Thursday, August 28, 2008

Thank You



In the office, today, someone I did not know well enough to call my friend gave me a huge chocolate bar.
I said "thank you," but couldn't resist asking, with a puzzled smile "why?"
She said "because you have been nice to me. Thank you so much."
I felt strangely touched, both by the gesture and the answer to my question.
I was reminded that kindness, when given without expecting to be returned, is almost always sure to come back.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Lit Geek Update #7


Hurrah pour moi!

I never thought I'd be able to go back to my books, but whaddya know, am reading again! This time, it's Ursula Hegi's short story collection Hotel of the Saints. It's a quaint little book full of quaint little people and colorful little lives (but what life is little, eh?).

I loved her in Stones From the River and even more in Intrusions and, judging by the four or so stories I've read, so far, this collection promises to be worth the while.

I just hope I'd have the diligence to see the book through until the last page, and not let it meet the same fate as Isaac Bashevis Singer's Gimpel the Fool and Other Stories, half of which I read during some waiting stint in Starbucks, and the rest of the lot, well, I never really got to finish.

A half-read book (especially if it's a good one) is a sad thing.

Aimee Mann's Got Something New


Aimee Mann has a new album out! And the title's pretty cool, too. So far, "Freeway" is my favorite track.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Prayer

My own heart let me more have pity on; let

Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,

Charitable; not live this tormented mind

With this tormented mind tormenting yet.


I cast for comfort I can no more get

By groping round my comfortless, than blind

Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find...




- from Gerard Manley Hopkins'
"My own heart let me more have pity on"

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Shrimp Tales (and then some)


Yesterday, when I went on a trip to Festival Mall, I wasn't at all planning to bargain-hunt. As it turned out, however, I was able to snag a few items for half the price!

My main destination was Shopwise, as I had contemplated, for a good quarter of the day, to have hilabos na hipon for dinner. I love shrimps dearly and I hadn't had any for quite some time. Back in Naga, my brothers and I, being shrimp junkies, would spend close to two hours on the dining table, devouring a sizeable quantity of shrimps (pasayan in Bikol). Daddy, being the kind of father that he is, would snitch just a few, then leave the rest to his shrimp-crazy kids. My mom, of course, would snub it (and its high cholesterol content) altogether.

Anyway.

So there I was, on my way to the grocery, trying my hardest to keep my path straight. It was sale weekend and I had promised myself that I wouldn't buy any article of clothing, footwear or accessories, nothing along that line. Alas, I happened (yeah, right) to pass by Kamiseta, and found that my feet were inching their way towards its wide-open door.

A quarter of an hour later, I emerged with my loot: two dresses with "50% off" marks on their tags!

I then made my way, as fast as I could, to Shopwise' seafood section, determined not to have any more detours. And what do you know, the shrimps were on sale, too! Originally priced at P500 a kilo, they had been marked down to P380. I bought half a kilo and then made my way home. Along the way, I went dreaming of the feast that dinner was going to be, and wished that I would have enough restraint in eating the dear crustaceans, as I had been reminding myself lately to go easy on food.

I had wished in vain, though. Shrimps and restraint don't seem to go well together.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Itching for Elsewhere


I can't wait to get my hands on Conchitina Cruz's new book, Elsewhere Held and Lingered. I keep forgetting to look it up in the bookstores.
Now, let me make a mental note to do that the next time I visit the mall, as I seem to be afflicted with short-term memory loss.

Okay, done.

Hope it doesn't get erased.
Click on this for Mabi David's words.

The rain fell, heavy and noisy, like rice grains from the gaping mouths of hundreds and thousands of canvas sacks.

Me: (speechless)


Conversation #1:

Jackie: (voice quivering) Why is everyone forcing me to study?
Me: Baby, you need to study because it's exam week. Do you want to get low scores in your exams?
Jackie: I hate, hate school. All my classmates do. Mommy, who invented school ba?
Me: (speechless)
Jackie: I wish nobody invented school. It's so boring. No kid likes school, you know.
Me: Listen, baby. You need to go to school so you'll learn. If you don't go to school, you won't be able to find a job when you grow up. Sige ka.
Jackie: Oh, that's okay. Then I'll have lots of time to read.
Me: (speechless)

Conversation #2:

Me: What subjects for tomorrow?
Jackie: (sighing) Sibika and, ugh, Math! I hate those two subjects! Who invented Math, Mommy?
Me: I don't know, Baby. The Chinese, I think? But I'm not really sure. Go and practice your subtraction.
Jackie: It's so hard, all those carry-carry and borrow-borrow. I think I like addition more than subtraction.
Me: (sighing) Me, too. But go ahead, study your Math, baby. You have to study. Oh, and yeah, there's one more thing I need to tell you about studying. If you don't study, you'll get really low scores and really low grades. And then you'll be stuck in grade 3. Next year, all your other classmates will be in grade 4 and you'll still be in grade 3. Do you want that?
Jackie: (eyes widening) Oh! Oh! Ok. I better study, then.
Me: (relieved) Good girl! Go ahead, now.
Jackie: (after some moments of deep thought) But, Mommy, how come I won 2nd place in the spelling bee even if I didn't study?
Me: (speechless)
c")

good times with my rugrats


Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Weight Woes

At least one week per month, I go through what I call a "hungry phase."

During these periods and if I happen to be in the office, I then become a much too frequent visitor of the 2/F pantry's vendo machine, from where I usually snag three items: a can of soda, a bag of chips and a chocolate bar. This, mostly after lunch--which is an entirely different feast: a half cup of rice, beef tapa or chicken flakes and orange juice in a plastic cup. On "extra-hungry" days, there will almost always be sprints to McDonald's or Hen-Lin, which stand so conveniently near to my workplace. And, an hour into my shift, I would already have finished off a medium-sized frappucino--an appetizer of sorts before lunch.

Tsk, tsk. Bad, bad, bad.

It's a good thing this happens only 7 days (give or take a few days, I can never really be sure), or else it wouldn't take that long for me to double my present size, which isn't something I'm proud of, in the first place. Like a number of, if not most, women, I have a never-ending preoccupation with my weight. Reed-thin is beautiful, and any pound of flesh (or fat, for that matter) that goes beyond that, is something to be alarmed about.

I am aware that this will sound superficial to some, but the fact remains that this subject goes far, far deeper than most of us would be willing to take it to be. The compulsion to be "un-fat" may be traced back to any number of things, like: a problematic childhood, a deeply-rooted insecurity brought about by an extremely low self-esteem, severe depression, some long-forgotten trauma that surfaces again and again, pressure from the mass media, etc., in the same way that it could subsequently lead to any number of things, like: (again) severe depression, a continuously deteriorating self-esteem, anorexia or bulimia (I had the latter when I was in second-year college), numerous sicknesses (like hyperacidity, ulcers and hypertension), and many other results with scary-sounding names, I'm sure.

The cure?

I wish I knew.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Right now, I am...


1. sleepy and know that I ought to sleep; instead I am blog-hopping and having a lot of fun reading about other people's lives.

2. wondering how other bloggers manage to find something to write about day after day. I, on the other hand, have these dry spells wherein I simply can't, for the life of me, type a single sentence, let alone one whole entry!

3. still thinking about my key take-away from the Emotional Intelligence training class I attended this morning: that I am, in no way, emotionally intelligent.

4. listening absently to Jay Leno's blabber--the TV's volume is too low for me to really make out what he's saying.

5. seeing blue spots on the screen--I must've stared too long at the blue wall.

6. reminding myself to remind Jackie and Kim to study for their upcoming exams. I know Jackie will complain that studying takes too much out of her "fun" time. She'd cooperate more if you ask her to study Anne of Green Gables, though. Sigh. You should see her stare, horrified, at a page of math problems. She is simply too much like me.

7. counting my blessings.

8. bracing myself for a storm which I know is coming very soon. Time to test my mettle, once more.

9. trying to make out what Jay Leno is saying. I wish I didn't feel too lazy to reach for the remote control and turn up the volume.

10. ending this entry.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Mother-Daughter Kikay Chronicle #1


I am a self-confessed shoe fiend, guilty of failing to exercise the virtue of temperance when I find myself in a place where beautiful shoes are sold.

And Jackie is beginning to show signs that she will take after me. In this particular hunt for school shoes, she asked me to buy her pambahay slippers because the ones she had weren't pink and she had to have pink ones. It took her half an hour to decide which pair to buy!

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Moonbeam (by Louise Gluck)

The mist rose with a little sound. Like a thud.
Which was the heart beating. And the sun rose, briefly diluted.
And after what seemed years, it sank again
and twilight washed over the shore and deepened there.
And from out of nowhere lovers came,
people who still had bodies and hearts. Who still had
arms, legs, mouths, although by day they might be
housewives and businessmen.

The same night also produced people like ourselves.
You are like me, whether or not you admit it.
Unsatisfied, meticulous. And your hunger is not for experience
but for understanding, as though it could be had in the abstract.

Then it's daylight again and the world goes back to normal.
The lovers smooth their hair; the moon resumes its hollow existence.
And the beach belongs again to mysterious birds
soon to appear on postage stamps.

But what of our memories, the memories of those who depend on images?
Do they count for nothing?

The mist rose, taking back proof of love.
Without which we have only the mirror, you and I.

(from The Seven Ages)

Pensive mode, once more


The doldrums are here.

Time to listen to Carrie Underwood's
"Lessons Learned" and Corinne Bailey
Rae's "Put Your Records On."

Hope it does the trick.

Sigh.
Sigh.
Sigh.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

About...Food!





Yesterday, I found myself glued to the Discovery Travel and Living channel. I caught: Jamie's Italian Getaway (groovy chef Jamie Oliver celebrates his 30th birthday in romantic Italy and has to cook for culinary-savvy and meticulous Italians--what a feat!), Take-Home Chef (Aussie master chef Curtis Stone, with a whole bunch of camera crew, ambushes innocent grocery shoppers and offers to pay for the items. In exchange, the poor souls will take the chef and his crew to his/her house, where Curtis will cook a meal for free! How awesome is that?) and Kylie Kwong: My China (a culinary show which features, of course, Chinese cooking, all shot on location in China). I just loved them all! The shows' premises are so cool.

What is it about food shows that fascinates us so? The obvious answer, I guess, is that food is one topic that interests people of all sizes, ages, races, etc. We eat more than the average "three meals a day," have these periodic cravings for our favorite dishes, and are constantly on the look-out for new, gastronomical delights, especially when home-cooked meals start to get stale to our taste. What more, watching all those sumptuous, myriad (from the sophisticated to the quotidian) meals being cooked and presented in full color is an experience only a few could resist. Well, I certainly couldn't.

Plus, there are all these wonderful stuff to learn! Yesterday, for example, I found out that Zucchini flowers can be eaten. You just stuff some cheese into them, deep-fry, then, voila! You have yourself fried Zucchini flowers! But what else could they be, eh? Other tidbits: stir-fried Lotus roots are a favorite Chinese delicacy, though the harvesting alone is a really arduous process; and, in Italy, a box of pizza is meant to be eaten by one person (ain't that heaven?).
Am definitely hooked.
The sad thing is that I was never really much of a cook. Unlike some people who get their first taste of kitchen navigation (whaat?) at a young age, I learned how to cook when I was already in College and found myself away from home. My friends/house-mates, then, Emillie, Ribbon and Fenina, patiently taught me the art of frying (I will never forget the giant blister I got the first time I tried to fry tilapia and I've always dreaded frying, from then on), sauteeing, boiling, and all that stuff. I know very few recipes, and am thankful that I was able to write down my Lola's (she was a master cook, oh yes, she was!) precious recipes before she passed away. I make good adobo (my own concoction: Shan-style adobo!) and beef steak (my Lola's recipe), though, and some pasta (mac and cheese, Puttanesca). And, once, when I cooked carbonara for my team and some friends, they praised it to the high heavens and are cajoling me, until now, to cook another batch for them.
I think I will, soon.
:)

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Yellow Day

















The sun was shining and so were our shirts, so we decided to have lunch out in the sunshine. It was, after all, month-end (a particularly strong one for the team, at that) and the end of another work week so we had enough reasons to unwind and celebrate. So that's just what we did: had lunch out and peppered it with loads of laughter, teasing and tall-tales, and, of course, girl-watching and beer for the guys. We were a noisy bunch, but we didn't care. Work could really take its toll on us, so breaks like these are a welcome necessity.
To my team, thank you for a really strong, fabulous month! You guys are gems for making the otherwise taxing, irksome life in the office much more jazzy!

Monday, July 28, 2008

Just breezing by to say...

that I'm celebrating my blog's first anniversary this month!

Here's to more (and, hopefully, better) entries and more time to write them!

Arrggh!

And, yes, more bloggers to stalk!

Yey!

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Question: Why did Alfred burn Rachel's note to Bruce Wayne?


Yup, haven't gotten over The Dark Knight yet. I do have an answer, just wanted to throw out the question for the sake of saying it out loud--or writing it down--and giving it some semblance of permanence.

It's a sad affair, what Bruce and Rachel had.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Fussing Over "The"


Two days ago, I found myself in the middle of a debate, the source of the conflict being the title of the latest Batman movie.

I was raving about how wonderful The Dark Knight was and one co-worker (a guy named Wowoo) corrected me. "Shan, it's Dark Knight. There's no The."

I, of course, took a break from my raving and became quiet for a while. Then Wendell, another co-worker, seconded his statement.

I was frowning by then.

No, no, no, no. It's The Dark Knight.

No, there's no The.

And so on.

They were laughing at me. Those who overheard were amused. What's the fuss? they asked. It's the same old thing.

But I knew better. It wasn't the same.

I wasn't one to back away from "fights" like this. I once won a hundred bucks in a bet with a colleague over the words "anarchy" and "archaic." I knew I was sure about The Batman thing and I wasn't about to give up. But I knew I needed concrete, incontestable proof. And I was going to get one.

The next day, I approached my worthy opponents (separately, so the confrontation had to be done twice) and told them in a firm, solemn voice that I had done a lot of research (a tv documentary, a magazine review and a blog entry written by a credible, established writer named Luis Katigbak) and I had irrefutable proof that the movie's title was The Dark Knight. With a The, not without.

It might have been the mention of my sources, or the earnestness in my tone, but they clearly admitted defeat when one of them said, "really? But I thought it was... oh, well. Okay. So it's The Dark Knight, then" and the other said, "I knew that. It was Wowoo who was insisting it's Dark Knight."

Another battle has been won.

Let's move on to the next.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Answers

I often find myself caught off-guard by the questions people ask; mainly because a) I am, by nature, absent-minded and almost always adrift on some invisible cloud, or b) it is the nature of the questions themselves (not your average "how are you?" or "what's your favorite color?" sort) that get the wheels in my head to turn, and I mean, really turn.

Here are three actual examples (I've taken the liberty of answering them in this blog. Sad to say, I wasn't able to answer all of them during the time they were thrown at me. A blank stare was the most they got. Or, a puzzled frown, if they were lucky.)

1. Do you prioritize building relationships? (this question was from Sheila)

As a rule, no. I generally veer away from getting up-close and personal, be it with a colleague, a boss, an acquaintance, or a friend. Don't get me wrong, I do have friends, but generally, very few (and I mean less than a handful) of them are who I might call "close" friends. I put up a wall or, if I was unable to put up that wall at the start either because I was too busy or unaware, then I detach myself. In retrospect, this is something I've been doing since childhood. Practice makes perfect, as they say; so now, I could say that I've mastered the art.

Well, almost.

2. Tell me one weird thing you do when you get home. (from Wowoo)

Until now, I am drawing a blank. I don't have any unusual habits. So, this question is apparently useless. But interesting. I could probably try to come up with a list of weird habits, decide which one is the most unusual, and then put it into practice.

3. Is this what you really want to do? (pertaining to my line of work--several people have asked me this)

Truth be told, no, and there are so many reasons why. Among them are the following: a) the stress level is extremely high; b) I have to smile and appear agreeable even when I don't feel like it, which means I have to keep in check my moodiness and tendency to sulk and brood--which is very difficult to do because those things are second nature to me; c) my job involves a lot of critical decision-making and it just drives me nuts, at times; d) I go berserk when I get confronted with numbers and excel sheets; e) I seldom get the sleep that each of us rightfully deserves and needs; and f) I haven't read a single book in ages!

I could go on ranting but I'll stop, at this point. As the wise say, count your blessings, so, despite the complaints, I am thankful that I have a job. Which, come to think of it, is not such a bad one, after all.

(And here, folks, you can see the many colorful ways in which the female mind works.)

*My eyelids are drooping. Will turn in now. Good night.

Friday, July 18, 2008

THE DARK KNIGHT is The Joker's Movie


If the mask fits..

Heath Ledger's performance in The Dark Knight has ensured the gloriousness of his exit from this world. His death had all the elements of tragedy in it (a failed relationship, depression, an alleged drug overdose), but the passion--and authenticity--with which he tackled the role of theJoker, neatly gathered the pieces of his life together into one seamless, unforgettable whole.

His portrayal of the Joker will definitely be one tough act to follow: woe to him who dares try his hand at playing the deranged blackguard in future Batman films.

Snug as a hand in a custom-made glove--the perfection with which Batman's mask hides his persona is the same perfection with which Heath Ledger fits into the Joker.

Ledger completely disappears into the Joker.

And, in acting, that is the true measure of credibility, in the same way that madness is one sure consequence of brilliance. For the Joker is mad and brilliant, from the logic behind and the atrocity on his painted face to the cunning and grand systematization of his crimes. The Joker, a creature of contradictions, is representative of the grotesque that is evil and yet wise, making perfect sense in all his incoherence.

Ledger has, by all means, upstaged Christian Bale in the film, though to give the latter credit he so rightfully deserves, he has proven, once again, that the role of Batman/Bruce Wayne is rightfully his, if we are to glean this from the now slightly aged, harder features that fit right into the mask and doesn't disappoint once it's taken off, the brooding stance, and the undeniable current of power in his acting.

One gets the sense that his (Batman's, or Wayne's) very presence is, in itself, a contradiction of his longing to stay in obscurity. He is a troubled man, perhaps even as troubled as the Joker, although he has channeled this conflict within himself into a compulsion opposite to that of his nemesis'. He "completes" the Joker's persona (I am aware that it should be the other way around, but I do have a point), underlining the villain's outrageousness and perfect ease in the limelight (albeit for corrupt, deplorable reasons) with his own taciturn but essential (hey, he's the superhero here!) role as the Dark Knight.

The "upstaging," then, must have been deliberate. And this, I think, is the point I'm trying to make.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

2008 Strat Plan
















Am re-posting the Strat plan pictures (the ones I felt like salvaging, that is). Deleted the entry because I realized that I looked obscenely fat in some of the photos!







Monday, July 14, 2008

Rain, Rain, Go Away...

It's a cold, gray, rainy day.

It's been raining since yesterday. Last night, I swear, the wind was howling like crazy and the rain fell in torrents. It was like a night straight from Wuthering Heights. The inhospitable weather must've compounded Heathcliff's madness.

Weather like this also brings to mind the ending of Charlotte Bronte's Villette--an hour after finishing the book and I was still crying over poor Lucy Snowe's tragic, ironic fate.

Oh, well.

The rain does bring dismal, absurd thoughts.

What more, my legs and thighs are positively groaning in pain. I have bruises on my knees, as well. Last Saturday was probably the most rigorous pep squad practice we've had, since we started.

Anyway, just to comfort myself, my spoonful of sugar will be: burying myself underneath a warm blanket and watching Jay Leno's The Tonight Show until I fall asleep.

Am craving for a cup of steaming, hot coffee, but that might ward off the sleep I have to chase everyday. And am definitely not in the mood to go chasing (anyone or anything) today.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Earl


When my brother and I were small, we'd do what most kids do: fight like cats and dogs. And, like how it is with small children, we'd make up after a teeny short while and go back to playing as if nothing happened. Before that, though, I'd be my usual sumbungera self and tell on my brother to our Dad with a bratty "Daddy, si Earl!"

Earl, though, would do nothing of the sort--a sure sign of guy-ness, even at a young age. I would always be the one crying when we fought. And he would give in once he sees the tears streaming down.

Earl had really nice hair when he was a kid. It was fine and straight and done in a bunot cut, which made him look like a cute little pixie. Add the round eyes, small nose and heart-shaped lips, and the pixie look is complete. He was a cute child, period. Yup, cuter then me. Plus, he was sociable, friendly and diligent, while I was sulky, withdrawn and a señorita.

Portents of things to come, you might say.

Fast forward to today:

Earl (who's two years younger than me) has become my Kuya. He plays the role to the hilt especially with our youngest brother, Otom, and he's doing a wonderful job. He's very mature for his age and has proven himself dependable and level-headed, a complete contrast to my fickle-minded, idealistic self. His scolding (done with lambing, of course), I realize, is just what I need whenever I find myself in the dumps and choose to wallow in my tears instead of dusting myself up and facing whatever it is I have to face. He would talk some sense into my head and then I'd feel better, stronger.

The last time we talked, I found myself feeling immensely better, and laughing at the fact that my brother and I have had a reversal of roles.

The respect would always be there, of course, and the love. The presence of these two have kept us bonded over the years and over the distances. Our parents brought us up in a way that family ties would always come first, not because it is an obligation, but because it is something that is second nature to us. Love each other, our Mom would always say. And don't ever fight over such a shallow thing as money, she would add.

Today is my brother's birthday. He is twenty-six years old (gosh, can you believe that?). I can hardly believe it myself. He used to be six, even sixteen, for goodness' sake.

Time flies awfully fast.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Nothing Beats the Oldies

Caught a couple of old musicals on the Turner Classic Movies channel last Sunday:

1) Easter Parade (1948)- which starred Judy Garland (as Hannah Brown) and Fred Astaire (Don Hewes). Irving Berlin's "It Only Happens When I Dance With you" is such a lovely song, and so is "A Fella With an Umbrella," light and funny and sung by a girl and a guy, meeting for the first time and walking under the rain, sharing an, um, umbrella.
Some interesting tidbits about this film: The role of Don Hewes was originally written for Gene Kelly; the movie was the only collaboration between Fred Astaire and Judy Garland; and another movie (The Barkeleys of Broadway) was planned out for them, however, Ginger Rogers had to take the place of Judy Garland. Cool story, huh?

2) An American in Paris (1951)- an Academy Award Best Picture Winner, with Leslie Caron (as Lise) and Gene Kelly (as Jerry Mulligan). Nothing could compare to "Our Love is Here to Stay." The Gershwins are such geniuses! The movie was Leslie Caron's debut into filmdom (she went on to play the title role in Gigi, some years later).
One of the film's highlights, aside from its score, is a 13 minute uninterrupted "dream ballet," (described as "pretentious" by some critics) which cost half a million dollars to produce! Was wondering if the dance scene was ever gonna end, the first time I watched it.

Wouldn't mind watching these films for the zillionth time, though. Makes me feel like a child again.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

Back in the Habit

No, this isn't about Whoopi Goldberg or Sister Act, sorry.

This entry is about me. Like most of what's in this blog, duh-uh.

Anyway.

This pep squad thing has done more wonders for me than I thought it would. For one thing, it has brought back my running (as in the sport) days. I woke up really early this morning and, voila, my first thought was: I have gotta run today.

And run, I did.

All the stretching and warm-up and dancing we've been doing this past week have taken their toll on my muscles and bones--I'm now hankering for exercise.

Truth is, the first practice session was kind of a horrific thing for me. I was confident when I said yes to the organizers, trusting that my experience as a cheerleader in High School and my having run a 5-kilometer marathon in College would mean it'd be a piece of cake for me.

Oh, but I was mistaken.

My moves started out really rusty and my entire body screamed "pain!" for a whole week.

It still does, by the way, though it's more tolerable now. The reaction was just further proof of how badly out of shape I was.

Or that my age is starting to show.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I'd be able to keep this exercise thing going on.

For now, that is.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Right now, I am:


1. Writing on my blog and alternately reading Alice Munro's short story in The New Yorker website.
2. Listening to U2's "The Fly" on my ipod.
3. Regretting not having waken up on time to catch the early morning practice of John's World's Pep Squad. On Monday, I'm really gonna get it from our trainer. Oh, boy.
4. Trying to think of the best excuse to give on Monday when I get interrogated for having missed practice.
5. Wondering if I should have another cup of coffee.
6. Looking at a square patch of blue (called "the sky") from the window beside where I'm typing this entry.
7. Listening to The Philippine Madrigal Singers on my ipod. They're singing "Light of a Million Mornings."
8. Relieved that a spectacularly harrowing week at work is over.
9. Wondering what to type next.
10. Happy.

The Eternal Scapegoat

A guy gets dumped by his girlfriend and someone says "that's Karma." The man from next-door gets killed in a car crash and the neighbors say "it's Karma." China gets hit by a high-intensity earthquake and someone (like, um, Sharon Stone) says it was brought on by Karma.

I mean, come on.

If this Karma were a person, he'd be the most battered, most abused fall guy by now, and he'd have gone ahead and hung himself to death (a long, long time ago). So let's just give him a break.

Him, her, it, whatever.

It's easy to find someone--or something--to put the blame on when something unpleasant (from poverty to natural calamities to tragedy) rears its ugly head. Let's face it, shit happens and will continue to happen. The fact remains that there are and will always be things beyond our control that it would be futile to look for someone/something to point a finger on.

In the first place, do we even have to?

Bottom-line is: Nature will always be one force impossible to contend with and people will always make mistakes. We make "bad" decisions, give in to our "human" weaknesses, choose the "wrong" paths. And when the consequences of our actions come barging in for all the world to see, the world would say that it's Karma and that we deserve it, which is an outright misconception. But one that would be difficult to counter because we, being human, could be judgmental to a fault.

Until the world gets to understand the complexity of the human brain, until our scientists discover a way to halt the next earthquake or storm, until we all develop the power to see what will happen tomorrow, until we evolve into perfect beings, if perfect means faultless--it would be so much easier to point at something that would make sense to things that don't seem to make sense.

Hence, the ubiquitous line: "it's Karma."

Friday, June 20, 2008

The trouble with meeting so many people

(This little ditty is for my friends from Mortgage and Auto-Finance with whom I shared 24 fun hours in the Tagaytay Strat Plan)


There is no name that will suit this kinship

because truth is,
later at 7 a.m.
we all will have lost the nerve to:

sing like long-time pals
(who got drunk)
or laugh at our clumsy ping-pong
or outdo each other at poker
or laugh over small talk

or remember each others' names.

*This is so stupid! Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that I had a great time. c")
Looking forward to next year's!

Saturday, June 7, 2008

"We like to think of our beliefs, and disbeliefs, as founded on reason and close, thoughtful observation. Only in theory do we begin to suspect the power of aesthetics to shape our lives."

-Tobias Wolff, "Winter Light"-

Saturday, May 31, 2008

Conspicuously Juxtaposed:

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

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

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

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Woman, Awakening

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Lea, Her Life... On Stage


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, May 24, 2008

DARK HOURS in the Morning


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, May 17, 2008

from James Merrill's "Lost in Translation"

And after rain
A deep reverberation fills with stars.

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

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

Seeing



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

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

I did not know.

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

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

He told me what he saw.

And none of them were ghosts.

*painting: Gustav Klimt's FARM GARDEN

Writer's Block Thought #2:


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

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

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Writer's block thought #1:


It's been nothing but work, work, work these past few weeks.
I could perfectly empathize with the Energizer bunny--I feel like one from the moment I step into the office building--as if some invisible hand turns on the switch--to the time I get out, batteries drained from all the mechanized movement.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Lit Geek Update #7


Last book I read: Imagining Characters (A.S. Byatt and Ignes Sodre)

This would have to be one of the best Literary Criticism pieces I've ever read. It's written in a dialogue form, a recorded conversation between psychoanalyst Ignes Sodre and A.S. Byatt, who has been hailed as the George Eliot of her generation. For me, though, this description doesn't at all do Byatt any justice because she, on her own, is worthy of being seen as a literary giant, right up there with Charlotte and Emily Bronte, Jane Austen, and George Eliot.
The conversation being between two women, it goes without saying that the feminist undertow figures strongly on the book's pages. Nothing radical is presented, at least not the in-your-face kind, although for female readers, the seemingly innocuous ideas would rightly come across as stronger than they would to the casual (read: male--no offense meant) reader.
To put it in a nutshell, the two authors discuss books written by women, giving them a motley richness of readings--mythical, biographical, archetypal, psychoanalytic, structuralist, feminist, etc. Some of the pieces they discussed (and the ones I liked best) were George Eliot's Daniel Deronda , Charlotte Bronte's Villette and Toni Morrisson's Beloved.

Here are some insights which I found really noteworthy:

1. Coleridge's idea of life-in-death, from his "Rime of the Ancient Mariner", is a recurring discussion thread in the conversations. It's not surprising for such a dark theory to be associated with the texts, as the texts' writers are women who, at some point in their lives, found themselves bound by the patriarchal social structure in which they lived, which, to some--or more--extent, must have thwarted their supposedly "ideal" (again, as expected by society) perception of how they should have lived their lives. A life strictly patterned (for the sake of conforming in order to avoid stigmatization) after the dictates of a seemingly "moral" or "correct" society would eventually prove to be a form of death, after all. Upto this very day, the emancipated woman is looked down upon; if at all admired, it is done so begrudgingly and with reservations.

2. One of the most beautiful parts of the book is where Byatt dips into Beloved for the section where Sethe, the main protagonist, arrives at the breaking point, having punished herself for so long in desperate longing for a lost child, Beloved, whom she calls "her best thing" and Paul D., her lover, corrects her, saying, "You your best thing, Sethe. You are" (p. 273). I remember having been moved by the line, as well, while I was reading the novel about a year ago. One of the remarkable differences in the treatment of men-women relationships between literature written by men and those written by women, according to Byatt in the discussion of Villette, is that in the former, women are made to respond to masterfulness whereas in the latter, women respond to kindness (ch. 2). Both authors agree that Paul D's statement embodies their belief that the true literary heroes are the men who see women for what and who they are in themselves, their intrinsic make-up as opposed to their relation to the external world; that prior to being daughters, mothers or slaves (in African-American literature, especially), women are foremost women, and no one has the right to take this from them, regardless of whatever costumes get thrown their way by society.

3. Below is a passage from chapter 6, stated beautifully by Sodre:

"...however horrible the past, you can only live and be sane and integrated if you live in contact with it. The connection with beauty is important--the sense of hope and the will to create a better life are deeply connected to the ability to preserve beauty and goodness in the internal world. One of the fundamental ideas in Kleinian psychoanalytic theory is that sanity depends on the capacity to retain a good, trusting link with good figures in the internal world--the capacity to survive loss through the internalisation of the good experience." (p. 221)

Monday, April 7, 2008

Well-read and Well-dressed

Sunday mornings find me at my most laid-back state. A cup of ginseng or red yeast coffee and a book or a magazine are my best pals at this time of day, this day of the week.
This particular Sunday in question, things were just as they should be: I, emerging from the house in an old, yellow shirt, cup of coffee in hand, walking toward the glass-topped table, where lay a copy of the April issue of Preview and A.S. Byatt's Imagining Characters, a bookmark sandwiched between two of its pages.
I sat down, musing, eyeing the magazine and the book, lying casually beside each other like old friends enjoying the early morning sunlight. It occurred to me how this partnership might strike some as unlikely--the fashion magazine with its emphasis on the superficial and the Booker Prize Winning author's book on literary criticism of Women's Fiction (which could just as well be a dissertation on Feminism, by the way).
I sat down and stared at them and tried to weigh which one was more important to me--a silly thought, really, but one which crossed my mind, nevertheless, like an epiphany of sorts. I knew very well which one I'd rather lose over the other and which one I'd cry over if I ever had to lose it. Still, the fleeting question breezed by and I realized as I shook my head and grinned wryly, that I wasn't the nerd that some people (from High School, in particular) thought me to be. For me, intelligence dressed in mismatched clothes (a striped top and checked pants, for example) is less interesting, in the same way that a smartly-dressed woman without brains is ugly.
If you can quote Oscar Wilde but know no better than to wear those hideous white flats with purple pants, then it's time to look in the mirror and ask yourself why you never paid attention to what you wore. Or, better yet, grab a magazine from the bookshop and take a crash course on the difference between a pump and a mule, what a tulip skirt is and what season it was from, who Stella McCartney is aside from being a Beatle brat, is Yohji Yamamoto a he or a she, what does tweed look like and will it look good on you, etc, etc.
But make sure you don't forget who it was that said that to think is to be, or where the Leaning Tower of Pisa is, or if Pompeii is a person or a place and who Coleridge is. And brush up on those fractions--you just might need them on your shopping spree next sale season!

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

My Oscar Buzz

Let me brag and say that I have watched four of the five Academy Award nominees for Best Picture. I know this might not mean a lot to the geeks (and I use that term with admiration) out there, but hey, this is me talking, and I've never been that much into movies until fairly recently. I have yet to watch Michael Clayton, but here are my two cents' worth on the four that I've seen, so far:

1. Atonement- I might go so far as to say that the movie is better than the book. Ian McEwan's prose should be lauded for its intricateness but more often than is acceptable, the words and paragraphs tend to go over the boundaries of tightness and spill out into overstatement. The plot is riveting, though, and the movie succeeds in capturing both the excitement of the story and the gamut of emotions felt by the characters. Freed of the excessive expositions, the film is held in check at the seams and the actors' portrayals blend well with the setting, the plot and the themes.

2. Juno- please see review in previous blog entry. Thanks.

3. No Country For Old Men- the film's victory over the others is well-deserved. I am guessing that the chances of the regular movie-goer liking this film is low, and that should be warning enough that this is definitely not your "typical" blockbuster hit (will it be a hit, I wonder?). It has almost no score, very quiet except for a few, paltry but well-written lines here and there, has lots (as compared to the minimal script) of gunshots, and pools of blood staining the desert sands, the streets, the floors, the sheets, the clothes. The film completely overturned my expectations in that the man I was rooting for during the chase unceremoniously dies in the middle, the protagonist never captures the villain, who disappears without a trace, leaving me positively clueless of his whereabouts, or what it is that fate has in store for him. Javier Bardem is spectacularly creepy in the movie and his acting should be reason enough to make the film worth your time.

4. There Will Be Blood- My only take-away from this movie is that Daniel Day Lewis can act. And I mean, really act. And really, that is all I have to say. I guess I'd have to watch the film one more time. And then one more, after that.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Conan and Jay on the Rewind

And The Writers' Strike is finally over. (I felt the need to write it as a proper noun--it's become such a phenomenon over the past months, as most everyone will agree, and considering the effect it had on the American entertainment industry).

The great Conan O'Brien, without his writers but armed with his Harvard degree in History and Literature, managed to make do with slapstick, stupidly innovative gadgets and laughter-inducing brouhaha. His ever-reliable wit, not to mention his tall, lanky frame and cartoonish face crowned with that pompadour-like red hair, pocked with those beady eyes, that longish nose and those strip-thin lips (I have a feeling that one day, not long ago, he suddenly had this urge to strip off his mouth and sketch on a new pair of lips!) got him through those trying times.

And Jay Leno, undoubtedly my favorite among the three late night talk show hosts (I'm not much for David Letterman--there's simply too much sarcasm in his humor that leaves a sour taste), remained his old, hefty, understatedly funny self. He didn't have to resort (much)to antics and stuff; though without Conan's comical looks, his, uhm, sizeable chin and spectacularly down-to-earth (oxymoron, anyone?) way of delivering his punch-lines more than made up for the absence of the organized script.

So these two hosts have yet again proven that they are forces to contend with, and that they could stand on their own, much to the satisfaction of the late night talk show addict.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

It's no different year, after year, after year. The weary sigh in defeat--they know they won't get any flowers, just like last year; the cynical roll their eyes in (feigned) disgust; the blase (haha) shrug their shoulders; and the young--oh, the young--shiver in anticipation (ugh), starry-eyed, ignorant. Foolish.

You probably know what i'm talking about, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

I Recommend: JUNO


One of this year's must-see movies, Juno proved a tear-jerker for good ol' sentimental-but-trying-hard-not-to-be me. Don't expect dramatics, though. The script and the acting are as understated as a pair of white school socks. Diablo Cody has done a great job with the story, proof yet again that genius doesn't go around sporting airs and an up-turned nose; and that womanhood could be respresented, in turns, by a beautiful, well-mannered, high-heeled yuppie named Vanessa, and a spunky, sassy sixteen-year old named Juno, with her no-nonsense shirts, baggy jeans and dirty sneakers.
There are some things that only women will understand, bonds that only mothers will share with other mothers, as this movie will inevitably prove; but here's hoping that the movie will speak to men, as well, because the men in Juno's world prove themselves worthy of being called men, after all.
The four Academy Award nominations running behind its back should be decoy enough.
So, watch it! Watch it! Watch it!