Conspicuously Juxtaposed:

In the May 12th issue of a prestigious international periodical, a Louis Vuitton spread sat smugly alongside an article on the skyrocketing price of oil and the sad, mad socio-economic implications of the crisis.

And on the page at the end of the article, a Patek Philippe ad grinned unashamedly.

Ah, the ironies that surround us everyday.
You do the math.

Woman, Awakening

I was browsing through some of the papers I wrote in college and, having chanced upon a review I wrote on Kate Chopin's novel The Awakening, I shook my head at the anger I sensed creeping on its (my review's) pages. It was funny--and sad, at the same time--to note how, even at that point in my life, my indignance at the failure of society (even now, at this modern age) to recognize woman's rightful place, was already incipient.
Here are some "tell-tale" signs:

1. Kate Chopin’s decision to make her heroine swim away to sea, at the end of her controversial novel The Awakening, has been met by raised eyebrows and emphatic shakes of the head. That it is symbolic of twenty-eight-year-old Edna Pontellier’s final, total emancipation from all that used to chain her, was never justification enough for such an act. This, and most—if not all—parts of the whole novel have elicited condemnation, even as it is a novel that seeks to tell woman’s story in an honest, uninhibited light.

2. For many, during the time of the novel’s publication—and even now, at this present time—the conclusion, and the actions that preceded it, were indecent, immoral and improper. This was, of course, to be expected, coming as it did from a world that, even as I write, has only just begun to recognize woman’s place as that of man’s equal. Even this last concept is problematic, for why must we always look at woman in relation to man?

3. Mademoiselle Reisz, as I see her, is Edna Pontellier’s doppelganger. She seems, at first, to be Edna’s complete opposite so that we might dismiss the connection that binds them as brought about by their differences. Upon closer inspection, however, it is easy to see that they are very much alike, only that one of them has not yet learned to see herself for what she is, has not yet awakened to her true nature. It seems that Mademoiselle Reisz—a musician, unmarried, completely devoid of any care what other people might say—is the person that Edna wants to be. The latter, though, lacks the recklessness, the utter disregard for societal opinion that the former has.

4. Taking all these other characters into consideration, perhaps Edna’s suicide would not be so difficult to understand. Every woman is the product and, in this case, the victim of all that surrounds her. Foremost among these are the confining walls that society has erected, and is still erecting around her. Edna Pontellier is simply the prototype of the repressed woman who, awakening at a certain point in her life to the fact that she is no longer content to be the way she is, or that the world that society has built for her has become too narrow for her to be able to breathe, decides to swim away to freedom, even if it be death which that freedom stands for.

Hurrah to girl-power!
(cough, cough)
Better get me a glass of water.

Lea, Her Life... On Stage

Lea Salonga is not a human being. Disguised as a thirty-something (though she barely looks twenty-five), very pretty lady with peaches-and-cream skin, she is, in reality, a self-winding machine that sputters out spectacularly beautiful music, at will. But then again, there is that word will, which gives away the fact that she is, after all, human. Contradictions arise when we come face to face with immense talent. While at her concert last night, this fact was not lost on me.

Watching Lea, My Life... on Stage at the PICC Plenary Hall proved to be an amazing experience for this Lea Salonga fan. Never mind that the concert began 30 minutes behind schedule and that I was mistaken in thinking that the Filipino audience would know, by now, not to carry a cellphone (the ones I saw last night were not switched off, or even on vibrate mode, at that, so that every now and then, a text message alert would be heard--so much for respect to the performers and to the rest of the audience) inside the theater, or that several American Idol wannabes would break into song at random times during the concert, perhaps with the evil plot to upstage Lea, herself, annoying the hell out of the rest of the audience. Never mind all those because whatever distraction they posed were erased by the sheer talent of Lea Salonga herself, whose pitch-perfect, perfectly beautiful voice tackled every song like it was the easiest, most natural thing to do. Some of the pieces had high levels of technical difficulty, but she sang them all effortlessly.

She was perfectly at home doing her thing, very confident and un-self-conscious, hitting both high notes and low notes with equal skill and flawlessness, lighting up the whole stage with her mere presence (she's very pretty on tv but she is beautiful in person-she positively glowed like a gem in the middle of the stage!) and singing her way to everybody's heart, in command althroughout. Suffice it to say that she had the whole audience at the palm of her hand. As for me, she was twirling me by her little finger.

I was delighted at the repertoire; as suggested by the title, she sang songs which depicted her life story, including, of course, songs from the musicals that she played major parts in, like Annie, Miss Saigon, Flower Drum Song, Les Miserables, and They're Playing Our Song and less-known (to the non-Theater-enthusiast, at least) musicals like A Chorus Line (they modified the lyrics to "Nothing" to make it more in accord with her struggles with Philippine Popstardom) and Oliver (she once again did the beautiful medley of "Where is Love" and "As Long as He Needs Me," which she also sang in her Broadway concert some years back). Her Disney songs (from Aladdin and Mulan) were part of the programme, as well. There were bits of Pop (Aga Muhlach had a cameo role, by the way), and as further proof that she can, indeed, sing all the phonebooks in the universe, her version of Menudo's "If You're Not Here" sounded like a Broadway classic. Now beat that. Magic tricks aren't just for Circus Magicians, after all.

I am raving and speaking in superlatives, and that I'm well aware of. This was my first time to watch Lea perform live, and I would have to say that it was worth millions more than the ticket price, worth all the heavy traffic we had to go through just to get to the venue on time. An experience like this is one that I would cherish, if only for the fact that it has enriched me in ways that I couldn't even begin to imagine. Music is priceless and artists like Lea Salonga continually remind us that, yes, life could get real ugly, at times, but hey, there will always be beauty in it, however stubbornly our cynicism would want to turn the whites into greys. After all, that is what art does--turns the world inside-out and upside-down, digs deep and soars high, just so the beauty in things could be shown for the saddest, most jaded being to see.

And as for me, I'm off to make a list of songs that would make up the repertoire for my own concert.

Which, of course, I will stage in my dreams, haha.

DARK HOURS in the Morning

Today, I woke up early, had a breakfast of tuyo, itlog na maalat and rice. Not to forget, of course, coffee. Then I went outside, sat on my favorite chair, sent a "good morning!" text message to my dad, mom and brothers, sent text messages (oh, this age of text and text and texts some more!) to my team reminding them that we had a shift tonight, skimmed the pages of a magazine, put it down, opened Conchitina Cruz's Dark Hours and read it for the next hour or so.
I've read the book a couple of times before and, like every piece of good writing, it doesn't matter how many times one has read it: going through its pages is always a cherished experience. Poetry differs from Fiction (aside from its form) in that the former would take you longer to chew on fewer lines than the latter. And yet the richness would be the same.
Anyway, I did not mean for this post to be a dissertation on Poetry vis a vis Fiction, so let me stop right here. Going back to Dark Hours, below are some of my favorite lines (the beauty of which will be more appreciated in context with the whole of the poem, of course, so go get a copy of the book, now!):

1) Inside the story, she sees nothing but darkness. She is ungrateful for the luxury of despair. (from "Geography Lesson")

2) ...and the room is flooded with the radiance of the moment, a man and a woman in the middle of a sweet misunderstanding. (from "Smile")

3) on a typewriter the stammering pulse lone comfort of the wrist the alphabet falling

like seeds the white page blooming (from "I must say this about the city")

4) Across the city, a man turns from a corner to his street. There are too many keys in his hand and not enough doors to open. (from "Now and at the hour")

5) What is a shadow? It is the self without a face or a name, all outline and no feature, the self on the verge of being erased. It is the incidental child of matter and light. Look how it spreads itself on the ground, weary but weightless, unable to leave a trace.

...Is it possible for this not to be a story of disappearance? (from "Disappear")

6) If I keep still enough inside this shadow, it is as if I'm not here. If I keep still enough, there is no proof you are not here with me. (from "Inside the Dark")

*Lines #1-6 all taken from Dark Hours by Conchitina Cruz.

from James Merrill's "Lost in Translation"

And after rain
A deep reverberation fills with stars.

Lost, is it, buried? One more missing piece?

But nothing's lost. Or else: all is translation
And every bit of us is lost in it
(Or found—I wander through the ruin of S
Now and then, wondering at the peacefulness)
And in that loss a self-effacing tree,
Color of context, imperceptibly
Rustling with its angel, turns the waste
To shade and fiber, milk and memory.

Seeing

A stranger once said there's a ghost in the house.

But it's a benign spirit, she added, hastily, seeing the fear cross my face. He watches over you, a companion, you know.

I did not know.

Until I was told. Telling is frightening; knowing even more so. (He was told in jest, put up a tent and I'll buy you a crystal ball. Read them the future while I sell my wares outside.)

I was scared to know, but still, I asked.
How am I?

He told me what he saw.

And none of them were ghosts.

*painting: Gustav Klimt's FARM GARDEN

Writer's Block Thought #2:

The winds have come.
What have they brought with them aside from the rain?

When I was young, I remember speculating about whether the rain has feelings or not. How silly, to think that something inanimate could have emotions. But I remember, as well, a poem I wrote in college, wherein the speaker was a chair.

Writer's block thought #1:

It's been nothing but work, work, work these past few weeks.

I could perfectly empathize with the Energizer bunny--I feel like one from the moment I step into the office building--as if some invisible hand turns on the switch--to the time I get out, batteries drained from all the mechanized movement.