I departed from my usual greens-and-wheat bread-and-proteins diet today. Ate lasagna (I had one plate and finished the portion my son had left uneaten) and a few spoonfuls of some rich, sinful chocolate cake from Starbucks. Ugh.
Ah, Sundays. They make one forget.
Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that tomorrow marks the beginning of women's month.
M-- here says it's ridiculous that only one month should be alloted to celebrating woman's greatness--an entire argument that would be quite interesting to pursue, but I'm too tired and I have to haul my a__ off to work later.
Round about the same time last year, I wrote this. It's leaning towards the corny side, and kinda overstated, besides, but there you have it, my angry stance at making sure that woman is given her proper place in this world.
Fly high, my girls! We are beautiful!
=)
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Differences
Tell me about your childhood.
Tell me about what you woke up to each day, and what woke you up. What time on your clock? Were your sheets soft? Were they thick enough? Could you remember the scent of the sun on your pillow? Or were there more important things than sunshines and pillows? And did it matter? Did it matter if you woke up early or not?
Did you get lots of presents during Christmas? Did you celebrate Christmas? Were Sundays fun days, or were they just gloomy transitions to Mondays? Did you have ice cream on Sundays? Or were there more important things to spend on than ice cream?
Tell me about the people around you. Were they nice to you? And what is "nice" for you? Did they smile a lot? Did they smile at you? Did they tell you you were pretty and did they tell you enough? Did they hug you when you were good? And what is "good" for you? What is "bad"? What did they do when you were bad?
I'll tell you about my childhood. Let's compare notes.
Then maybe we'd understand each other more, and judge each other less.
Tell me about what you woke up to each day, and what woke you up. What time on your clock? Were your sheets soft? Were they thick enough? Could you remember the scent of the sun on your pillow? Or were there more important things than sunshines and pillows? And did it matter? Did it matter if you woke up early or not?
Did you get lots of presents during Christmas? Did you celebrate Christmas? Were Sundays fun days, or were they just gloomy transitions to Mondays? Did you have ice cream on Sundays? Or were there more important things to spend on than ice cream?
Tell me about the people around you. Were they nice to you? And what is "nice" for you? Did they smile a lot? Did they smile at you? Did they tell you you were pretty and did they tell you enough? Did they hug you when you were good? And what is "good" for you? What is "bad"? What did they do when you were bad?
I'll tell you about my childhood. Let's compare notes.
Then maybe we'd understand each other more, and judge each other less.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Ted Neeley, 27 years after JCS
A friend shared this video on his facebook.
"Gethsemane" is my favorite song from "Jesus Christ, Superstar" (1973).
One word for dear ol' Ted: amazing.
from youtube
"Gethsemane" is my favorite song from "Jesus Christ, Superstar" (1973).
One word for dear ol' Ted: amazing.
from youtube
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Closure: Movement
She looked up, her gaze fixing on me. Her eyes had a guarded look to them, which soon, however, assumed an intensity that she, perhaps, could not feign. It felt to me like she was boring a hole through the canvas, piercing past the oils with her stare, asking, is it true? Are you there?
A shout was frozen somewhere in my throat and I struggled inwardly, straining against the confines of my prison, feeling more trapped now, more than ever, now that I had begun to, once again, wrestle with I knew not what. It was like this, too, the first time I regained consciousness and found myself where I was. Only now, I struggled more fiercely—against these unknown walls, against immobility, against despair—because I knew that someone had somehow found out where I was.
Did prayers still get heard in this day and age?
She rose from the chair and walked toward me, her steps wide, determined. She stopped just near enough so that I could hear her soft, deep breathing.
She laid a hand on my arm, running her eyes all over me. I knew that her hand was on my arm because I saw it there. This lack of feeling pained me the most. So, I braced myself, giving it one final, solid push, as if physical effort would free me from the incomprehensible state I was in. It was almost painful, the strain; so that when I felt I had reached the end of my strength, I eased back, slowly, exhaling the tightness.
She was so near. I could see just exactly how beautiful her eyes were as they looked searchingly at me, how they were like whirlpools I wanted to go to pieces in, how her gaze was like a spell that held me, as if her eyes were arms wrapped tightly around me, yes, and I, wretched being, longed to bury myself in her aliveness, to feel her, palpable, in my hands, to be palpable in her hands.
I felt myself weakening, the longer the seconds ticked away; felt, more painfully now, the helplessness that I had long ago learned to come to terms with.
Oh, God, that she had come so near, so near.
So near.
I felt that I could no longer bear it, and I prepared to give up.
The jolt was indescribable, then, when I began to feel, very faintly, the feather-lightness of her touch as she trailed her thumb along my hand.
A shout was frozen somewhere in my throat and I struggled inwardly, straining against the confines of my prison, feeling more trapped now, more than ever, now that I had begun to, once again, wrestle with I knew not what. It was like this, too, the first time I regained consciousness and found myself where I was. Only now, I struggled more fiercely—against these unknown walls, against immobility, against despair—because I knew that someone had somehow found out where I was.
Did prayers still get heard in this day and age?
She rose from the chair and walked toward me, her steps wide, determined. She stopped just near enough so that I could hear her soft, deep breathing.
She laid a hand on my arm, running her eyes all over me. I knew that her hand was on my arm because I saw it there. This lack of feeling pained me the most. So, I braced myself, giving it one final, solid push, as if physical effort would free me from the incomprehensible state I was in. It was almost painful, the strain; so that when I felt I had reached the end of my strength, I eased back, slowly, exhaling the tightness.
She was so near. I could see just exactly how beautiful her eyes were as they looked searchingly at me, how they were like whirlpools I wanted to go to pieces in, how her gaze was like a spell that held me, as if her eyes were arms wrapped tightly around me, yes, and I, wretched being, longed to bury myself in her aliveness, to feel her, palpable, in my hands, to be palpable in her hands.
I felt myself weakening, the longer the seconds ticked away; felt, more painfully now, the helplessness that I had long ago learned to come to terms with.
Oh, God, that she had come so near, so near.
So near.
I felt that I could no longer bear it, and I prepared to give up.
The jolt was indescribable, then, when I began to feel, very faintly, the feather-lightness of her touch as she trailed her thumb along my hand.
Today's dollop of knowledge:
"Women get the last word in every argument. Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument."
-author unknown
-author unknown
I've been a good enough girl.
For the past several days, I've been feasting on greens (with Caesar as my preferred dressing)
and whole wheat bread.
(I don't eat it by itself, of course. Yesterday, I had Italian sausage on whole wheat bread and earlier, beef pastrami on whole wheat bread. But, yeah, it's all on whole wheat bread. Ano ba, ang kulit.)
So, maybe, I do deserve to have this right now.
Just one small bag. Promise.
(I think dieting is ok as long as people don't identify the word "dieting" with "starving oneself". It's all just about eating the right kinds of food and the right quantity (or lack thereof, hahaha). And one other thing it's got going against it is that people are generally crankier when they're on a diet. Though I was a grouch only during the first two, maybe three days. Now, I'm back to normal--or almost normal.)
Potato chips!!!
and whole wheat bread.
(I don't eat it by itself, of course. Yesterday, I had Italian sausage on whole wheat bread and earlier, beef pastrami on whole wheat bread. But, yeah, it's all on whole wheat bread. Ano ba, ang kulit.)
So, maybe, I do deserve to have this right now.
Just one small bag. Promise.
(I think dieting is ok as long as people don't identify the word "dieting" with "starving oneself". It's all just about eating the right kinds of food and the right quantity (or lack thereof, hahaha). And one other thing it's got going against it is that people are generally crankier when they're on a diet. Though I was a grouch only during the first two, maybe three days. Now, I'm back to normal--or almost normal.)
Potato chips!!!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
And the ladies lunched
Drat, I can't find the Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo essay I had been meaning to base this post on. I skimmed through her Coming Home, which was where I remember having read the phrase "they call it pampahaba ng buhay", or something to that effect (I am not altogether sure if that was the exact line). I think I remember her referring, too, to Gilda Cordero Fernando's book Ladies' Lunch and Other Ways to Wholeness. Age can blur so many things.
Tsk.
This pampahaba ng buhay she alluded to was that important ice-breaker in every woman's--or man's, for that matter--daily humdrum of routines: the lunch date, or shopping appointment, or cozy dinner with the best friend or college barkada, or the social afternoon call (merienda) to someone from the exclusive ladies' (or guys') clique. It is that most needed conversation, that good laugh over coffee, that outpouring of secrets and dreams and woes to a friend, or two friends, or even three. You figure how it becomes a "pampahaba ng buhay." Because it is.
I had one such tryst earlier today with my dear, dear friend Sheila, who is one of the rare few who have really taken the time and effort to break down my carefully built brick walls, said "hello, how are you?" so many times, said number of times eventually softening my hardened heart and allowing her entry so that now, she is an indispensable persona who adds so much value to my life. We had lunch of pasta and chicken (for her) and salad (for me, yes, I am on a diet again) and iced tea and exchanged hosts of stories and gossip and thoughts, as if we hadn't yet had enough of it in the office, mainly, I guess, because a lunch out is an entirely different thing. We didn't seem to run out of fodder for conversation. We never do, anyway.
So, yeah, you should definitely catch up with that old friend, or that trusted peer. Grab that chance to bring back that joie de vivre, that chance to be just a girl, just a guy, worry-free and young (no matter what age one may be) because meet-ups and talks like these do much to ward the stress away. It keeps one healthy, ready to go back to life's same old palette of grays and browns.
Because in those two short hours, or three, even, there will be good vibes all around. And an exchange of dreams and hopes, too, definitely. And laughter, loads of it. Sadnesses, too, perhaps, yes, but always, always, that sense of knowing that there is someone (aside from that significant other, maybe) watching out for us, or simply someone who will listen and share her views to help one turn a problem around, or to be the stronghold for when one finally gets the courage to confront that difficult issue.
Or just smile back, when silence is all there is, and silence is all that's needed.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Dear, dear Jim
I have just discovered, today, that James Merrill was a Pisces. He would have turned 84 this coming March 3rd.
from "The Broken Home":
A lead soldier guards my windowsill:
Khaki rifle, uniform, and face.
Something in me grows heavy, silvery, pliable.
How intensely people used to feel!
Like metal poured at the close of a proletarian novel,
Refined and glowing from the crucible,
I see those two hearts, I’m afraid,
Still..
and the final 5 lines, oh, what sharp sadness:
Under the ballroom ceiling’s allegory
Someone at last may actually be allowed
To learn something; or, from my window, cool
With the unstiflement of the entire story,
Watch a red setter stretch and sink in cloud.
Coming across this Randall Jarrell poem in my Post-War American Literature class in college forever sealed my fascination with fighter planes:
LOSSES
It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before
In the routine crashes-- and our fields
Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,
And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac,
Scattered on mountains fifty miles away;
Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend,
We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.
(When we left high school nothing else had died
For us to figure we had died like.)
In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed
The ranges by the desert or the shore,
Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores--
And turned into replacements and worke up
One morning, over England, operational.
It wasn't different: but if we died
It was not an accident but a mistake
(But an easy one for anyone to make.)
We read our mail and counted up our missions--
In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school--
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said, "Our casualties were low."
The said, "Here are the maps"; we burned the cities.
It was not dying --no, not ever dying;
But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead,
And the cities said to me: "Why are you dying?
We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?"
It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before
In the routine crashes-- and our fields
Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,
And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac,
Scattered on mountains fifty miles away;
Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend,
We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.
(When we left high school nothing else had died
For us to figure we had died like.)
In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed
The ranges by the desert or the shore,
Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores--
And turned into replacements and worke up
One morning, over England, operational.
It wasn't different: but if we died
It was not an accident but a mistake
(But an easy one for anyone to make.)
We read our mail and counted up our missions--
In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school--
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said, "Our casualties were low."
The said, "Here are the maps"; we burned the cities.
It was not dying --no, not ever dying;
But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead,
And the cities said to me: "Why are you dying?
We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?"
Mommy matters
I bought my daughter her second pair of gladiator sandals last Saturday. She loved them, of course--she seems to love everything I get for her. And she wore the new pink-and-brown semi-jumpsuit I got for her last week. I told her, "you're so pretty!" and she said, "you too, mommy!"
Asus. hee.
So, anyway, we spent one-fourth of Sunday afternoon singing to Miley's "Party in the USA" at our favorite Starbucks. In as much as I want her to be all Broadway-ish and pop-free--I stuffed her mp3 player with Broadway and musical tunes--I am aware that my daughter is a kid and that she does, and would eventually, hear pop all over and would pick out ones that she likes, no matter how I try to "educate" her on what's good music and what's not. This is not to say that pop is bad, per se, though the kiddie pop nowadays can be irritatingly, well, pop (yeah, yeah, too many pops right there). And "Party in the USA" is quite catchy and "sing-able", I have to admit. So, I guess that's not too bad.
I'm debating with myself whether or not to teach her Tori Amos, Aimee Mann and the other angry female musicians (when she gets older, of course). I wouldn't trade them for Rihanna, et al, but I'm not altogether sure if my daughter would benefit from all that "angriness."
But, let's see. Jackie's only 10, anyway. Let the kids have fun. Miley could only do so much damage.
I hope.
Asus. hee.
So, anyway, we spent one-fourth of Sunday afternoon singing to Miley's "Party in the USA" at our favorite Starbucks. In as much as I want her to be all Broadway-ish and pop-free--I stuffed her mp3 player with Broadway and musical tunes--I am aware that my daughter is a kid and that she does, and would eventually, hear pop all over and would pick out ones that she likes, no matter how I try to "educate" her on what's good music and what's not. This is not to say that pop is bad, per se, though the kiddie pop nowadays can be irritatingly, well, pop (yeah, yeah, too many pops right there). And "Party in the USA" is quite catchy and "sing-able", I have to admit. So, I guess that's not too bad.
I'm debating with myself whether or not to teach her Tori Amos, Aimee Mann and the other angry female musicians (when she gets older, of course). I wouldn't trade them for Rihanna, et al, but I'm not altogether sure if my daughter would benefit from all that "angriness."
But, let's see. Jackie's only 10, anyway. Let the kids have fun. Miley could only do so much damage.
I hope.
Monday, February 22, 2010
You know how there are topics that we avoid, words, even, or names that we try so hard not to utter in conversations, both with someone else and with ourselves, or else the pain will seep through us, just like that, and totally water down our soldered brace on reason, and make hash of whatever semblance of cheerfulness we may have been feigning, for the longest time?
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
How quickly we size each other up.
But if I ever found myself where you are now, would I be able to stand up and move forward?
And do you think you could retrace the steps I took--without bitterness, without self-reproach--before I reached this spot?
And do you think you could retrace the steps I took--without bitterness, without self-reproach--before I reached this spot?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
from "The Flower Girls That We Were"
And the snapshots, of course.
The times that I looked at the ten or so pictures which my mom put in an album, my mind registered a blank, and I drew up more questions than answers: Why was I frowning all the time? Were the flowers in my basket real or not? How did I feel, sitting there on the pew with the other white-clad flower girls? Why did I look so anxious, while they seemed so much at ease?
Looking at the photos felt a little strange, as I did not have any actual memory of them ever happening. I did not recall how it was to be wearing the white, boat-necked, ankle-length dress, bare except for a wide orange sash tied around its waist; or how the headpiece made of orange flowers felt on my head.
It was my aunt's wedding, but I did not remember being aware of that, or of anything at all. The orange and white-colored flowers arranged along the pews did not look familiar. I did not remember seeing my Auntie Nene so young, so vibrant in her white gown; looking dazed with happiness, sitting there across the altar with her equally young groom, an ineffable smile spilling from her lips. Neither did I recall my uncle to be half as handsome as he was in his medal-festooned, white military suit. Did they, on the other hand, remember the whole thing—from beginning to end—it being their wedding and all?
I didn’t know.
Running my eyes over the photos, I remembered the things my parents had told me about each frame; and, in time, I began to gather a sense of familiarity, somehow, of the captured portraits. Still, it was different from having an actual memory to anchor the familiarity on. Somewhere between the pictures and my eyes, there always seemed to be a hollow that would have only been filled by memory itself. I looked at each snapshot with a perceptible lack of emotional response, except for something akin to regret—regret that I would never be able to say the words, “I remember.”
-March, 2004, CW 141/ Creative Nonfiction 2-
The times that I looked at the ten or so pictures which my mom put in an album, my mind registered a blank, and I drew up more questions than answers: Why was I frowning all the time? Were the flowers in my basket real or not? How did I feel, sitting there on the pew with the other white-clad flower girls? Why did I look so anxious, while they seemed so much at ease?
Looking at the photos felt a little strange, as I did not have any actual memory of them ever happening. I did not recall how it was to be wearing the white, boat-necked, ankle-length dress, bare except for a wide orange sash tied around its waist; or how the headpiece made of orange flowers felt on my head.
It was my aunt's wedding, but I did not remember being aware of that, or of anything at all. The orange and white-colored flowers arranged along the pews did not look familiar. I did not remember seeing my Auntie Nene so young, so vibrant in her white gown; looking dazed with happiness, sitting there across the altar with her equally young groom, an ineffable smile spilling from her lips. Neither did I recall my uncle to be half as handsome as he was in his medal-festooned, white military suit. Did they, on the other hand, remember the whole thing—from beginning to end—it being their wedding and all?
I didn’t know.
Running my eyes over the photos, I remembered the things my parents had told me about each frame; and, in time, I began to gather a sense of familiarity, somehow, of the captured portraits. Still, it was different from having an actual memory to anchor the familiarity on. Somewhere between the pictures and my eyes, there always seemed to be a hollow that would have only been filled by memory itself. I looked at each snapshot with a perceptible lack of emotional response, except for something akin to regret—regret that I would never be able to say the words, “I remember.”
-March, 2004, CW 141/ Creative Nonfiction 2-
Monday, February 15, 2010
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. -T.S. Eliot-
Last Saturday, I received what was probably one of the best news via text message that I've gotten in a long, long while:
AN ENTIRE WEEK OF FREE COFFEE FROM STARBUCKS!!!
Life is great!
Cheers, darlings! I leave you with this very amusing attempt at balladry by some anonymous chap (or girl, for that matter):
Caffeine is my shepherd; I shall not doze.
It maketh me to wake in green pastures:
It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses.
It restoreth my buzz:
It leadeth me in the paths of consciousness for its name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of addiction,
I will fear no Equal™:
For thou art with me; thy cream and thy sugar they comfort me.
Thou preparest a carafe before me in the presence of The Starbucks:
Thou anointest my day with pep; my mug runneth over.
Surely richness and taste shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the House of Mochas forever.
(source: quotegarden.com)
AN ENTIRE WEEK OF FREE COFFEE FROM STARBUCKS!!!
Life is great!
Cheers, darlings! I leave you with this very amusing attempt at balladry by some anonymous chap (or girl, for that matter):
Caffeine is my shepherd; I shall not doze.
It maketh me to wake in green pastures:
It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses.
It restoreth my buzz:
It leadeth me in the paths of consciousness for its name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of addiction,
I will fear no Equal™:
For thou art with me; thy cream and thy sugar they comfort me.
Thou preparest a carafe before me in the presence of The Starbucks:
Thou anointest my day with pep; my mug runneth over.
Surely richness and taste shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the House of Mochas forever.
(source: quotegarden.com)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
The beautiful and the odd
...and i knew then it would be
a life long thing
but i didn't know that we
we could break a silver lining
and i'm so sad
like a good book
i can't put this day back
a sorta fairytale
with you
*vid from youtube
The Way I Am (Ingrid Michaelson)
If you were falling, then I would catch you
You need a light, I'd find a match
Cuz I love the way you say good morning
And you take me the way I am
If you are chilly, here take my sweater
Your head is aching; I'll make it better
Cuz I love the way you call me baby
And you take me the way I am
I'd buy you Rogaine when you start losing all your hair
Sew on patches to all you tear
Cuz I love you more than I could ever promise
And you take me the way I am
You take me the way I am
You take me the way I am
*vid from youtube
Friday, February 12, 2010
Outside, the drowsy twilight
scatters shadows on the streets:
a tree here a bramble there and shrubs
or someone walking--
a tree here a bramble there and shrubs
or someone walking--
If we didn't try hard enough
to fill our days with something, some thing, anything--
did we waste time?
did we waste time?
Story excerpt turned sudden fiction:
Then there was that time when she, thirteen years old and sulking, refused to eat her meals but for a few bites, staring, instead, out the window and into the street, watching the neighborhood kids playing Patintero. She nibbled incessantly on her fingernails as she listened to a Kiri Te Kenawa selection over and over again, dark circles around her eyes for lack of sleep.
Her father started worrying.
“Don’t mind her. Just some growing pains, I’m sure. She’ll snap out of it soon enough,” Lola Amparing said, looking thoughtfully at her granddaughter, her mind turning like wheels.
That night, Stella found herself drinking—not too willingly—a colorless, bitter liquid, which her Lola Amparing had told her to take.
“That will do you a world of good, believe me. So drink. I don’t want a drop left in that glass, you hear me?”
Stella did as she was told, after little resistance. After the first taste, she grimaced, then finished the rest in one big gulp. She was not one to disobey her elders, and neither was her Lola one to take “no” for an answer.
She went to bed with a bitter aftertaste clinging stubbornly to her tongue. She fell asleep almost the same instant as when her cheek touched the pillow; and the face of the handsome, slightly rugged boy that had stuck itself to her mind for weeks quietly detached itself like a piece of yellowing leaf, blown away by some mysterious wind.
Her father started worrying.
“Don’t mind her. Just some growing pains, I’m sure. She’ll snap out of it soon enough,” Lola Amparing said, looking thoughtfully at her granddaughter, her mind turning like wheels.
That night, Stella found herself drinking—not too willingly—a colorless, bitter liquid, which her Lola Amparing had told her to take.
“That will do you a world of good, believe me. So drink. I don’t want a drop left in that glass, you hear me?”
Stella did as she was told, after little resistance. After the first taste, she grimaced, then finished the rest in one big gulp. She was not one to disobey her elders, and neither was her Lola one to take “no” for an answer.
She went to bed with a bitter aftertaste clinging stubbornly to her tongue. She fell asleep almost the same instant as when her cheek touched the pillow; and the face of the handsome, slightly rugged boy that had stuck itself to her mind for weeks quietly detached itself like a piece of yellowing leaf, blown away by some mysterious wind.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Run, Run, Run.
My dad called me up a couple of days ago to remind me of how sedentary my lifestyle is--up to and including the nature of my work--and the dangers that come with it (high blood pressure and other cardiovascular-related diseases). It was stating the obvious, but being a parent, he told me that I needed to have some exercise routine that would alleviate the height of the risks. He reminded me, too, that I had medical insurance that I should be taking advantage of. "When was the last time you had a general check-up?" he asked me. Silence. I couldn't remember the last time I had one.
And, of course, he had to add, "how old are you? thirty?" And I was, like, "Daddy! 29 pa lang!" He chuckled. Well, technically, I am only 29 years old. Until March. Grrrr.
And so, yesterday, I ran. This morning, I ran, too. The thing about running is that once you get started, you can't stop. I just wish I had more time. I'm making it a resolution to run at least 3 days a week--that's Friday, Saturday and Sunday. A friend made me try that Wii exercise thing, but I stopped five minutes after trying it; I couldn't wait to go out into the twilight and catch some evening breeze. My legs and feet itched for activity.
Yeah, nothing beats the real thing. As early as now, I can already feel the effects: I feel less drowsy, readier to do things.
Yep, dads always know best. =)
Have a great Sunday!
And, of course, he had to add, "how old are you? thirty?" And I was, like, "Daddy! 29 pa lang!" He chuckled. Well, technically, I am only 29 years old. Until March. Grrrr.
And so, yesterday, I ran. This morning, I ran, too. The thing about running is that once you get started, you can't stop. I just wish I had more time. I'm making it a resolution to run at least 3 days a week--that's Friday, Saturday and Sunday. A friend made me try that Wii exercise thing, but I stopped five minutes after trying it; I couldn't wait to go out into the twilight and catch some evening breeze. My legs and feet itched for activity.
Yeah, nothing beats the real thing. As early as now, I can already feel the effects: I feel less drowsy, readier to do things.
Yep, dads always know best. =)
Have a great Sunday!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Browsing...
How cheerless are these lines?
The rain is falling and it is awfully dark outside. It’s two forty in 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. (July, '05)
or these:
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.(July, '05)
Even the description of Maria Callas' singing does not escape the dismals:
...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. (July, '07)
And then add this to the dreariness:
I have long ago taught myself, little by little, to close myself into a bud whenever I feel the threat of pain. (July, '07)
But wait, there's more:
We feel the gargantuan pain (and we're talking physical pain) shooting up from the chest to the throat and we push, push it downwards so that the effort makes breathing difficult that tears start to well up in the eyes. But we don't stop until we know for sure that we've dug deep enough to bury the scream. And, with it, the pain. (January, '08)
Sheesh. I'm glad to have outgrown those.
Or, I hope I have.
The rain is falling and it is awfully dark outside. It’s two forty in 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. (July, '05)
or these:
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.(July, '05)
Even the description of Maria Callas' singing does not escape the dismals:
...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. (July, '07)
And then add this to the dreariness:
I have long ago taught myself, little by little, to close myself into a bud whenever I feel the threat of pain. (July, '07)
But wait, there's more:
We feel the gargantuan pain (and we're talking physical pain) shooting up from the chest to the throat and we push, push it downwards so that the effort makes breathing difficult that tears start to well up in the eyes. But we don't stop until we know for sure that we've dug deep enough to bury the scream. And, with it, the pain. (January, '08)
Sheesh. I'm glad to have outgrown those.
Or, I hope I have.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
His Ardent Heart
from NewYorker.Com:
Critics fretted about the growing self-enclosure of Salinger’s work, about a faith in his characters’ importance that sometimes seemed to make a religion of them. But the isolation of his later decades should not be allowed to obscure his essential gift for joy. The message of his writing was always the same: that, amid the malice and falseness of social life, redemption rises from clear speech and childlike enchantment, from all the forms of unself-conscious innocence that still surround us (with the hovering unease that one might mistake emptiness for innocence, as Seymour seems to have done with his Muriel). It resides in the particular things that he delighted to record. In memory, his writing is a catalogue of those moments: Esmé’s letter and her broken watch; and the little girl with the dachshund that leaps up on Park Avenue, in “Zooey”; and the record of “Little Shirley Beans” that Holden buys for Phoebe (and then sees break on the pavement); and Phoebe’s coat spinning on the carrousel at twilight in the December light of Central Park; and the Easter chick left in the wastebasket at the end of “Just Before the War with the Eskimos”; and Buddy, at the magic twilight hour in New York, after learning from Seymour how to play Zen marbles (“Could you try not aiming so much?”), running to get Louis Sherry ice cream, only to be overtaken by his brother; and the small girl on the plane who turns her doll’s head around to look at Seymour. That these things were not in themselves quite enough to hold Seymour on this planet—or enough, it seems, at times, to hold his creator entirely here, either—does not diminish the beauty of their realization. In “Seymour: An Introduction,” Seymour, thinking of van Gogh, tells Buddy that the only question worth asking about a writer is “Were most of your stars out?” Writing, real writing, is done not from some seat of fussy moral judgment but with the eye and ear and heart; no American writer will ever have a more alert ear, a more attentive eye, or a more ardent heart than his. ♦
-J. D. SALINGER by Adam Gopnik-
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
So I putter
In some subliminal effort to get to the next page, or step into that twelve-or-forty-eight--hours-later moment, we fidget and tinker and blur our way into one long, hazy series of staccatos.
As if it would matter how we get there. As if it would cross our minds how precious energy and even more precious time are wasted in the getting-there.
Has it ever? Crossed your mind? If so, what did you do?
I had always gone on. Stopping would have meant becoming entangled in my whirl of things, tangible and otherwise.
It would have escaped me, altogether, how it is to come back.
So, move. Move.
As if it would matter how we get there. As if it would cross our minds how precious energy and even more precious time are wasted in the getting-there.
Has it ever? Crossed your mind? If so, what did you do?
I had always gone on. Stopping would have meant becoming entangled in my whirl of things, tangible and otherwise.
It would have escaped me, altogether, how it is to come back.
So, move. Move.
Monday, February 1, 2010
March Me Up
I love marching bands. They make me happy.
And, oh, yeah: the louder, the better. I especially love the tuba; it's quite magnificent.
Yesterday was a reversal of roles as my 8-year-old son covered his ears with his hands because the marching band passing us by was "too loud" and I, I couldn't stop my feet from stomping to their music. Heck, I had to stop myself from marching alongside them!
=D
Have an awesome February!
*photo source*
