Town Hall

I know, I know.

I was bitching about work yesterday. So, waht was a girl to do? She went to the office, tried her best to smile (there were a lot of people to smile at and a lot to smile about, anyway) and did her job as best she could.

And what did she get?!

She got smiled at, in return; got recognized for doing her job as best she could.

Okay, okay, let's cut this speaking-in-the-third-person thing.

This has got to be my best Town Hall ever. Listening to my achievements being enumerated, hearing my name called, feeling the warmth in the applause and loud cheers--they made me feel ashamed for the ranting I did just several hours before.

Indeed, to quote Alanis, "life has a funny way of helping you out when you think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up in your face..."

I really should smile some more.

Tired, sleepy, etc.

Truth is, I've failed, miserably, in my resolve to go back to reading. I've several books which I've started flipping through but never really gotten to read.

tsk.

***

Greenbelt 5, yesterday. It was like being in a different country. Everything was luxurious and beautiful and, well, cold, and... sad.

***

Lunch at Chili's. Dress code: PINK.

Darn it, I forgot to take pictures of the food. I guess I got overwhelmed by the colors and smells of the food and the sheer size of their servings. Oh, but the Philly cheese steak sandwich was damn good!

There goes my diet. I can feel my arms ballooning again.
Oh, well.

***

I. am. so. sleepy.
This job is killing me. I've done nothing but work, work, work lately.
I really think I'm gonna grow old early.

***

I can hardly wait for Christmas.

***

G'night.
Zzzz...

cartoon from here.

English is still my favorite subject.

I recently attended a week-long training on Communications Coaching and, yup, I had a rock n' rollin' heck of a fabulous time!

Thanks to our Language trainer, Marco Harder (of Purple Chickens), for curing me of my ADD.

I absolutely loved every minute of it (especially the "structured learning activities" a.k.a. "games"). I tell you, we can talk and argue about Syntax and Semantics for hours on end and I'll be game until you drop!

Plus, this training has made me realize now, more than ever, what a wonderful thing the schwa is. It could change the whole way one looks at words and Language. lol!

Oh, but prepositions...

*sigh*

I'm so thankful to have friends I can discuss tense and subject-verb agreement with.
:)

Yesterday afternoon, I watched "Breakfast at Tiffany's," where Audrey Hepburn is Givenchy-clad, heart-breakingly lovely and impossibly sad and naive Holly Golightly, Truman Capote's eccentric heroine struggling to come to terms with herself. Henry Mancini's music was wistfully (I think I'm going through an "adverb phase") beautiful. The ending deviates from the book, but we wouldn't have had it any other way in this romantic, feel-good movie.

I do remember shedding more than a few tears when I read the book, though.

*************************************************************************************


A few hours ago, I stared, bewildered, at the screen as the credits of Charlie Kaufman's and Spike Jonze's "Adaptation" rolled (or did they blink? I have to say I don't remember). I was, like, "what the hell was that?" Kaufman's movies, I have observed, have that effect on me: bewilderment comes first, then, an enlightenment of sorts, where I go "ah, so that was what it was." In this case, I mulled over the movie for a good long stretch of minutes, my mind turning, doing cartwheels, then settling.

In "Adaptation," Kaufman goes into meta-fiction mode, depicting the dilemma most writers (screenwriters, specifically) go through in their craft.

I was pretty settled into the movie and then, boom! I was jolted into puzzlement and wonder when, from a sad writer from The New Yorker, Susan Orlean suddenly becomes a drug-addicted, severely depressed woman with tendencies for murder. Then there's death all over the place, with John Laroche dying from a crocodile attack (how dreadfully cliche, but that was exactly the point).

To think that it was all orchids and sadness and a writer's anxieties over his balding head, his pot-belly and his desperation resulting from digging his heels at the kind of screenplay he wanted to write when the film began. The turning point came when Kaufman attended a seminar on screenplay writing, where he got yelled at for even suggesting that there wasn't enough drama in the world (or in the book he was trying to translate into film, for that matter).

Etc, etc.

Incidentally, I read a review where the writer criticized the film for going "haywire" after the first half. I think he didn't get the point Kaufman was trying to make. Isn't that sad?

Like the rest of the Kaufman movies I've seen, needless to say, "Adaptation" was brilliant (this adjective always comes to mind when I hear the name Charlie Kaufman). He is just sheer genius and talent. His movies make me think (understatement here).

And now I'm just plain exhausted.

Time to stop this nonsense, hit the mattress and curl up into a dreamless slumber.

Provided I stop thinking about Kaufman's madness, that is.

Come, laugh with me

My thanks to the great Wowoo for these rockin' pics...











Have a good one!
;p

On Being John Malkovich

I put my hands down to writer Charlie Kaufman and director Spike Jonze for creating this genius of a film. The premise is brilliant and demented; the treatment utterly surreal yet plausible--except for the ending, which turned me off. But, hey, that's just me.

The film is a reflection (albeit a crazy one) on, among other things, the idea of the self, churning out a number of philosophical and metaphysical questions.

First, what happens when one person enters the mind of another through a portal of some sort? In the film, an eccentric puppeteer named Craig Schwartz discovers a (literal) door by which to enter actor John Malkovich's brain, after which, occurrences branch out that ultimately lead to chaotic consequences (but what else could come out of it?).

Second, in this kind of "possession," whose is the mind that's working? And, if this entry were indeed possible, what effect will it have both to the intruder and the one being entered? Initially, the one able to enter Malkovich's mind can only stay there for 15 minutes, but through his talents as a puppeteer, Craig finds a way to stay for an indefinite period of time, possibly, even, forever, as his skills enable him to take control of Malkovich's brain the way he would control one of his dolls. Incidentally, giving Craig his profession was a stroke of sheer genius. The entire movie is held together by his "puppeteering," becoming the perfect foil and metaphor to build the story around. Once he was able to penetrate and take control of Malkovich's mind--and, consequently, to manipulate and pull the strings on Malkovich's life--he gets the chance to give the greatest performances of his life, a chance not accessible to him when he was just, well, himself.

Next, if you could enter your own mind, what will you see? When Malkovich went inside his own brain, he saw only himself. The world was full of John Malkovich--everything was John Malkovich. I had to wonder, then, was this a unique outcome, in the sense that, if everyone else entered their own minds, will they also see themselves and themselves alone, or something altogether different? What will it be like, to be your own voyeur?

The premise is extremely thought-provoking. I'm still thinking about the movie and reeling from its "newness," hours after I've seen it. Elements of the strange abound here. The plot is dizzying; the implications endless and exhausting to enumerate.

Let me ask one other question, though: If it were possible, at all, to go inside someone else's mind--or head, for that matter--would we want it?

In the early part of the film, Craig says to Elijah, the chimp, "consciousness is a terrible thing." To be in someone else's mind is to double the consciousness.

Would we want to replicate the ugliness he spoke of?

I know it's a little late to be writing about "Sex and the City - The Movie", but considering that I only watched it now, then it would make sense to write about it now. Pardon my clumsy attempts at logic--I hated my Logic class (but loved my Ancient Philosophy and Political Philosophy classes). Oops, there goes whatever was left of the logic.

Anyway.

The movie is a virtual fashion show, what with all the fabulous clothes the girls were wearing and the constant designer and brand name-dropping going on. Plus, the setting, of course, is glamorous New York.

Watching this, the average twenty-to-thirty-something Filipina trying desperately to balance herself on a tightrope of a low-paying corporate job, numerous bills, daily expenses, meager savings, and sporadic, irresistible urges to shop, realizes that she can not afford to be--and will never become-- a Carrie Bradshaw (not that we want to, anyway).

How many of us actually have rich, glamorous friends to whisk us off to Mexico whenever we find ourselves beset with depression? And I'm betting my bottom dollar (or, my limited edition UP centennial hundred peso bill, that is) that only a miniscule percentage of women will ever own a genuine (there are just too many imitations out there) Louis Vuitton in their lifetime. Don't we wish we also had a rich friend who'd give us an LV bag for Christmas?

This, I think, is where the movie fails.

It is a fairy tale. And aren't we a little too old for those?

An overdose of fairy tales can be unhealthy for kids. (Here, someone clears her throat--me. I had a hard time outgrowing Fantasy Land.) For grown-ups, well, I don't know. I mean, yeah, it's good to keep that child in us, because the process of growing old can be too much for adults--perhaps children will be a lot better at it, don't you think? But the movie is just way too much of an overkill.

It's lush with goodies and eye-candy; as if a woman's reason for living is finding the next fabulous dress and pair of Manolo Blahniks she's supposed to trot around in. Yes, we women are suckers for clothes and shoes--that cannot be denied--but there is such a thing as "too much."

To give credit, there are attempts at plot and realism (huh?), as the movie is not without little touch-ins on girl power statements, marriage problems, women whining about, well, almost everything, and, um, wait. What else did I miss?

Why is it that I can't seem to remember anything more? Blame it on short-term memory loss; perhaps I didn't pay enough attention?

My fault, then.

Or maybe not?

And, oh, I do remember how I snorted when Carrie Bradshaw opens her apartment's new walk-in closet (a huge one, built for her by Big), a wave of happiness washing over her, the moment bringing with it the certainty that their relationship is destined for happy-ever-after.

Funny how a walk-in closet can bring visions of, um, forever.

Lovin' Aaradhna

Thanks to my friend, Nico, for introducing me to this wonderful singer from New Zealand. Check out her album (released in February of this year) "Sweet Soul Music." Here, she puts her own spin on soul classics like "Natural Woman" by Aretha Franklin, "I Want You back" by the Jackson 5, "Let's Stay Together" by Al Green, "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" by The Temptations, "Betcha By Golly Wow" by the Stylistics and, one of my favorites, "Didn’t I Blow Your Mind" by The Delfonics.

You probably get the idea of what you're getting into, by now.

The whole album kicks butt so if you're interested, click here for the track listing.



video from youtube

happy birthday

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

My cluttered life

I have often been teased about my "powers of organization" (please, please make sure to note the sarcasm here).

I mean, I do try my hardest to give my life some semblance of neatness and, at times, I do succeed; its in the consistency part that I fail.

A lot of people boast of being "OC" when it comes to their stuff, and, on hindsight, the farthest I've come to describing myself as such is in telling people that I am really, really fussy when it comes to brushing my teeth. If I had the chance to brush my teeth every hour, I would (I know, bad, bad).

I think the term "OC" gets abused most of the time, though; perhaps we are not aware that this is actually a chronic anxiety disorder that is way worse than we think and is very much deserving of psychiatric treatment, up to and including psychosurgery? Read more here.

Moving on, I thought I'd let you take a peek into my slipshod life...

I am in dire need of baskets and organizers. These could pass for stuff in a yard sale (but even items in yard sales are arranged in baskets and boxes, right?).


These are the clothes that I need to put away (and neatly, too).

Even the books are in disarray!


At first glance, the closet looks kinda okay, but the hill of bags below is a completely different story.


My mom will kill me if she saw what state of chaos my stuff are in.
So, my goal is: by the end of this day, I should already have fixed this mess.
But that is something I really should have done days and days ago.

Casual Thursday

This is Frenchie.

Here, a random photo of the proverbial santan peeking out of a cream-washed gate, taken on my way out:

This is my current favorite fruit drink--Almon Marina's Peach-Mango shake. Try it, try it!

This is what I ordered, along with the shake--Lasagna with bread (the best I've tasted, so far).

This is a venti-sized Coffee Jelly, which is my favorite Starbucks frappucino.

And this, is me, having a very lazy, very casual thursday. I very seldom have days like this, and that explains the fuss.

Have a great weekend!

John Lennon: Libra

Yes, I was born 10 years after the Beatles disbanded, and I was but a 9-month-old baby when John Lennon was shot, but like so many people of various ages, the Beatles' music is an important part of my life.

I remember being a little kid and waking up in the mornings to my Dad listening to Beatles songs on his stereo. I would go about my way, subconsciously absorbing the music and, to this day, my familiarity with them could be likened to that of someone my dad's age. (Well, maybe not--my dad might protest. Daddy does vocals and plays the keyboards for a band and the Beatles' songs are usually part of their repertoire; whenever the audience requests for "Imagine," he takes over the mic, as the song is perfect for his baritone.)

I grew up with the Beatles' music, but it was only when I got older that I learned to identify the difference in the songs written by McCartney to those penned by today's birthday boy. John Lennon's songs were more complicated, sadder, more emotionally raw.



A lot of us have already joined him in imagining the world he wrote about in "Imagine." Will the world "live as one" now?

We'd probably need more people to get acquainted with the song for it to even get close to becoming a reality. Or, perhaps, this is nothing, really, but a dream, painted by people like John Lennon, people like us.

Happy birthday, my darling Kim!

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

-Langston Hughes-

Is he or isn't he?

It seems that a fairly significant number of people perceive Obama's candidacy to be a question of whether or not he is "black enough" to represent the USA's black community.

On account of the fact that one particular blog post of his has generated some colorful (pun not intended) reactions, a former teacher of mine suggested that I google the phrase "Obama not black enough" to see just how out-of-bounds this "problem" has become.

So, I typed in the phrase and had to scratch my head at what I saw (or read). Clearly, far more people than necessary seem to be concerned about the "authenticity" of Obama's "blackness." Many are questioning this and have made it the weapon with which to attack both his credibility and his candidacy.

I was browsing through newyorker.com last night and found a consequential article on Obama. This particular portion caught my attention:

"The election of Obama—a man of mixed ethnicity, at once comfortable in the world and utterly representative of twenty-first-century America—would, at a stroke, reverse our country’s image abroad and refresh its spirit at home. His ascendance to the Presidency would be a symbolic culmination of the civil- and voting-rights acts of the nineteen-sixties and the century-long struggles for equality that preceded them. It could not help but say something encouraging, even exhilarating, about the country, about its dedication to tolerance and inclusiveness, about its fidelity, after all, to the values it proclaims in its textbooks."

The question, I believe, is not whether Obama is representative enough of America's black community (and its rich history) for him to deserve the country's votes; this should not be the measure of his character--as a person and as a leader--and his capability to be president. As in any election, a candidate's experience in command and reform, the good intention behind every well-laid plan and strategy for his country's progress and welfare--these should be the yardstick with which competence should be gauged.

And the beauty of his being "a man of mixed ethnicity" is that Obama does not merely stand for the African-Americans, but the whole diversity of cultures making up "twenty-first century America," as well.

That his rise to the ranks stands for man's ideology of true freedom and equality is an event that is just as important.



******
On Barack Obama and James Baldwin:
Click here to read.

Repeat Performance

Yesterday, October 4th, we represented HSBC GSC Manila 1 in the All-Star Games for M1 and M2. We had to re-block (we missed you, Celine, LJ and Honey!) and make some adjustments, but it came out just as good.

Here are some pictures and, of course, the video (from Daryl's Youtube account).

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Let's help spread the word. We just might save a life.
graphic from pinkforoctober.org.

postscript on an altogether different topic: I edited the post below. I felt that it needed a little touch-up. Thanks to my editor for pointing out the slips.

Enjoy!

Lea on Marie Claire

I think Lea Salonga looks fabulous here.



She looks different, sexy and more mature (though she still doesn't look her age--maybe, 27-ish?).

This magazine cover is further proof that, at will, Lea Salonga could be any of the thirty-seven women in her. The fact that even the camera lens can translate this versatility into the printed page is further validation of her powerful, well-evolved thespian talents.

I am not a big fan of the mag, though, so I didn't buy a copy even with her on the cover. Looking at it in its plastic covering sufficed.

Speaking of mags, I just bought my monthly dose of Preview--the cover of which, on the other hand, poses the glaring fact that the Preview team has failed to make Sarah Geronimo look like she was cozy at being the prestigious magazine's front-liner; not even the Burberry coat they made her wear sealed the deal.



I still love Preview, though. I'm just not crazy about the cover for their October issue. Ho-hum.

Lit geek update #8: Found in Book Sale, PAUL AUSTER for P40!

The opening paragraph goes:

"These are the last things, she wrote. One by one they disappear and never come back. I can tell you of the ones I have seen, of the ones that are no more, but I doubt there will be time. It is all happening too fast now, and I cannot keep up." -Auster, p.1-

I love it!

Whenever I see a Paul Auster book, I always think of other books he's written that are in my possession, and of the fact that never--not once--did I fail to like his writing.

The New York Trilogy marked my initiation into Paul Auster fandom. I loved that book to death. I've since read The Invention of Solitude, Oracle Night and The Book of Illusions. The last one, perhaps, is my favorite, next to The New York Trilogy.

One of Auster's major story telling strengths is that his writing is always a perfect patchwork of the abstract and the concrete, balancing each other out and at the same time endowing the structure of each to fuse into a harmonic whole. There is a melancholic fluidity to his prose that makes the forms and the objects in his stories float to life into the reader's world.

I can't wait to get started with this latest find. The first lines look very promising.

Are you a Paul Auster fan?

W.

Oliver Stone recently finished a movie about George W. Bush, which is set for release this coming October 17th.

Bush is played by Josh Brolin, who, last year, took on the role of Llewelyn Moss in the critically acclaimed film "No Country for Old Men." Moss is the guy who finds two suitcases filled with cash, then gets endlessly pursued (and, eventually, gets killed) by the deeply disturbed, coin-flipping Anton Chigurh (brilliantly played by Javier Bardem). I absolutely loved that movie.

Let's see what Stone (and Brolin) has to show in "W." (do I add a period here?)

*BTW, Josh Brolin is:
-Diane Lane's husband
-Barbra Streisand's stepson

Dear Sir

I thought of posting the comment I wrote on Dr. Butch Dalisay's September 29 blog post, since I haven't really written anything "substantial" recently. At times, all we need is to come across an intelligent, well-written piece to get the wheels in our minds to turn (I could hear the rust of the iron wheels in my mind as they actually began creaking as I read "Barrack's America").


Hi, Sir. I remember my English 42 class well, even though it's been 10 years since I had it (you were my professor, and I was mighty proud to be in your class). I can still hear your booming voice and the distinctly "American" way you'd pronounce my supposedly French name the few times I was actually brave enough to speak in class; smell the old wood of which the chairs were made; picture the green of the trees visible from my seat by the window.

So much for waxing nostalgic. Truth is, I brag about having been your student once to anyone who's actually interested, and I was delighted to read this post, what with the mention of the titles of the stories and poems we once discussed in class.

I am presently working for an American company, my job description being in no way connected to Literature, I am sad to say. The interesting part, however, is that my having read American authors has helped me a lot in understanding the sensibilities of the Americans I work and regularly interact with. Funny how the demystification of a seemingly complex culture could come about so easily when one has been to "that place," if only it be through the workings of the written word. Watching the American-Iraq war would always brings to my mind scenes from Tim O' Brien's THE THINGS THEY CARRIED. "The Lottery" continually reminds me that America is not at all the glamourous world that Hollywood paints it to be (not all of it, that is).

I, too, am rooting for Obama. And I know that now, more than ever, he has a chance at victory, what with the evolution that America has undergone, the milestones its people has crossed in terms of looking deeper than skin-deep, since that historic day Rosa Parks refused to budge from her seat in the bus, since the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., since Leroi Jones changed his name to Imamu Amiri Baraka (so close to Obama's name, I must say).

I do not pretend to be an expert on American culture, or any foreign culture, for that matter--far, far from it. And so I am counting on the books on my shelf waiting to be read to educate me on the text that is the world--the same teachers I counted on when I was a student in my Literature classes.


*Pardon the grammatical errors and mistakes in punctuation. I thought of posting the comment here exactly as it was. Imagine my horror when I spotted the slips after it was published. Oh, the pressure of having the audacity to write comments on established writers'--and English professors'--blogs!