ms. Perez, made me fall in love with Asian History (yep, map quizzes, Hammurabi and all).
But then again, no.
It actually dates back earlier than that. I do remember being in grade school and leafing through the first set of encyclopedias nestled in a long, white shelf in our living room, and finding myself glued to the pictures of the Egyptian pyramids and the paintings of Da Vinci and the sculptures of Michaelangelo, and reading about The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the tragedy of Pompeii, the sophistication of the Roman empire. It was an addiction that stayed with me throughout my days as a student, which was refueled by the documentaries on The Discovery Channel (wherein I learned, among so many things, that what really caused the defeat of the Spanish Armada was a colossal navigational error, that Marie Antoinette never really uttered the line "let them eat cake," that Napoleon died of arsenic poisoning, that it was the Cavaliers who won in the Battle of Hastings and that its story is forever preserved in a beautiful tapestry called "The Carmen.")
And now, here comes The History Channel, which has made me topple over with excitement, that finally, there is an entire channel devoted to one of the biggest loves of my life! Its well-made documentaries have, for the time being, deviated my attention from books (I have yet to finish the one I started reading 3 weeks ago!). But it's a fair deal. That I now know who Maximillan Robespierre is, that the visual arts don't start and end with Da Vinci and Michaelangelo, that the Coliseum was originally called "The Plebeian Ampitheater," that Augustus was the first Roman Emperor and that Nero was not a rightful heir to the Roman throne, makes me feel that I have become richer.
In knowledge, not in money.
Now that is an entirely different thing (which I also lose sleep on. But come now, don't we all?)
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
An Apology
I was editing my posts when I accidentally did the stupidest thing. I deleted the post entitled "My Father's Songs."
And here I am hoping that I'd be able to watch "Singin' in the Rain" again so I could write another testament to my dad's influence on me.
But then again, do I really need Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly to remind me of the gift of music which my dad has given me? (I have often been told that when my mom was in labor, my dad requested that there be piano music so that when I came out into the world, it would be the first thing I'd hear.)
So, Daddy, here's to you. And to music.
And here I am hoping that I'd be able to watch "Singin' in the Rain" again so I could write another testament to my dad's influence on me.
But then again, do I really need Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly to remind me of the gift of music which my dad has given me? (I have often been told that when my mom was in labor, my dad requested that there be piano music so that when I came out into the world, it would be the first thing I'd hear.)
So, Daddy, here's to you. And to music.
I do not know what to make of this
A glass door crashes down to the floor and shatters into countless pieces.
I fall with the glass door and land, somehow, on top of it. My whole body is pierced by glass bits.
There is a sharp pain on my right elbow and there, a sizeable, triangular shard of glass is lodged.
I cry.
I find myself in the hospital, seated on a white couch. Someone, a man garbed in green, plucks out, unceremoniously, the chunk of glass from my elbow.
Incredulous, I look at the man, then at my elbow. I can see the bloody flesh inside. There is a hollow, a gap between my arm and forearm.
There is a piece of string sticking out.
I fall with the glass door and land, somehow, on top of it. My whole body is pierced by glass bits.
There is a sharp pain on my right elbow and there, a sizeable, triangular shard of glass is lodged.
I cry.
I find myself in the hospital, seated on a white couch. Someone, a man garbed in green, plucks out, unceremoniously, the chunk of glass from my elbow.
Incredulous, I look at the man, then at my elbow. I can see the bloody flesh inside. There is a hollow, a gap between my arm and forearm.
There is a piece of string sticking out.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Questions Bored People Answer (got this from Gabby Lee's blog; title, mine)
1. Were you named after anyone?From Chanson D'amour (a Lettermen song) and from Vanessa Redgrave, the actress
2. When was the last time you cried?last Monday
3. Do you like your handwriting?I don't think much of it. Although several have complimented it.
4. What is your favourite meal? fried galunggong with sinangag and a dip of toyo with calamansi. yum!
5. Do you have kids?Jacqueline Louise, 8 and Joachim, 6
6. If you were another person, would you be friends with you?The probability is high. I gravitate toward weird people.
7. Do you use sarcasm a lot?Depends on who I'm talking to. With Myton and Kane, yeah.
8. Do you still have your tonsils?Yes.
9. Would you bungee jump?Never. I don't see the point.
10. What is your favourite cereal?I don't like cereal.
11. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?I wear pumps and sandals. No sneakers for me. Except before, when I used to run. But yeah, I untie the laces before I take them off. (Sorry, long answer)
12. Do you think you're strong?
My opinion of myself varies a lot.
13. What is your favourite ice cream?
Cookies and Cream and Double Dutch
14. What is the first thing you notice about people?
whether they're like me or not (talk about self-centeredness!)
15. Red or Pink?
Hmm. Tough one. But I think I'd go for pink.
16. What is your least favourite thing about yourself?
My arms
17. Who do you miss the most?
Daddy, Mommy, Earl, Otom, Mama
18. Do you want everyone reading this to fill it out?
Sure.
19. What colour pants and shoes are you wearing?
Right now I'm wearing an over-sized shirt and I'm barefoot
20. What was the last thing you ate?
Ensaymada from Shopwise
21. What are you listening to right now?
It Never Entered My Mind by Miles Davis
22. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be?
Apricot
23. Favourite smells?
Coffee, warm croissant, frying garlic, frying bacon, my new body wash, Victoria's Secret Secret Crush (my scent forever), Clinique Happy (for women), Liz Claiborne's Curve Crush for men
24. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
Kim
25. Do you like the person that sent this to you?
It wasn't sent to me. I snitched it from Gabby's blog.hihi.(thanks Gabby!)
26. Favourite sports to watch?
None, really. But lately I've been forced to watch wrestling (!) because my best friend is a fanatic. And I mean fanatic.
27. Hair colour?
dark Brown.
28. Eye colour?
Wish I could say hazel. But no. They're black as black can be. haha
29. Do you wear contacts?
Nope.
30. Favourite food?
Adobo, Fried Tuyo, Chicken macaroni soup, pizza, carbonara, Glazed Donut (Go Nuts or Krispy Kreme), Garlic Bread, Baked mac, mac and cheese, sisig, churros (whew! now I'm hungry)
31. Scary Movies or Happy Endings?
Neither
32. Last movie you watched?
Intruder in the Dust (it's this old film adapted from Faulkner's novel)
33. What colour shirt are you wearing?
white. with a blue print that would best remain unspelled (is this a word?)here.
34. Summer or winter?
Summer
35. Hugs or kisses?
Depends on who they're from. :)
36. Favourite dessert?
Gloria Jean's Choco Macadamia frap
37. Most likely to do this quiz themselves?
people who like to talk about themselves (haha!); people who have a lot of time in their hands (like me-- I'm hibernating right now)
38. Least likely to respond?
People who have better things to do
39. What book are you reading right now?
What Was She Thinking? (Notes on a Scandal) by Zoe Heller
40. What's on your mouse pad?
Coffee stains. Haha
41. Favourite sound?
Miles Davis, Jackie's and Kim's voices, Doorbells (not buzzers)
42. Rolling Stones or Beatles?
Beatles
2. When was the last time you cried?last Monday
3. Do you like your handwriting?I don't think much of it. Although several have complimented it.
4. What is your favourite meal? fried galunggong with sinangag and a dip of toyo with calamansi. yum!
5. Do you have kids?Jacqueline Louise, 8 and Joachim, 6
6. If you were another person, would you be friends with you?The probability is high. I gravitate toward weird people.
7. Do you use sarcasm a lot?Depends on who I'm talking to. With Myton and Kane, yeah.
8. Do you still have your tonsils?Yes.
9. Would you bungee jump?Never. I don't see the point.
10. What is your favourite cereal?I don't like cereal.
11. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?I wear pumps and sandals. No sneakers for me. Except before, when I used to run. But yeah, I untie the laces before I take them off. (Sorry, long answer)
12. Do you think you're strong?
My opinion of myself varies a lot.
13. What is your favourite ice cream?
Cookies and Cream and Double Dutch
14. What is the first thing you notice about people?
whether they're like me or not (talk about self-centeredness!)
15. Red or Pink?
Hmm. Tough one. But I think I'd go for pink.
16. What is your least favourite thing about yourself?
My arms
17. Who do you miss the most?
Daddy, Mommy, Earl, Otom, Mama
18. Do you want everyone reading this to fill it out?
Sure.
19. What colour pants and shoes are you wearing?
Right now I'm wearing an over-sized shirt and I'm barefoot
20. What was the last thing you ate?
Ensaymada from Shopwise
21. What are you listening to right now?
It Never Entered My Mind by Miles Davis
22. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be?
Apricot
23. Favourite smells?
Coffee, warm croissant, frying garlic, frying bacon, my new body wash, Victoria's Secret Secret Crush (my scent forever), Clinique Happy (for women), Liz Claiborne's Curve Crush for men
24. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
Kim
25. Do you like the person that sent this to you?
It wasn't sent to me. I snitched it from Gabby's blog.hihi.(thanks Gabby!)
26. Favourite sports to watch?
None, really. But lately I've been forced to watch wrestling (!) because my best friend is a fanatic. And I mean fanatic.
27. Hair colour?
dark Brown.
28. Eye colour?
Wish I could say hazel. But no. They're black as black can be. haha
29. Do you wear contacts?
Nope.
30. Favourite food?
Adobo, Fried Tuyo, Chicken macaroni soup, pizza, carbonara, Glazed Donut (Go Nuts or Krispy Kreme), Garlic Bread, Baked mac, mac and cheese, sisig, churros (whew! now I'm hungry)
31. Scary Movies or Happy Endings?
Neither
32. Last movie you watched?
Intruder in the Dust (it's this old film adapted from Faulkner's novel)
33. What colour shirt are you wearing?
white. with a blue print that would best remain unspelled (is this a word?)here.
34. Summer or winter?
Summer
35. Hugs or kisses?
Depends on who they're from. :)
36. Favourite dessert?
Gloria Jean's Choco Macadamia frap
37. Most likely to do this quiz themselves?
people who like to talk about themselves (haha!); people who have a lot of time in their hands (like me-- I'm hibernating right now)
38. Least likely to respond?
People who have better things to do
39. What book are you reading right now?
What Was She Thinking? (Notes on a Scandal) by Zoe Heller
40. What's on your mouse pad?
Coffee stains. Haha
41. Favourite sound?
Miles Davis, Jackie's and Kim's voices, Doorbells (not buzzers)
42. Rolling Stones or Beatles?
Beatles
Recipe For A Delicious Morning
It's best to be up while the sun is still mild--and newly-risen as she is. It wouldn't do to open your eyes to her glaring rays; this, when she's already at that all-time high with whatever's new in her life at the moment.
Next, inhale the fresh, crisp scent of the sheets wrapped around you (so it's imperative to sleep on clean linen, haha).
Then, turn on Miles Davis' Flamenco Sketches, let the music float into your head, waft into your limbs, then stretch, stretch your arms. But slowly, slowly, taking your sweet time.
Think nice thoughts. Like that warm, buttered toast waiting for you on the breakfast table.
Which you will have only if you rise and walk to your kitchen and make one.
Next, inhale the fresh, crisp scent of the sheets wrapped around you (so it's imperative to sleep on clean linen, haha).
Then, turn on Miles Davis' Flamenco Sketches, let the music float into your head, waft into your limbs, then stretch, stretch your arms. But slowly, slowly, taking your sweet time.
Think nice thoughts. Like that warm, buttered toast waiting for you on the breakfast table.
Which you will have only if you rise and walk to your kitchen and make one.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The Panther
by Rainer Maria Rilke
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars, and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tense, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars, and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tense, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
Lit Geek Update #6
Last book I read: She Flew The Coop by Michael Lee West
This book is hilarious, had me hooting with laughter and kicking my heels up while reading it. The writing is candid but spiced up with color and wit. Human frailty and resilience are celebrated equally, the setting being the fictional Limoges, Louisiana, a small-town backdrop with quirky characters that just as possibly could represent any community in any part of the world. A lot of recipes, too, that made me go hungry and grab something to munch on just to satisfy the craving brought on by the raw, unembellished description of Creole fare (Gumbo, crawfish pie, jambalaya, peanut butter and bacon sandwich (!), loads of mayonnaise and chili). A light, most-of-the-time-funny-but-when-it's-sad-it's-sad read.
What I'm reading now: What Was She Thinking? (Notes on a Scandal) by Zoe Heller
This book is hilarious, had me hooting with laughter and kicking my heels up while reading it. The writing is candid but spiced up with color and wit. Human frailty and resilience are celebrated equally, the setting being the fictional Limoges, Louisiana, a small-town backdrop with quirky characters that just as possibly could represent any community in any part of the world. A lot of recipes, too, that made me go hungry and grab something to munch on just to satisfy the craving brought on by the raw, unembellished description of Creole fare (Gumbo, crawfish pie, jambalaya, peanut butter and bacon sandwich (!), loads of mayonnaise and chili). A light, most-of-the-time-funny-but-when-it's-sad-it's-sad read.
What I'm reading now: What Was She Thinking? (Notes on a Scandal) by Zoe Heller
Thursday, September 27, 2007
from Ian McEwan's ATONEMENT
That night creatures were drawn to lights where they could be most easily eaten by other creatures was one of those mysteries that gave her modest pleasure. She preferred not to have it explained away. At a formal dinner once a professor of some science or other, wanting to make small talk, had pointed out to a few insects gyrating above a candelabra. He had told her that it was the visual impression of an even deeper darkness beyond the light that drew them in. Even though they might be eaten, they had to obey the instinct that made them seek out the darkest place, on the far side of the light-- and in this case it was an illusion. It sounded to her like sophistry, or an explanation for its own sake. How could anyone presume to know the world through the eyes of an insect? Not everything had a cause, and pretending otherwise was an interference in the workings of the world that was futile, and could even lead to grief. Some things were simply so.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Lit Geek Update #5
Last Book I Read: Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
I find it remarkable how Ishiguro manages to draw so much emotion with so little fanfare. The Remains of the Day put him in my list of must-read authors; but reading Never Let Me Go (the last part of which I read outdoors under a very quiet, very still, twilit sky, tinging everything a shade of orange) made me realize how much more he's capable of, not just to tug at heartstrings with such spare language.
The exposition left me quizzical, very much uncertain of the ground I was treading, but very much aware of some impending darkness that was about to unfold. And therein lies one of the strengths of this mildly eerie, wonderfully strange novel: it shows rather than tells, but inch by inch, so that the strategically-torn piece you are given leaves you hankering for the next one. And so it goes, until the middle part, where things seem to fall into place, but not just yet. The story is carefully, if not fastidiously, crafted, so that the end result is a finely-woven novel of pain and non-pain, of innocence and betrayal, of loss and acceptance, done with such breathtaking restraint.
After I put the book back on the shelf, I knew that the words carer, donor and completed would never again mean the same to me. This book taught me, made me realize how finally, we are all human and mortal, and that most of us take each day that we are alive--and free--for granted, not knowing there could be people out there who live, but are bound by painful, irrevocable destinies spelt out for them the even before they started being.
What I'm reading now: The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood
I find it remarkable how Ishiguro manages to draw so much emotion with so little fanfare. The Remains of the Day put him in my list of must-read authors; but reading Never Let Me Go (the last part of which I read outdoors under a very quiet, very still, twilit sky, tinging everything a shade of orange) made me realize how much more he's capable of, not just to tug at heartstrings with such spare language.
The exposition left me quizzical, very much uncertain of the ground I was treading, but very much aware of some impending darkness that was about to unfold. And therein lies one of the strengths of this mildly eerie, wonderfully strange novel: it shows rather than tells, but inch by inch, so that the strategically-torn piece you are given leaves you hankering for the next one. And so it goes, until the middle part, where things seem to fall into place, but not just yet. The story is carefully, if not fastidiously, crafted, so that the end result is a finely-woven novel of pain and non-pain, of innocence and betrayal, of loss and acceptance, done with such breathtaking restraint.
After I put the book back on the shelf, I knew that the words carer, donor and completed would never again mean the same to me. This book taught me, made me realize how finally, we are all human and mortal, and that most of us take each day that we are alive--and free--for granted, not knowing there could be people out there who live, but are bound by painful, irrevocable destinies spelt out for them the even before they started being.
What I'm reading now: The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood
Sunday, July 22, 2007
IN THE MIDDLE
Somewhere between afterimage and stark reality,
I bend back into my shadow
like a circle that is not yet,
reaching for the edge, an attempt to seal the rift
between my light and my dark.
The waking is not part of the dream
and yet, it is there, in that moment between--
the hollow that is seldom ever filled--
where they merge, two textures commingling:
so which the silk, then, and which the velvet?
Where does one end and the other begin?
I uncurl from the margins of my slumber
and stretch out into wakefulness. It is a violet dawn
that I see, floating in through the window.
I close my eyes once more, still
wafting in my memory of darkness.
Something had pulled me away from the embrace
of sleep, where it was night, where I felt safe.
What rippled the stillness?
A flickering, somewhere. A faint memory of light,
like the agony that uncertainty, now and then, becomes.
I bend back into my shadow
like a circle that is not yet,
reaching for the edge, an attempt to seal the rift
between my light and my dark.
The waking is not part of the dream
and yet, it is there, in that moment between--
the hollow that is seldom ever filled--
where they merge, two textures commingling:
so which the silk, then, and which the velvet?
Where does one end and the other begin?
I uncurl from the margins of my slumber
and stretch out into wakefulness. It is a violet dawn
that I see, floating in through the window.
I close my eyes once more, still
wafting in my memory of darkness.
Something had pulled me away from the embrace
of sleep, where it was night, where I felt safe.
What rippled the stillness?
A flickering, somewhere. A faint memory of light,
like the agony that uncertainty, now and then, becomes.
This is an excerpt from an unfinished story:
It was on a beach that they first met.
He preferred it to have been on a busy street or some squalid corner of the city, instead, to preclude picturesqueness from its recall. The crowd’s din or the stench of garbage would have made it seem less of a memory.
Instead, what he had with him, now, was the rhythmic sound of crashing waves as accompaniment. The undulating sea, the blanket of heaven, the sun-kissed trees, the warm sand: these formed the backdrop of his reminiscence of that first encounter. And in his mind, she would be there, etched against a blue sea and an even bluer sky, toes curling on the sand, looking at him.
His misery made the whole picture seem even more ephemeral.
He preferred it to have been on a busy street or some squalid corner of the city, instead, to preclude picturesqueness from its recall. The crowd’s din or the stench of garbage would have made it seem less of a memory.
Instead, what he had with him, now, was the rhythmic sound of crashing waves as accompaniment. The undulating sea, the blanket of heaven, the sun-kissed trees, the warm sand: these formed the backdrop of his reminiscence of that first encounter. And in his mind, she would be there, etched against a blue sea and an even bluer sky, toes curling on the sand, looking at him.
His misery made the whole picture seem even more ephemeral.
Thinking, memory
Thinking does things to a person. It turns the mind into coils that, in turn, mesh into chaotic swirls that lead nowhere and, so it seems, have come from nowhere, too. And so you are driven into thinking even more, until you reach a place that’s precariously close to the brink; madness is there, lurking somewhere.
Memory is somewhat similar, but with a tamer air about it:
When the mind wants to remember, it gropes around for something to anchor itself on: a landscape, a scent, a face, a texture. A person afflicted with nostalgia, for example, finds himself probing into the recesses of his mind to trace the origin of an overwhelming smell of, say, roses, which has suddenly come upon him, one gray afternoon. He then follows it into traversing certain pathways. Along the way, he picks up images that interlace into a picture, even before this “trip” is over. A few steps before the final image, he suddenly thinks:
ah, yes, I remember.
Memory is somewhat similar, but with a tamer air about it:
When the mind wants to remember, it gropes around for something to anchor itself on: a landscape, a scent, a face, a texture. A person afflicted with nostalgia, for example, finds himself probing into the recesses of his mind to trace the origin of an overwhelming smell of, say, roses, which has suddenly come upon him, one gray afternoon. He then follows it into traversing certain pathways. Along the way, he picks up images that interlace into a picture, even before this “trip” is over. A few steps before the final image, he suddenly thinks:
ah, yes, I remember.
Upon Seeing A Child Sleeping On A Pavement
Is it possible
We are more alone
than we think:
that the angels we were taught to call to
in our times of need are no less divine
than we ourselves are, that they could do no more
than walk on the same ground as we do,
that the wings we think they elevate us with
when we need lifting up
from our daily despondencies
are nothing more than creations
of our capricious minds, reasons
we come up with in our failure to put a finger
on the things we could not name,
that our superstitious minds
hook themselves on, for lack of a more tangible anchor
in the same way that we have coined the prayers
that we mumble as we look upwards to a heaven
that could just as well be no more than a blanket
of nothingness which our scientists have only just begun
to understand, a smallness
in one endless unknown,
the unknown itself a monstrous uncertainty
we would rather not come face to face with,
when the tv documentary we watched the other night
established the presence of blackholes
which could, at any point in time, swallow
our earth and, with it, the things we knew so well
and did not know, shatter
everything we had taught ourselves to believe,
could tear our unknowing, sleeping selves
into shreds and no angel would come to undo
such an undoing, no miracle to put the pieces
back into place?
We are more alone
than we think:
that the angels we were taught to call to
in our times of need are no less divine
than we ourselves are, that they could do no more
than walk on the same ground as we do,
that the wings we think they elevate us with
when we need lifting up
from our daily despondencies
are nothing more than creations
of our capricious minds, reasons
we come up with in our failure to put a finger
on the things we could not name,
that our superstitious minds
hook themselves on, for lack of a more tangible anchor
in the same way that we have coined the prayers
that we mumble as we look upwards to a heaven
that could just as well be no more than a blanket
of nothingness which our scientists have only just begun
to understand, a smallness
in one endless unknown,
the unknown itself a monstrous uncertainty
we would rather not come face to face with,
when the tv documentary we watched the other night
established the presence of blackholes
which could, at any point in time, swallow
our earth and, with it, the things we knew so well
and did not know, shatter
everything we had taught ourselves to believe,
could tear our unknowing, sleeping selves
into shreds and no angel would come to undo
such an undoing, no miracle to put the pieces
back into place?
Monday, July 16, 2007
From BLOGTHINGS
Hey, there! Try going to www.blogthings.com for some fun stuff. You could really get hooked, though. I can't believe I spent 2 hours in that website! Well, here are some of the things I found out about myself (some true, some not):
label: HOW'S YOUR INNER CHILD?
answer based on questionnaire: Your Inner Child Is Sad
You're a very sensitive soul.
You haven't grown that thick skin that most adults have.
Easily hurt, you tend to retreat to your comfort zone.
You don't let many people in - unless you've trusted them for a long time.
label: WHAT KIND OF FOOD ARE YOU?
answer based on questionnaire: You Are Chinese Food
Exotic yet ordinary.
People think they've had enough of you, but they're back for more in an hour. (mmm...)
label: WHAT'S YOUR PORN STAR NAME?
answer based on questionnaire: Your Porn Star Name Is...
Tight Cherry (haha!)
label: WHO'S YOUR CELEBRITY STYLE SISTER?answer based on questionnaire: Your Celebrity Style Twin is Mischa Barton (nice!)
Funky, bohemian, and girly.
label: WHAT TYPE OF WRITER SHOULD YOU BE?answer based on questionnaire: You Should Be A Poet (hah!)
You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways.
And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery...
Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever.
You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem
label: WHO SHOULD PAINT YOU?
answer based on questionnaire: Salvador Dali
You're a complex, intense creature who displays many layers.
There's no way a traditional portrait could ever capture you!
label: WHAT MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE ARE YOU?
answer based on questionnaire: You Are a Mermaid (really?)
You are a total daydreamer, and people tend to think you're flakier than you actually are.
While your head is often in the clouds, you'll always come back to earth to help someone in need.
Beyond being a caring person, you are also very intelligent and rational.
You understand the connections of the universe better than almost anyone else.
So there. Try it, folks!
label: HOW'S YOUR INNER CHILD?
answer based on questionnaire: Your Inner Child Is Sad
You're a very sensitive soul.
You haven't grown that thick skin that most adults have.
Easily hurt, you tend to retreat to your comfort zone.
You don't let many people in - unless you've trusted them for a long time.
label: WHAT KIND OF FOOD ARE YOU?
answer based on questionnaire: You Are Chinese Food
Exotic yet ordinary.
People think they've had enough of you, but they're back for more in an hour. (mmm...)
label: WHAT'S YOUR PORN STAR NAME?
answer based on questionnaire: Your Porn Star Name Is...
Tight Cherry (haha!)
label: WHO'S YOUR CELEBRITY STYLE SISTER?answer based on questionnaire: Your Celebrity Style Twin is Mischa Barton (nice!)
Funky, bohemian, and girly.
label: WHAT TYPE OF WRITER SHOULD YOU BE?answer based on questionnaire: You Should Be A Poet (hah!)
You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways.
And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery...
Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever.
You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem
label: WHO SHOULD PAINT YOU?
answer based on questionnaire: Salvador Dali
You're a complex, intense creature who displays many layers.
There's no way a traditional portrait could ever capture you!
label: WHAT MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE ARE YOU?
answer based on questionnaire: You Are a Mermaid (really?)
You are a total daydreamer, and people tend to think you're flakier than you actually are.
While your head is often in the clouds, you'll always come back to earth to help someone in need.
Beyond being a caring person, you are also very intelligent and rational.
You understand the connections of the universe better than almost anyone else.
So there. Try it, folks!
By The Way...
Janis Joplin was the eldest sister of Joni Mitchell and Aimee Mann.
Tori Amos and Sarah Mclachlan were their cousins, and Loreena McKennitt was the aunt everyone shunned and feared (but secretly respected).
And Carly Simon must be somewhere in their family tree.
This wouldn't really make sense in real life (the chronology wouldn't stand half a chance), but, hey, you do get my point.
Right?
Thanks!
Tori Amos and Sarah Mclachlan were their cousins, and Loreena McKennitt was the aunt everyone shunned and feared (but secretly respected).
And Carly Simon must be somewhere in their family tree.
This wouldn't really make sense in real life (the chronology wouldn't stand half a chance), but, hey, you do get my point.
Right?
Thanks!
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Something from College
This is something I wrote for a FICTION class (under Luis Katigbak) reading journal blog.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Reading The Locked Room (from THE NEW YORK TRILOGY by Paul Auster)
I found the story very fast-paced. Perhaps the author’s knack for suspense had a lot to do with it. I felt myself drawn into the story once I started reading it (I couldn’t wait to get to the next pages) and, if not for pressing matters which I had to attend to, I think now that I would have finished it in one sitting. But that is entirely another story.
I found the premise extremely intriguing. Interesting would be the wrong word to describe it—it would be quite inadequate. The speaker’s obsession with Fanshawe was remarkable; so were the conflicting mixture of envy and admiration that the former had for the latter. I, myself, was fascinated by this kind of fascination. He felt these emotions quite intensely and this was conveyed with clarity in the text. It literally jumped from the pages to the reader’s perception. The man felt so strongly, and it showed.
Fanshawe was the quintessential angst-filled artist. He embodied the qualities of the deviant individual (redundant? I got carried away); so well tuned to his inner self that the rest of the world seemed—or was—abnormal for him. He very well knew that he couldn’t possibly bear to live in such a place; therefore, he ran away as much as he could, if little by little. In the end, he fulfilled this very strong need to ultimately run away from it all, under the guise of death. Yet it was also ironic that, for all the hiding he had done, and in spite of the disappearance he had staged for himself, his name and his writings had inevitably served to immortalize him. He had given away small bits of himself to the world he so shunned that in the end, he was never truly lost.
Sophie was the balance, the anchor to which the “I” could hold on in order for him not to completely lose sight of reality, the someone whom he could come back to after it all ended, the reason for him to come back at all. As I saw it, he did become a little mad in his pursuit of Fanshawe; when he felt that, in his desperate search for this person, he was actually the one being hunted down.
When I think about it, there was something spooky about the entire thing, something sinister. I wouldn’t go so far as to put the story under the horror category, but I have to say that there were certain parts in the story that sent shivers down my spine, pardon the hackneyed expression.
posted by chansonata 11:35 AM
Monday, August 09, 2004
Reading The Locked Room (from THE NEW YORK TRILOGY by Paul Auster)
I found the story very fast-paced. Perhaps the author’s knack for suspense had a lot to do with it. I felt myself drawn into the story once I started reading it (I couldn’t wait to get to the next pages) and, if not for pressing matters which I had to attend to, I think now that I would have finished it in one sitting. But that is entirely another story.
I found the premise extremely intriguing. Interesting would be the wrong word to describe it—it would be quite inadequate. The speaker’s obsession with Fanshawe was remarkable; so were the conflicting mixture of envy and admiration that the former had for the latter. I, myself, was fascinated by this kind of fascination. He felt these emotions quite intensely and this was conveyed with clarity in the text. It literally jumped from the pages to the reader’s perception. The man felt so strongly, and it showed.
Fanshawe was the quintessential angst-filled artist. He embodied the qualities of the deviant individual (redundant? I got carried away); so well tuned to his inner self that the rest of the world seemed—or was—abnormal for him. He very well knew that he couldn’t possibly bear to live in such a place; therefore, he ran away as much as he could, if little by little. In the end, he fulfilled this very strong need to ultimately run away from it all, under the guise of death. Yet it was also ironic that, for all the hiding he had done, and in spite of the disappearance he had staged for himself, his name and his writings had inevitably served to immortalize him. He had given away small bits of himself to the world he so shunned that in the end, he was never truly lost.
Sophie was the balance, the anchor to which the “I” could hold on in order for him not to completely lose sight of reality, the someone whom he could come back to after it all ended, the reason for him to come back at all. As I saw it, he did become a little mad in his pursuit of Fanshawe; when he felt that, in his desperate search for this person, he was actually the one being hunted down.
When I think about it, there was something spooky about the entire thing, something sinister. I wouldn’t go so far as to put the story under the horror category, but I have to say that there were certain parts in the story that sent shivers down my spine, pardon the hackneyed expression.
posted by chansonata 11:35 AM
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Aimee Mann Wishes She Had a River She Could Skate Away on...
Joni Mitchell must be the elder, milder-in-temperament sister of Aimee Mann.
If I were to put their portraits side-by-side, they would both be smiling: Joni Mitchell's would be wistful and Aimee Mann's would be sarcastic. But both smiles will be sad, that I'm quite sure of. Both will have a look of (faintly feigned) smugness about them--hey, they've both been there (wherever or whatever that may be), but Joni has emerged wise, knowing she's alive and has to make the best of things, anyway; while Aimee came out angry, struggling against her walls, realizing she's alive and that she has to live with it, anyway.
And so they wrote songs, and these songs were things they've said to each other, long, lonely conversations they've had on those nights when they held vigils under a watchful moon, or on those grey afternoons when there was nothing one could do but to keep one's mind company. They must've had grand times, laughing at the rest of the world because they knew that they knew more than the others did. But they must have argued, as well, oh yes, 'cause one of them was angry, don't forget, and one of them, wise. I'd like to think that it was Joni who usually won, but Aimee wouldn't have given up without putting up a fight. It didn't matter that she realized Joni was right, after all. It just wasn't in her to show that she agreed.
If I were to put their portraits side-by-side, they would both be smiling: Joni Mitchell's would be wistful and Aimee Mann's would be sarcastic. But both smiles will be sad, that I'm quite sure of. Both will have a look of (faintly feigned) smugness about them--hey, they've both been there (wherever or whatever that may be), but Joni has emerged wise, knowing she's alive and has to make the best of things, anyway; while Aimee came out angry, struggling against her walls, realizing she's alive and that she has to live with it, anyway.
And so they wrote songs, and these songs were things they've said to each other, long, lonely conversations they've had on those nights when they held vigils under a watchful moon, or on those grey afternoons when there was nothing one could do but to keep one's mind company. They must've had grand times, laughing at the rest of the world because they knew that they knew more than the others did. But they must have argued, as well, oh yes, 'cause one of them was angry, don't forget, and one of them, wise. I'd like to think that it was Joni who usually won, but Aimee wouldn't have given up without putting up a fight. It didn't matter that she realized Joni was right, after all. It just wasn't in her to show that she agreed.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Some reviews from my previous blog:
February 13, 2007
Lit Geek Update #1
Last book I read: Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami- Poignant without the pathos; in this book, Murakami deviates from his trademark "strangeness." No elephant vanishes here, no dancing dwarf, no man-sheep-- just real people whose paths intersect and whose lives intertwine, a coming -of-age story set in 60's Japan, in the era of the Beatles, of Carole King and The Doors. No Murakami creation would be complete without references to Music (see sentence before this one) and Literature-- here he mentions Dostoyevsky, and has the main protagonist declaring admiration for Jay Gatsby. An emotional read. Too many suicides, though.
What I'm reading now: Tomcat In Love by Tim O'Brien
April 01, 2007
Lit Geek Update #2
Last Book I read: Tomcat In Love by Tim O'Brien- If you liked Nabokov's Lolita, you're gonna love this one. Not that there's any similarity between the plots, though, just in the delivery. The genius who wrote the unforgettable The Things They Carried strikes again, this time in a hilarious story of the thwarted obsession and madness of one Thomas H. Chippering, a self-proclaimed war hero and "sex-magnet," whose attempts at honesty and transparency make it hard for the reader to guess just exactly when he is telling the truth, and when he is not. This ambivalence will keep you glued on the book and give you the itch to go to the next page! The main character made me shake my head and laugh out loud in turns, and the other people in the novel made me realize, with grudging agreement, just how dysfunctional this world of ours could get (or the people in it, at least).
What I'm Reading Now: The WInd-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami
May 16, 2007
Lit Geek Update #3
Last book I read: Over A Cup of Ginger Tea by Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo- Reading this book meant being reunited not only with one of my favorite Filipino writers, Cristina pantoja Hidalgo, but re-encountering some of my best-loved pieces by Filipino women writers, as well. In example: the venerable Gilda Cordero Fernando's fairy tales like "The Dust Monster," "The Level of Each day's Need" and "High Fashion." The piece that I liked most, though, was the part entitled "Rewriting The War," wherein Hidalgo discussed some noteworthy women's experiences during the Japanese war (these entries--most of them from diaries and unpublished memoirs--compiled into books only recently). These harrowing tales, as told from the perspective, not of the men who fought in the frontlines, but of the women who were staging a different kind of battle, that of trying desperately--but with much determination and resilience--to fight for survival, to glue together the pieces shattered by the war and its atrocities, make for eye-opening reads, pieces from which we have a lot to learn, and which will further elucidate our views on the Japanese occupation and the horrors that came with it. Towards the end of the piece, Hidalgo quoted Brenda K. Marshall on Foucault: History then, in Foucault's terms may become "counter memory": the process of reading history against the grain, of taking an acknowledged active role in the interpretation of history rather than a passive, viewing role. Counter-memory intervenes in history rather than chronicles it.(1992, 140). And this is precisely what these women have done with their war memoirs: they have gone past looking at the war with just their stares, their senses. They have taken the extra step to intervene, to re-write it for the sake of changing history and transforming our perceptions, not with the might of weapons, but with the beauty, the honesty and candor of their words, their truths.
What I'm reading now: A Portrait of The Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
Lit Geek Update # 4
Last book I read: Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson- I saw this book at the South Mall branch of Book Sale and I grabbed it even if I had only the faintest idea of who the author was (I vaguely remembered my professor mentioning her name in our Erotic Writing class back in college). The title was an arresting one, as well. True to the words on the cover, the pages did have a lot to say a lot about the body, but not just the body, superficially. It was also about the complexity of human relationships, the richness of the senses, and the sparks of chemistry that go through the skin, the muscles, the sinews and the bones when two people touch and discover each other through all these passages. The story is told from the first person point of view, transitioning from speaking to a particular "you" to addressing the reader (who could just as well be the "you" in every "you and me"). The language is lush, sensual, powerful. One particular thing that I liked about it is that the story spoke to me. The words seemed to be reaching out from the pages to my consciousness and memory. It is a book that I know I will keep coming back to, over and over, if only for the truths in its pages and the lack of pretense in the telling.
What I'm reading now: The Journals of Sylvia Plath; Ted Hughes and Frances McCullough, editors- this book will most probably screw up my head even more, but what the hell. Sylvia Plath is just something else.
February 13, 2007
Lit Geek Update #1
Last book I read: Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami- Poignant without the pathos; in this book, Murakami deviates from his trademark "strangeness." No elephant vanishes here, no dancing dwarf, no man-sheep-- just real people whose paths intersect and whose lives intertwine, a coming -of-age story set in 60's Japan, in the era of the Beatles, of Carole King and The Doors. No Murakami creation would be complete without references to Music (see sentence before this one) and Literature-- here he mentions Dostoyevsky, and has the main protagonist declaring admiration for Jay Gatsby. An emotional read. Too many suicides, though.
What I'm reading now: Tomcat In Love by Tim O'Brien
April 01, 2007
Lit Geek Update #2
Last Book I read: Tomcat In Love by Tim O'Brien- If you liked Nabokov's Lolita, you're gonna love this one. Not that there's any similarity between the plots, though, just in the delivery. The genius who wrote the unforgettable The Things They Carried strikes again, this time in a hilarious story of the thwarted obsession and madness of one Thomas H. Chippering, a self-proclaimed war hero and "sex-magnet," whose attempts at honesty and transparency make it hard for the reader to guess just exactly when he is telling the truth, and when he is not. This ambivalence will keep you glued on the book and give you the itch to go to the next page! The main character made me shake my head and laugh out loud in turns, and the other people in the novel made me realize, with grudging agreement, just how dysfunctional this world of ours could get (or the people in it, at least).
What I'm Reading Now: The WInd-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami
May 16, 2007
Lit Geek Update #3
Last book I read: Over A Cup of Ginger Tea by Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo- Reading this book meant being reunited not only with one of my favorite Filipino writers, Cristina pantoja Hidalgo, but re-encountering some of my best-loved pieces by Filipino women writers, as well. In example: the venerable Gilda Cordero Fernando's fairy tales like "The Dust Monster," "The Level of Each day's Need" and "High Fashion." The piece that I liked most, though, was the part entitled "Rewriting The War," wherein Hidalgo discussed some noteworthy women's experiences during the Japanese war (these entries--most of them from diaries and unpublished memoirs--compiled into books only recently). These harrowing tales, as told from the perspective, not of the men who fought in the frontlines, but of the women who were staging a different kind of battle, that of trying desperately--but with much determination and resilience--to fight for survival, to glue together the pieces shattered by the war and its atrocities, make for eye-opening reads, pieces from which we have a lot to learn, and which will further elucidate our views on the Japanese occupation and the horrors that came with it. Towards the end of the piece, Hidalgo quoted Brenda K. Marshall on Foucault: History then, in Foucault's terms may become "counter memory": the process of reading history against the grain, of taking an acknowledged active role in the interpretation of history rather than a passive, viewing role. Counter-memory intervenes in history rather than chronicles it.(1992, 140). And this is precisely what these women have done with their war memoirs: they have gone past looking at the war with just their stares, their senses. They have taken the extra step to intervene, to re-write it for the sake of changing history and transforming our perceptions, not with the might of weapons, but with the beauty, the honesty and candor of their words, their truths.
What I'm reading now: A Portrait of The Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
Lit Geek Update # 4
Last book I read: Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson- I saw this book at the South Mall branch of Book Sale and I grabbed it even if I had only the faintest idea of who the author was (I vaguely remembered my professor mentioning her name in our Erotic Writing class back in college). The title was an arresting one, as well. True to the words on the cover, the pages did have a lot to say a lot about the body, but not just the body, superficially. It was also about the complexity of human relationships, the richness of the senses, and the sparks of chemistry that go through the skin, the muscles, the sinews and the bones when two people touch and discover each other through all these passages. The story is told from the first person point of view, transitioning from speaking to a particular "you" to addressing the reader (who could just as well be the "you" in every "you and me"). The language is lush, sensual, powerful. One particular thing that I liked about it is that the story spoke to me. The words seemed to be reaching out from the pages to my consciousness and memory. It is a book that I know I will keep coming back to, over and over, if only for the truths in its pages and the lack of pretense in the telling.
What I'm reading now: The Journals of Sylvia Plath; Ted Hughes and Frances McCullough, editors- this book will most probably screw up my head even more, but what the hell. Sylvia Plath is just something else.
I wrote this for a poetry class:
CHAIR
Empty now, the chair
sits obdurate
against the wall.
Its carved, drooping arms--
gnarled as the fingers
that once clutched at them
while grappling with tricks
played by faltering memory--
are sepia colored: stained by time,
and splotched with age.
Faintly streaking the beaten legs
are flecks of mahogany:
remnants of its youth,
traces of its prime
when tots would sit on its lap
and know comfort
in the magenta, paisley-print cushion--
now paled into a sad, vague, rose (like a faded dream),
intricate design long gone;
torn around edges,
a few seams clawing at the seat,
pressing,
holding on.
In a dusky corner, the chair lingers
stiffly struggling to remain
straight on its back
like an old, old woman straining
for strength.
CHAIR
Empty now, the chair
sits obdurate
against the wall.
Its carved, drooping arms--
gnarled as the fingers
that once clutched at them
while grappling with tricks
played by faltering memory--
are sepia colored: stained by time,
and splotched with age.
Faintly streaking the beaten legs
are flecks of mahogany:
remnants of its youth,
traces of its prime
when tots would sit on its lap
and know comfort
in the magenta, paisley-print cushion--
now paled into a sad, vague, rose (like a faded dream),
intricate design long gone;
torn around edges,
a few seams clawing at the seat,
pressing,
holding on.
In a dusky corner, the chair lingers
stiffly struggling to remain
straight on its back
like an old, old woman straining
for strength.
No need for a title (or: Do they sell these lines anywhere?)
The weird thing about getting what you want (and want so badly) is that there's always something else you have to give up. You have to let go of one thing, to make room for another. We are never completely happy, and it makes us even unhappier when we try to come up with ways to be happy. (Hmm. Three HAPPYs there, in the last sentence).
Why am I so fond of parenthetical statements? A few years back at a poetry class, one of my poems was on the hot seat and my professor, poet and scholar Chingbee Cruz (her first book is out, by the way), commented that I had a penchant for asides (in parentheses) and that I liked to quantify things. Why is this? she asked (all I could give for an answer was a shrug).
Yeah, yeah. I know I didn't have to enclose the last sentence in parentheses. But what the heck.
There's something so cute (and quirky) about smugness and sarcasm enclosed between two parallel lines curving toward each other (look closely-- don't they seem STILL moving closer together?) CLOSELY and CLOSER. (Hmm. Same root words.)
Just a curious question: Why in the world would a band call themselves DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE? (If there's anyone out there who can give me an answer, please raise your hand. Thanks.)
I started this entry with a somber tone, and I had every intention of sustaining the seriousness to the end. But somehow, I shifted, somewhere along the way (or somewhere in the FIRST paragraph, would you believe it was THAT early).
I jumped.
Yeah, I did. (Try it, it's nice.)
It seemed trite to continue in the way I began. I mean, happiness? How many people have written about finding JOY and FULFILLMENT (did I spell that right?) and CONTENTMENT and all those BIG words pointing at approximately the same meaning that we all keep hoping would turn into something tangible, but remain abstract, anyway? (Long sentence, that one.) We turn ourselves upside-down, and our minds inside-out, and still, we remain just about right, somewhere. And that makes us restless, makes us wonder: is this all there is to it? (Am I back at where I started?)
The weird thing about getting what you want (and want so badly) is that there's always something else you have to give up. You have to let go of one thing, to make room for another. We are never completely happy, and it makes us even unhappier when we try to come up with ways to be happy. (Hmm. Three HAPPYs there, in the last sentence).
Why am I so fond of parenthetical statements? A few years back at a poetry class, one of my poems was on the hot seat and my professor, poet and scholar Chingbee Cruz (her first book is out, by the way), commented that I had a penchant for asides (in parentheses) and that I liked to quantify things. Why is this? she asked (all I could give for an answer was a shrug).
Yeah, yeah. I know I didn't have to enclose the last sentence in parentheses. But what the heck.
There's something so cute (and quirky) about smugness and sarcasm enclosed between two parallel lines curving toward each other (look closely-- don't they seem STILL moving closer together?) CLOSELY and CLOSER. (Hmm. Same root words.)
Just a curious question: Why in the world would a band call themselves DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE? (If there's anyone out there who can give me an answer, please raise your hand. Thanks.)
I started this entry with a somber tone, and I had every intention of sustaining the seriousness to the end. But somehow, I shifted, somewhere along the way (or somewhere in the FIRST paragraph, would you believe it was THAT early).
I jumped.
Yeah, I did. (Try it, it's nice.)
It seemed trite to continue in the way I began. I mean, happiness? How many people have written about finding JOY and FULFILLMENT (did I spell that right?) and CONTENTMENT and all those BIG words pointing at approximately the same meaning that we all keep hoping would turn into something tangible, but remain abstract, anyway? (Long sentence, that one.) We turn ourselves upside-down, and our minds inside-out, and still, we remain just about right, somewhere. And that makes us restless, makes us wonder: is this all there is to it? (Am I back at where I started?)
LAUGHING GAS
There will almost always be darkness
as you'll be forced to shut your eyes tight
like how it is when soap gets in them
only without the pain
but is it pleasure or pathos
you cannot tell
not with the numbness
spreading like despair
kneadingyour consciousness into pliancy
or is it hardness
and soon they come
first in ripples the giggles
then in waves the laughter
howling from out of you
uncontrollable
it's best to be in bed
you might fall if you're not
and best not to be alone
you might never rise up
from the stupor you fall into
when the hysterics die down
because the cloud that you're in
does seem real
but it's not
only what it is
a cloud
that is all
yes you know
the best part of being sober
is remembering how it was when you were drunk
if only you could.
(Written last December 3, 2006)
There will almost always be darkness
as you'll be forced to shut your eyes tight
like how it is when soap gets in them
only without the pain
but is it pleasure or pathos
you cannot tell
not with the numbness
spreading like despair
kneadingyour consciousness into pliancy
or is it hardness
and soon they come
first in ripples the giggles
then in waves the laughter
howling from out of you
uncontrollable
it's best to be in bed
you might fall if you're not
and best not to be alone
you might never rise up
from the stupor you fall into
when the hysterics die down
because the cloud that you're in
does seem real
but it's not
only what it is
a cloud
that is all
yes you know
the best part of being sober
is remembering how it was when you were drunk
if only you could.
(Written last December 3, 2006)
STONE
The smoke from my cigarette rises to the glass table top, forming rings of grey, undulating into bigger circles, centripetal waves, ephemeral, disappearing into the waft of a sibilant breeze, reminding me that I can, must, blink or else I'll turn into stone.
Stone. Booker Prize-winning author A.S. Byatt has, in her Little Black Book of Stories, a short story called "The Stone Woman," which is an understatedly poignant tale of a woman whose grief turns her into stone. Jade, Agate, emerald, lapiz lazuli, ruby, diamond, quartz... How beautiful she must have looked, what splendor, how glorious it must have been to be something entirely different from, or, to be only an image of, what one used to be; to sense nothing, feel nothing, be nothing.
To be stone and not be. To not be anything but stone.
I have long ago taught myself, little by little, to close myself into a bud whenever I feel the threat of pain. People have called me hard-headed, stoic, cruel, stone-hearted. I have been misunderstood as being unfeeling. Heartless, even.
It's a trick, you see.
Consider: a fist clenching into itself; a dancer curling her body into an imperfect, human (but, perhaps I am being redundant) circle; a hand gripping an object it does not want to let go of.
Pain or no, turning oneself into stone is a skill that can be learned, an art that can be perfected. Grief is an unnecessary catalyst when one has mastered this craft. Because it is a craft that one has to go back to learning again, and again, if one is to be an expert at it.
I am slowly getting there. Just a few more polishes, and I will be the stone-woman I have always wanted to be.
For now, though, I must remember to blink. For now.
Stone. Booker Prize-winning author A.S. Byatt has, in her Little Black Book of Stories, a short story called "The Stone Woman," which is an understatedly poignant tale of a woman whose grief turns her into stone. Jade, Agate, emerald, lapiz lazuli, ruby, diamond, quartz... How beautiful she must have looked, what splendor, how glorious it must have been to be something entirely different from, or, to be only an image of, what one used to be; to sense nothing, feel nothing, be nothing.
To be stone and not be. To not be anything but stone.
I have long ago taught myself, little by little, to close myself into a bud whenever I feel the threat of pain. People have called me hard-headed, stoic, cruel, stone-hearted. I have been misunderstood as being unfeeling. Heartless, even.
It's a trick, you see.
Consider: a fist clenching into itself; a dancer curling her body into an imperfect, human (but, perhaps I am being redundant) circle; a hand gripping an object it does not want to let go of.
Pain or no, turning oneself into stone is a skill that can be learned, an art that can be perfected. Grief is an unnecessary catalyst when one has mastered this craft. Because it is a craft that one has to go back to learning again, and again, if one is to be an expert at it.
I am slowly getting there. Just a few more polishes, and I will be the stone-woman I have always wanted to be.
For now, though, I must remember to blink. For now.
This is the Rilke I fell in love with, the poem that led me to search for his The Sonnets To Orpheus and buy it, no matter what the cost:
You Who Never Arrived
You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of
the next moment. All the immense
images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and un-
suspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods--
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.
You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house-- , and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced
upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back
my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...
From 'Ahead of All Parting:The Selected Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke'
Edited and Translated by Stephen Mitchell
You Who Never Arrived
You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of
the next moment. All the immense
images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and un-
suspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods--
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.
You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house-- , and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced
upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back
my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...
From 'Ahead of All Parting:The Selected Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke'
Edited and Translated by Stephen Mitchell
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Once I Browsed
Consider the contrast between these two journal entries:
May 18, 2004
I do not remember exactly when my fixation with twilight began. The waning light of day and the lowered tone of the wind have such cathartic effects on me. It is perhaps my brooding nature and melancholic proclivities that find an affinity with this time of day, when everything mellows down to a quietness which calms even the most fiery of souls. The equilibrium between light and dark fills me with a sense of reflection. Dusk finds me in my most pensive state.
July 20, 2005
The rain is falling and it is awfully dark outside. It’s two fortyin the afternoon and yet it seems like twilight. There is a congruence to the words twilight and gloom.
Loneliness is a terrible thing. It makes the soul shrink unto itself, like there’s nowhere else to go except inwards, and one does not know what one will find there. Lonely. There is a sense of finality in the letters, as if there is nothing in between them, not even shadows. Just nothing.
Nothing.
The word sadness is altogether different. It seems incredibly mundane, when placed beside loneliness. Sadness is something temporary, like a thunderstorm on a summer’s day; one is sure it will go away, even as one basks in the middle of it.
But loneliness. It is twilight, and then the darkness that comes after twilight. It goes away, but is certain to come back. Daylight obscures it, but only for so long.
It is part of, if not the, landscape.
Loneliness, I have to confess, has become one of my favorite words.
May 18, 2004
I do not remember exactly when my fixation with twilight began. The waning light of day and the lowered tone of the wind have such cathartic effects on me. It is perhaps my brooding nature and melancholic proclivities that find an affinity with this time of day, when everything mellows down to a quietness which calms even the most fiery of souls. The equilibrium between light and dark fills me with a sense of reflection. Dusk finds me in my most pensive state.
July 20, 2005
The rain is falling and it is awfully dark outside. It’s two fortyin the afternoon and yet it seems like twilight. There is a congruence to the words twilight and gloom.
Loneliness is a terrible thing. It makes the soul shrink unto itself, like there’s nowhere else to go except inwards, and one does not know what one will find there. Lonely. There is a sense of finality in the letters, as if there is nothing in between them, not even shadows. Just nothing.
Nothing.
The word sadness is altogether different. It seems incredibly mundane, when placed beside loneliness. Sadness is something temporary, like a thunderstorm on a summer’s day; one is sure it will go away, even as one basks in the middle of it.
But loneliness. It is twilight, and then the darkness that comes after twilight. It goes away, but is certain to come back. Daylight obscures it, but only for so long.
It is part of, if not the, landscape.
Loneliness, I have to confess, has become one of my favorite words.
On Maria Callas
Listening to Maria Callas sing is a pleasure one has to experience in order to believe. That there is a sensation as intense as the kind that her voice is able to draw, is as amazing a discovery as the knowledge that all this is as concrete, as human, as a pinch on one’s palm.
In “La Mamma Morta”, one can practically feel the misery emanating from the voice. This is not to say that I understand the lyrics—I don’t even pretend to—because I don’t. But the tension just about seizes you, and tightly; the voice unravels the story whose words, in turn, seem to crawl into your skin and, deeper, permeate your being like some unseen spirit. The potency in the voice—and the effect of this—can be described as superhuman and yet, ultimately, its greatest achievement is that it is able to touch the core of one’s humanity, to stir dormant feelings of sadness, whose cause one can’t seem to trace, exactly. It is, I believe, the primeval sense of loneliness that lives in each of us, and it is this that “La Mamma Morta” gropes around for, and then raises for us to see, if not to acknowledge.
It is, however, the kind of song that gradually grows on you. Listening to it for the first time is less an emotional experience than an aesthetic one. Initially, what strikes one is Maria Callas’ superbly trained voice, the artistry in her technique, the flawless rendition, her mastery of her craft.
This mastery can just as adequately be illustrated by her version of “Queen of the Night” which is from Mozart’s opera The Magic Flute. It is in stark contrast to “La Mamma Morta,” the former being immensely lighter (though not in vocal difficulty) in mood than the latter. When I heard “Queen of the Night” for the first time, one of my lingering thoughts was that this amazing soprano had, herself, become the magic flute.
In “La Mamma Morta”, one can practically feel the misery emanating from the voice. This is not to say that I understand the lyrics—I don’t even pretend to—because I don’t. But the tension just about seizes you, and tightly; the voice unravels the story whose words, in turn, seem to crawl into your skin and, deeper, permeate your being like some unseen spirit. The potency in the voice—and the effect of this—can be described as superhuman and yet, ultimately, its greatest achievement is that it is able to touch the core of one’s humanity, to stir dormant feelings of sadness, whose cause one can’t seem to trace, exactly. It is, I believe, the primeval sense of loneliness that lives in each of us, and it is this that “La Mamma Morta” gropes around for, and then raises for us to see, if not to acknowledge.
It is, however, the kind of song that gradually grows on you. Listening to it for the first time is less an emotional experience than an aesthetic one. Initially, what strikes one is Maria Callas’ superbly trained voice, the artistry in her technique, the flawless rendition, her mastery of her craft.
This mastery can just as adequately be illustrated by her version of “Queen of the Night” which is from Mozart’s opera The Magic Flute. It is in stark contrast to “La Mamma Morta,” the former being immensely lighter (though not in vocal difficulty) in mood than the latter. When I heard “Queen of the Night” for the first time, one of my lingering thoughts was that this amazing soprano had, herself, become the magic flute.
Luis Katigbak, On Music
You find your music like you find anything you love for a lifetime: through head-spinningly intense first impressions, deepened by increments, by glances and tastes, flashes of bliss, the slow rush, the terrifying exhilaration of knowing and being known, and finally: hands and heart clasped in commitment, days and years sealed against decay. The beauty of a cascading guitar line, of a voice in flight singing words that mean something to you--these are permanent and ephemeral, as are everything that matters, and when you first fall for your music you almost never appreciate the paradox.
from "The Dawn: Everything that Matters",by Luis Katigbak,PULP, March 2005
from "The Dawn: Everything that Matters",by Luis Katigbak,PULP, March 2005
Parting
Your lids fold like sails, noiseless
and I know you have left me
where I could not follow
your breathing steady, rising
and falling, waves
in rhythm with my heartbeat
the sibilant sound hissing,
filling my ears
with silence
louder now, and painful
like sorrow washing ashore.
My corner of the bed seems wider now,
and I become my sadness.
I spill over, across,
above myself
until I drown
in my nothingness.
Or was it you who did?
Was it you?
and I know you have left me
where I could not follow
your breathing steady, rising
and falling, waves
in rhythm with my heartbeat
the sibilant sound hissing,
filling my ears
with silence
louder now, and painful
like sorrow washing ashore.
My corner of the bed seems wider now,
and I become my sadness.
I spill over, across,
above myself
until I drown
in my nothingness.
Or was it you who did?
Was it you?
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