Sleeplessness.
Desire(s) translated into restlessness. Or, that which is untranslated into the fulfillment of said desire(s).

For time to run faster so that the next task can be worked at and accomplished; for the object of one's affection (a dress? a goal? a woman? a man?) to be within one's sight; for time to unravel, unravel because time spent in sleep is--or seems to be--stationary, and lack of movement is desire fulfilled.

Whereas our nature requires movement. How contradictory, this raison d'etre.

Sleeplessness. Desire unfulfilled. Movement.

Toss, turn.

Racing to the 24th

I did my Christmas shopping quite late this year. Compared to last year, I did not spend as much time scouring shops for gifts for family and friends; mainly, I guess, because I already knew what to get for each.

Traffic was a headache today. I mean, it's usually heavy Fridays, but the jams I found myself in earlier this evening were horrendous. Lines in front of ATMs were eyesore-long. The mall I went to was thronged by on-the-go shoppers.

Looks like most of us were--and still are--caught in the holiday rush.

How's your Christmas rush going?

You know how it is

...when the hours and the days drift by like never-ending seas of curtains and you barely have a moment to blink and realize that they are actually unfolding before your eyes because the only thing you know is that you're there, watching, and not noticing that the curtains are not only moving but are really changing color, too?

The past several days have been like that. As usual, there's comfort in cliches, so, yes, the days have flown so swiftly by with the breeze, and the chore of having to step back and retrace one's whereabouts from the starting point of choice, up to the mark one has drawn between the step before the finish line and the actual finish line, seems a needless one, one might say, because something always seems to get lost in the retelling.

Or is something gained, instead?


I am going home soon--in less than two days, as a matter of fact. Probably explains all the breeziness.

Imogen Heap: "Ellipse"

Released: 2009
My favorite tracks: "Half Life", "Between Sheets", "First Train Out", and "Bad Body Double"

Imogen Heap turns 32 today.

But that is not the subject of this post; though this doesn't mean that the statement above isn't true.

Okay, okay, start over.

Imogen Heap turns 32 today.

...the sweeping insensitivity of this still-life.

Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth.
Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs.
Speak no feeling, no I don't believe you.
You don't care a bit. You don't care a bit.

-Imogen Heap, "Hide and Seek"-

*Watch the video here.

My favorite tracks: "Hide and Seek", "Headlock", "Goodnight and Go", "Have You Got it in You?", "Loose Ends", and "The Moment I Said It".

And if I could sing myself a merry little tune

...I'd be fine.

It was the saddest thing. As I and a friend were walking in the mall just last week, my mind's eye captured the sights and sounds of the holiday cheer--the glitter, the carols, the laughter, the reds, the yellows, the greens--and I thought, all these will be gone before we know it. I looked around and saw lights disappearing into the air, saw the dying smiles on folks' faces.

I shook myself out of it.

Brr. It's been awfully cold, lately.

Precious

"Some folks has a lot of things around them that shines for other peoples. I think that maybe some of them was in tunnels. And in that tunnel, the only light they had, was inside of them. And then long after they escape that tunnel, they still be shining for everybody else." -Clareece 'Precious' Jones-

Some funny shorts from an e-mail my Ninang sent me:

FIGHT
A couple drove down a country road for several miles, not saying a word. An earlier discussion had led to an argument and neither of them wanted to concede their position.

As they passed a barnyard of mules, goats, and pigs,the husband asked sarcastically, 'Relatives of yours?'

'Yep,' the wife replied, 'in-laws.'
***
WORDS
A husband read an article to his wife about how many words women use a day....

30,000 to a man's 15,000.

The wife replied, 'The reason has to be because we have to repeat everything to men...

The husband then turned to his wife and asked, 'What?'

***
CREATION
A man said to his wife one day, "I don't know how you can be so stupid and so beautiful all at the same time."

The wife responded, "Allow me to explain.God made me beautiful so you would be attracted to me;God made me stupid so I would be attracted to you !"

Heehee

When you start reading "sink in" as "skin it"

...then you know something's wrong.

You could be: a) sick; b) extremely sleepy; or c) just plain old fatigued. One could probably add a dozen or so more reasons to the already mentioned, maybe I'm just too lazy (or too sick) to put my brain cells into action.

Either way, I guess it's time to run outside and get some fresh air.

Or, hit the sack and doze off, and this, barely an hour after waking up.

*this post was spurred by my attempt to reread Luis Katigbak's creative nonfiction collection The King of Nothing To Do. "Sink in" appears on the first essay in the book.
=)

Let me shout, too.

In the same way that I put off writing about typhoon Ondoy (I eventually did, I couldn't help it), I have also tried to put aside saying anything about the Maguindanao massacre. And this, for reasons difficult to put a finger on; though I will definitely make an attempt to make sense of it in this post.

I did try, you see. Tried to be my usual, clammed-up, indifferent self--a side of me which only the people closest to me understand, or tolerate--who would much rather stay in one corner and watch while everybody else scrambles for something. It's a sorry state to be in, most people would say. But it does have its advantages, which might seem selfish, but to those who understand the human psyche and its workings, and how the clamming up is a result of some trauma or another, it would make sense.

But, moving on, I could only stay quiet for so long. Not that it matters if I could, in any way, influence those reading this blog--which is not to say that I fancy this blog to have a host of readers because I am fully aware that it doesn't; but if I could provide some faint glimmer of rhetoric to you, dear reader reading this now, then I would be content. And as for the self that is trying to make sense of this whole thing, let it be spelled out that this is for you, so that you could gather whatever pieces of it you may and, in the process, perhaps emerge the least bit enlightened, for whatever it may be worth.

I realize that this may be the only time that I get to vent about it, so now is definitely not the time to hold back. Excuse the lack of understatement. It is not called for, at this time, nor will it be until the perpetrators pay—and pay what they owe—for the deed they have done.

So, the massacre. Massacre. The word itself is chilling, and for it to be actualized is nothing short of horrifying. Horror should be reserved for the movies, not real life. That this atrocity even happened is stupefying.

What evil, allegorical worm could be bad enough as to plant itself in someone’s mind, which must be narrow enough, small enough for the worm to be incubated and for it to grow to a size unwarranted by such a brain, so that it would, at some point in time, break loose into an act so violent, so full of hate, so blood-curdling?

I did feel my blood acerbate the first time I saw it in the news. How dare these people think that they could kill and violate and tamper with life and get away with it, too? It’s the proverbial glutton wanting to have his cake and eat it. Or, the severely misguided charlatan who was given a hand and now wants to take the whole arm.

It is an assault to the Filipino, this barbarity; a crime against humanity and its animus.

I am fuming as I type this. One can only shake one’s head and wait for what happens next. And the Filipino—even this Filipino--will wait. Woe to him who underestimates our capacity to think, and feel.

At the end of the day, though, is the question of what will happen next: so we have expressed outrage at what happened; so we have talked about it, discussed the details in detail, shaken our heads at the unreality of it all; so some of us, especially those in positions of power, have vowed--in front of millions, in front of the press, making our words seep through the television screens and the airwaves--to follow this affront through and ensure that justice sees daylight.

The question, then, is: where does this all end?

Here is a prayer that the archives get to record the event to its last; and may it be written in the last page:

RESOLUTION: JUSTICE.

Under the Blanket

I'm down with a cold. Again. I only get sick once a year, so coming down with this very bad cold barely a month after I recovered from the previous one--which was worse, I must say--is a little disconcerting. Or, baffling, at the most.

I think I'd be able to come up with a host of possible reasons, though, namely, that:

a) the past week's flurry of activities finally got to my immune system;
b) I am vitamin C-deficient;
c) I'm sleep-deprived;
d) it's my body telling me to take more rest;
e) the December breeze--aka "the herald of depression and all things numbing"--is whipping us, folks of the warm land; or
e) I'm simply getting old.

The last one makes the most sense. LOL.

Or not.

???

Maybe it's all of the above.

Bottom line: being sick sucks big-time!
Ugh.

Let's Poem!

Today, in the office, a co-worker approached me and asked if I could lend him a book of poems. Now, I work in a bank and the odds of people who earn a living as "financial consultants" going to each other for literature-related (and i'm not referring to the Shopaholic series) matters are a hundred to one.

Anyway, so I asked him what kind it was he wanted and he asked if I had a Tennyson book. "Oh, so you like the Romantic poets?" He said he didn't think Tennyson was at all romantic and so I had to give a brief speech on how I was referring to the era and not the adjective. It warmed my heart, though, to see this young man so interested in poetry. I told him I didn't own any Tennyson but that I could lend him a Rilke volume; gave some unsolicited advice (it was probably the English Major in me), too, that he ought to try reading Filipino poetry in English. He said he just might and thanked me profusely for my willingness to lend him my Rilke.

As he was turning away, I couldn't resist asking, "J--, do you read Dan Brown?"

He said, "nope, and don't have plans to."

I gave him a grin and a nod of approval.
Good boy.

Now let me remember to bring him that Rilke volume.

Thanksgiving in Manila

So there was the party that S-- and I lost a lot of sleep on (though the sleep I lost was nothing compared to S's), that turned out just the way we had all planned it to...








where an engagement was announced and cheered on


where mentors were thanked and put on the spot






where there was fun



and fun

and there, too, was a toast...


And this is why I love working where I work.
=)

Pandora

And so you stand there, turning the box in your hand, looking for cracks where you may peep through, examining the angles for irregularities, squinting at invisible lines, lines you know might not be there or might be, thinking, thinking, should you pull the string and risk letting what's inside get out, or should you leave it where you found it, do you remember the exact spot it was sitting on? You're thinking, maybe you're not supposed to be holding it, in the first place, maybe it was meant to just be there, where it was when you saw it, but what if it meant for you to find it, yet how could you be certain that it meant for you to find it?

But, oh, what nice, pleasant possibilities lie inside its four corners, what beauty, what hope? And you, who've been looking for beauty, for hope, how tempting to unwrap the beauty, the hope.

And, oh yeah, watch this, too

It's kind of a "guy movie" but I liked it. I can be guy, too, I realize.
blech
=)

Just a tiny thought

I can't believe it's raining and raining hard. It's been extremely dry, lately Thank goodness the December breeze is lending us its presence during certain parts of the day, somehow. If not, the heat would be unbearable.

My blah list for the week:

1. Strings and strings of girls (and the odd handfuls of boys, or "guys" if you must) are trooping to the movies for that "New Moon" thing. Ugh. I've long since given up trying to even get myself into any discussions--or debates, as they most often turn out to be when I dig in my heels and sharpen my claws to pounce on the just as stubborn opponent who is convinced that the Twilight "saga" (arrggh) is the end-all and be-all of literature and filmdom--about this fad. It's a waste of time, so let the girls scream and swoon and fight over who's hotter, the vampire, or the wolf... am I getting it right? Don't even remember those guys' names. I know the girl's name is Bella, though. Haha. I'm such a Twilight dork.

2. As for me, I am currently obsessed with Joel M. Toledo's The Long Lost Startle.

3. Well, Facebook's Cafe World would rival the attention I give the above-mentioned book, though. This game is so addictive, it's made me forget all the other FB apps I've been previously hooked on.

4. As if things couldn't get any shallower, I've also been indulging in back issues of Instyle.

This post is a whole lot of nonsense. Didn't even reach to 5.

Oh, and yeah, 5) watched "Paranormal Activity" last night. Spooked me out, it did. For once, I was thankful to be in the night shift. At least I didn't have to worry about sleeping--or not getting any sleep--in the dark.

Okay, now I remember: the vampire's Edward and Jacob's the other guy. Oh, wait, is it Jacob, or Jakob?

Here, Now.

The poem indeed is the long lost startle. The moment has passed, it is again lost, but having been lived, it might be imagined, recuperated. And so it is there again, in the poem, for through language a path to it has been found; it is held now and here in the poem's all too human hands--too human, finite, mortal, so that in one or the other reader, it may also be nowhere.

So, Dr. Gemino Abad writes in his introduction to Joel M. Toledo's second book of poetry, The Long Lost Startle. I serendipitously found this book while waiting in a bookstore for a colleague. We were to buy art materials. The wait led me to find poetry. Poetry, which, I realized, I have been gravitating towards more than fiction, lately. The cache of good poetry proves small these days (I mean, what percentage does it represent in this pop-lit-and-bestseller-that-sells-because-it -is-more-sensational-than-literary-dominated culture?), so that discovering a good book of poems is actually tantamount to unearthing a treasure.

Now you want to believe again, as if you've lost/ how it is to find things. (from "What is Required")

Hence, Joel Toledo and his Long Lost Startle. Following suit his Chiaroscuro, it explores the world as it is in the here and the now, where the "here" takes up the smallest fraction of what here means for most of us, and the "now" is the actual second you are in now. The result is, indeed, the startle that we have long since forgotten, that moment of awe which most of us had lost along the way, having gotten entangled in the speed of our own lives, so that there is no more moment to pause, catch our breaths, and just look and see what's before our eyes, and whatever newness there is that we might find, whatever wonder there might be for us to experience.

The clock declaring its singular point, the hour,/ the now again it is midnight, full minute of it,/ fulfilled and finishing./ ("The Long Lost Startle")

With the moment not even seen, the discovering would be totally out of the equation. And so much, too much, would have been lost.

/And, finding nothing to fear, you lean back into/ the silence that comes next: the lack of clock, the rest./ (The Long Lost Startle")

This part of my world has been so painfully neglected. Sorry, dear blog. I've been bad to you.

Some updates are due, then.

...

...

But my, oh, my, I'm drawing a blank. Or, ellipses.

Tsk, tsk, tsk. What's up with that?

Nerina, Where've you been all this time?

Lit Geek update # 22: recently read books

A Pale View of Hills (Kazuo Ishiguro):
This is a novel that is very quiet on the surface but is extremely disturbing, underneath. Most everything is undertow. It left me thoughtful, piecing things together, dipping my hand in the water and feeling the current draw me in. Masterfully understated. Definitely another Ishiguro coup de maitre.


Bel Canto (Ann Patchett):
The ending was another "The French Lieutenant's Woman" moment for me. I was completely disillusioned by the epilogue, hence, I went back to the paragraphs prior so that the ending that stayed with me was the one that came before the actual one. We always have a choice; and I chose how the story would end for me. Otherwise, I found the novel beautifully written. Another testament to music's power of transcending all the ugliness in the world.

My 4th Almodovar:

My 3rd Almodovar:

What I ate and did not

Now, let's see.

Thursday, in the office, I had a plateful of baked macaroni. Which i finished, by the way. It was M--'s birthday, too, and I was treated to lunch at Cibo, where I had yummy Pasta Veneziana with wheat bread. In the evening, I had cheesecake with my double tall mocha latte.

Friday morning, I looked in the mirror and groaned. My shoulders were ballooning again--they're always the first to rise up to the occasion once the calories start loading in.

Saturday morning, I started dieting: zero to minimal rice and carbs, protein and veggies only, and the occasional finger food (translate: chips).

Today is Tuesday and, so far, I have been successful.

My friend, S--, told me helpfully, "if that's what makes you happy, dear, then go for it."

Hee.

The 7 Von Trapp Children...

...all grown up.


I got this from an e-mail my dad sent me. There was a warm, fuzzy feeling in my heart when I saw these pictures. I must've seen "The Sound of Music" a hundred times.

Well, okay, maybe less.

Red yellow honey, sassafras and moonshine...

I've been raving about Laura Nyro for close to a week now.

The only sad thing was that none of the people I've asked if they knew her knew her. A few of them knew Joni Mitchell, and even fewer, Janis Joplin, but none of them knew Laura Nyro. Such a shame because she was a really talented musician. Though I've probably just been asking the wrong demographic (been asking people my age--Nyro was a 70's gal). Plus, she had never been popular as a performer, mainly because she'd always shunned the limelight (yup, a female version of JD Salinger we got here). The limelight had always tried to chase her, though, because she was songwriter to a lot of hits by other artists like The 5th Dimension, Peter, Paul and Mary, Carole King, etc. She had reportedly been chased by talk show writers/researchers to be a guest on their shows but had repeatedly turned them down.

I am so loving her songs, mostly the ones she had penned in her early years as a songwriter, songs like "Stoned Soul Picnic" (my absolute favorite, hands down!), "Timer", "Eli's Coming", "And When I Die", "Sweet Blindness", "The Bells", and "Blowing Away", among others. Her voice has got lots of power and soul and her music is a hybrid of jazz, rhythm and blues, rock, and pop (of the 70's, that is).

Her elusiveness (both then and now) has completely spiced up how I see her. Having a jazz trumpeter for a dad and a mom who listened to Billie Holiday and Debussy must've helped her figure out what it was she wanted to be, what it was she wanted to do. Listening to her music transports me to her era and, at the same time, keeps me more grounded to mine, because here was a woman who knew, from the start, the direction she wanted to take and didn't allow anyone, and anything--neither limelight, shadow, nor broken marriage--from straining her.

She died of cancer at 47, another one of those incredibly talented people who died relatively young. Such a pity. She could've written more, sang more. Though, as it is, she had been a prolific songwriter and her cache of works is really pretty impressive.

Talk To Her

Pedro Almodovar, 2002

That human beings--here, two men--could be this unselfish: "Habla Con Ella" dares problematize this tritest--and most sensitive--of themes.

Leo, Leo

I watched Edward Zwick's "Blood Diamond" and Martin Scorsese's "The Departed" this week, and I thoroughly enjoyed both. Though, on hindsight, "enjoyed" might not be the perfect word considering the length of time with which I had my heart on my throat from all that suspense. Okay, let me rephrase, then, and say that I was much affected by the scenes, the themes, the exposition, the lines, and the acting. It's difficult to write about a movie when one isn't well-versed in film criticism lingo.

I know, I know, I'm being apologetic again. Defensive, even. Sorry.

Anyway.

I confess to never having been a Leo fan prior to watching the above movies. He, for me, belonged in that same category as Brad Pitt and Aga Muhlach, with everybody (or the girls, at least) gushing about how good-looking they are and I never really getting what the fuss was all about. The film I most associated his name with (in those times) was "Titanic" and, yeah, in terms of acting, Leo doesn't really get far with that.

Then along came "Revolutionary Road", which made me do a double-take. He was good there. Though his role and portrayal of it was not as memorable as what he did and how he did in "The Departed". His role as Billy Costigan clinched his acting caliber for me. Still dazed from the suspense and thrill I got from the movie, I went, like, yeah, this guy does have something to offer.

I still haven't finished the book. =(

It's been a circus, yep, that's how things have been. Call it a circus. I tend to repeat things when I'm floating. And sometimes I don't know what I'm saying. Well, most of the time, I do. You might say that. I might say that. I think I've learned to mull things over first before giving a thought free reign. You might say I've learned to hold my tongue. What a cliche. If I counted how many cliches there are in what I've typed so far, I'd probably be appalled.

But, whatever.

I'm a little tired, that's what I am. Probably more than a little tired, I'm not entirely sure. "Probably" is such a safe word. There's safety in the probable. There could be danger, too, though, come to think of it.

And now I'm telling myself don't look back. It's nothing melodramatic; I meant don't look back on what you've written, so far. Well, I probably should've typed don't look up the page, keep your eyes on the cursor. Was I supposed to use parentheses? I think, yeah. Or, probably, I could've clicked on the italics icon.

But I'm staying where I am. Or, rather, I'm keeping my eyes here.

Here.

Right here.

Found:

Sublime!

Lit Geek Update/What I'm Reading Now:

Halfway done...
=)

Map Quiz

Geek friend and I looking at a live satellite feed of the typhoon:

Me: this is some scary shit.
Geek Friend: See this? Shows you where the wind is.
Me: I know, I know! Let's have a map quiz!
Geek Friend: You sure?
Me: This is... Japan, this is... Malaysia?
Geek Friend: Nope.
Me: Let's go to that later. How about this one. This is... China? Right?
Geek Friend: Not big enough to be China.
Me: (getting disappointed with myself) That's India! And this one's China, I'm sure!
Geek Friend: Good, good. How about this one?
Me: Easy. That's Mongolia.
Geek Friend: Good, good. Now let's go back to this one.
Me: Is that... Taiwan?
Geek Friend: Hm, well, close.
Me: Tai...pei?
Geek Friend: Close, close!
Me: Tai...two?
Geek Friend: What the...?! Close, close!
Me: Thailand!
Geek Friend: Very good!
Me: Now let me look for Nepal...

Dear City,

Permit us to refresh your memory: what comes from heaven is always a blessing, the enemy is not rain. Rain is the subject of prayer, the kind gesture of saints. Dear City, explain your irreverence; in you, rain is a visitor with nowhere to go. Where is the ground that knows only the love of water? Where are the passageways to your heart? Pity the water that stays and rises on the streets, pity the water that floods into houses, so dark and filthy and heavy with rats and dead leaves and plastic. How ashamed water is to be what you have made it. What have you done to its beauty, its graceful body in pictures of oceans, its clear face in a glass? We walk home in the flood and cannot see our feet. We forget to thank the gods for their kindness. We look for someone to blame and turn to you, wretched city, because we are men and women of honor, we feed our children three meals a day, we never miss an election. The only explanation is you, dear city. This is the end of our discussion. There is no other culprit.

-Conchitina Cruz, from Dark Hours-

Lit Geek Update # 20: Moving On

(the Suite Francaise manuscript)

Whew. Finally.

A heavy read, this one (probably helps explain the snail's pace with which I read it?). It is a war novel, a big hint that it was to be no light reading fare; and what further padded up the weight were the circumstances around the novel's writing and publication.

Irene Nemirovsky's childhood was not what one would call a happy one. She came from a wealthy family, but her problematic, strained relationship with her mother more than clouded up her early years. I'm thinking this toughened her up and prepared her for the darkness which she was to grope around in during her final years.

Fast forward to her adult years--

An established writer/socialite, she and her husband had to move around a lot to flee persecution during the 2nd World War, them being Jews and their conversion to Catholicism not being enough to save them from certain, imminent death which awaited all the Jews during that dark period.

The novel was written in the middle of the chaos and done secretly, scribbled in handwriting so tiny that Nemirovsky's daughter, Denise, many, many years later, had to use a magnifying glass in order "to decipher the miniscule handwriting" (preface to the French edition, p. 512) and type the manuscript for publishing.

I found it uncanny, reading about how the novel survived and found its way into the world's bookshelves. Nemirovsky died in Auschwitz in 1942, and Suite Francaise was published 64 years later. Her two daughters, mere children when their mother died, had instinctively--seeing how painstakingly (and discreetly) their mother had labored over it--kept the manuscript in a suitcase. It became their constant companion in their transit from one place to another in order to escape the fate their parents had met (death in the gas chambers). The manuscript, through the children's loving protection and care--they had meant to keep it as a memento of their mother--miraculously survived the unfriendliness of the era.

The book, though unfinished, has a lot to say about the war (Germany's occupation of France, specifically), and even more about the human tenacity to cling to life in the middle of a death-strewn age, resilience amidst trials, the power of faith, of hope.

I am glad the book found its way into my hands.
Thanks, M--.

Next on my list: E. M. Forster's A Room With A View

Lit Geek Update # 19: Stuck

It's been weeks and I'm still reading the same book. It's not the book that's the problem--both the prose and the exposition are very, very good. It's time, or the lack thereof, that's the culprit.

Excuses, excuses.

It's that damn Facebook that's taking me away from my books. LOL

I'm giving myself until Friday. I should be done by then.

Allow me to add this to all that's been said

"The blackout takes over the night erases the city from the map erases everything"
-Conchitina Cruz, "I Must Say This About The City", from Dark Hours-

Since everybody has written, is writing, and will write about the typhoon that has recently come our way, I told myself, I won't write about it. So I kept it away, put off the urge for as long as I could. But the images in the news, the horror stories (made even more horrifying by the fact that they were not fiction, but fact) were just too much for me to take, while keeping mum and being passive.

It seemed almost irreverent to remain silent, when the rest of everything and everyone was, and is raging.

On my September 26 post, I wrote:

Let's all stay indoors. This is not a good time to be out.

It was morning when I typed those words and I was, as yet, completely unaware of the catastrophic scale the inclement weather (I thought it merely "inclement" at that time) was about to shoot up to. I was lucky that where I lived remained untouched by floodwater. The only complaint I could come up with was that rainwater came in through the window, creating puddles on the room's wooden floor. I grumbled even as I wiped. But still, I wiped.

The shame I felt, then, when, after turning the TV on, the screen presented coverage of a furious typhoon gone mad on the city and its people. Flood, flood everywhere, making lakes out of streets where people remained trapped inside floating cars; dark, filthy water risen and still rising to alarming heights, climbing up staircases, reaching up to terraces, chasing people up, up, so that they had to brave the rain and the wind in order to seek safety on their roofs. There were places where even the roofs failed to provide the shelter so desperately sought.

Really, who could have been prepared for this?

No one, I guess. And so the typhoon has left us in shock, in shambles, in shreds.

Returning

"Volver" is dominated by women's themes. The friend who recommended it to me was anxious that I wouldn't like it. As it turned out, I ended up telling him, "heck, I most probably got the movie more than you did."

Female relationships--mother-to-daughter, sister-to-sister, girlfriend-to-girlfriend--are key elements to how the film comes full circle, the glue being one woman's supposed death and believed return and regular appearances as a ghost. Depicting how a mother's love can transcend life and death, the movie is at times absurd, comic and often painfully real. The human tenacity to cling to faith and life, despite and in spite of the many obstacles death and its harbingers bring, is spun neatly into the tale.

I cannot allow myself to miss mentioning, too, that the predominance of superstition and myth in Hispanic culture is essential to the telling of the story, if not to the conception itself of the story.

Daughters (and sons, too) and mothers had better watch this film. Though often taken for granted and most of the time overlooked, we all need to return to that most precious--and binding--of ties.


*for an ever so much better and more erudite review, go to film guru Roger Ebert. =)

In Today's Movie Marathon:

Superb films, both.

And what of the rain lashing loudly against the windows, the walls, the roofs of each house? What of the wind, wailing, mournful?

Let's all stay indoors. This is not a good time to be out.

Feeling that blah feeling again. Not a good sign at all.

For M-- and M--:

When stuck in a car with two rock music aficionados conversing, what is one to do?

Listen.

And learn heaps!
=)

And What Came After

Once in a while, it happens: two people meet, fall madly in love and live happily ever after.

Once in a while.

And then there's the rest of the time, where two people meet and fall in love and wait, and wait, and wait for a happy ever after that never comes.

When I was a little girl, the couples I knew always found happy ever after. Now, I realize that the pages i loved so much were merely shielding me from the harsh, bitter truth: that Rapunzel's hair was never the same when it started to grow again, so that her prince eventually left her to look for a girl with prettier hair; or that the Beast, who went back to his human form because of Beauty's love, got transformed back to a beast because he had a difficult time shedding away his beastly ways; or that Cinderella, having broken free from being a slave to her stepsisters virtually all her life, left her prince and became a women's rights activist in some obscure land (the prince had turned out to be even more oppressive than the ugly old maids in her former home, you see).

Happy ever after turned out to be just another fairy tale, after all. Tsk, tsk.

Bummer.

And so, now, people who greet newly-married couples "congratulations" are actually muttering "good luck" under their breaths. A girl who announces her upcoming wedding gets greeted by frowning, knowing looks and unsolicited advice to "think it over first." Those who have been there and found their way out (and it's amazing just how high their percentage has become, just try asking around) no longer bite back their cynical opinions on the great M-- word.

It's most probably because they've discovered that there were still pages and pages that came after the endings--or supposed endings--of the fairy tales they'd read as children.

Now, Stillness.

Stepping indoors on a gusty, stormy day means walking into sudden calm, and warmth, and quiet.

The transition is extremely blunt and brutal that there happens an arrest of almost all the senses. The mind is jolted out of a memory of chaos--because that second when the door is shut is enough to turn the chaos into a memory--into a bed of languor and lull.

It can be startling, this distortion.

But the mind, and the rest of you, will need no more than a variation of seconds or minutes to achieve equilibrium.

Unless you desire the opposite.

Mercury's on Retrograde Again!

Mercury has retrograded and I didn't know! Tragic. Tsk, tsk.

I screamed "mercury's on retrograde now!" and M-- said, "so that explains it. Why you've been acting really weird lately. Pfft." Grins.

Now, I'm trying to think back on my week and, yeah, I do remember it as a roller-coaster ride to downhill from uphill (arrggh!). In fact, it's been the most sudden downturn I've had in a long, long while.

It's a good thing I watched "Kimmy Dora" a day before and got to be in one heck of a rollin' party hours before (Mercury turned retrograde September 7th, 12:39 am EST). Hours into it, I woke up with that terrible, terrible hangover. That should've been warning enough. Though the equation (or pseudo-equation) Hangover=Mercury Retrograde is hardly the first "put-two-and-two-together" one would come up with, under normal circumstances.

Mercury will turn direct September 29th.

In the meantime, folks, prepare for a rough ride ahead. And then, hopefully, lots of peace and order afterward.

Partying on a Monday

Looks like the rainy season has descended upon us for good (until summer comes again, that is). Time to bring out the sweaters, the cardigans, the knits, the coats, the tweeds, the wools, why not?

M-- made me a cup of really fab coffee earlier, perfect for the cold and the rains. Have just recovered from the hang-over I've been nursing since this morning, throbbing headache and dizziness, my goodness, I've reached this age without experiencing those, until now, that is. I loaded up on lots of water and it seemed to do the trick. Hydrating, they call it. Last night's proverbial company party did this to me-- which is not to say I didn't have fun, because I did have fun. Probably explains the hang-over, too:

Fun + alcohol = HANG-OVER.





This party meant a lot to me because I was one of the two people who organized it (good friend, Sheila, was the other one).




Like her, I was feeling mighty anxious days before and hours before and only really got to exhale an hour into the party, when things were already in full swing and the people looked like they were having a good time (read: rowdy).




Early on, I even had to help the waiter take the orders for rice, complete with pen and notepad gear, so that our AVP (dear, dear Barb), bottle of Jack Daniels in hand, jokingly asked me, "do you work part-time here?" and then burst into that distinctly evil laugh of hers.


They were able to coax me into a beer-drinking match with colleague, Myra. That was a first for me.



I lost, of course. hahaha