If You Forget Me (Pablo Neruda)

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

"I promise myself, to be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear, and too happy to permit the presence of trouble."

What helpful lines! Got this from A's blog.

Burt's Bees!

It's that time of the year again.

I've had severely wind-burnt lips for days now and it'll most probably last for months (I know 'cause I have this every year). It hurts like crazy, especially right after waking up and, worse, people have been teasing me nonstop about it. One asked me if I had collagen injected to my lips; another called me Angelina; and the worst that I've gotten was being called "Joker."

(edit: eating, laughing, yawning, and brushing my teeth have become chores. It's agony, this. :()

I use this:



But now I think I need to get this:



disclaimer: this is not an advertisement, though I have to say that I swear by Burt's Bees lip balms--they are such a source of comfort!

Paper

In the office, today, I found myself buried in paper.

For a good part of the day, I sat in front of my desk, sorting loads and loads of documents, patiently weeding out the obsolete, "for-shredding" ones and trying my hardest to stack them in a neat pile, but which ended up still collapsing in an untidy heap, anyway, because I didn't have the sense to realize that once the pile got too high, it'd surely topple. I ended up squatting on the floor (and to think that I'd chosen this day, of all days, to wear skinny jeans) and put the damn things back in order.

I muttered a lot while I was at it, but in reality, I was thankful for the exercise, as it kept my mind from drifting to anxiety-land.

I looked through folders, peeped into envelopes, removed paper clips (for re-use), skimmed through pages to make sure I didn't dispose of the ones I still needed. My trusty cup of coffee, of course, sat faithfully on my desk, keeping me company, assuring me that things were alright.

And what do you know, I actually managed to cook up a semblance of order, finishing off with a clean desk, a less cluttered (I was going to type "uncluttered" but changed my mind--I can never be "uncluttered") lateral and a pedestal that I could actually put things in and not lose them after three minutes.

At the end of the day, I handed the heavy pile of unwanted documents to the cleaners, hoping that they'd end up being recycled. The documents, not the cleaners, that is.

Energy Conservation Tip:

shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down shut the mind down

Rilke: Paris, April 1913

Overflowing heavens of squandered stars
flame brilliantly above your troubles. Instead
of into your pillows, weep up toward them.
There, at the already weeping, at the ending visage,
slowly thinning out, ravishing
worldspace begins. Who will interrupt,
once you force your way there,
the current? No one. You may panic,
and fight that overwhelming course of stars
that streams toward you. Breathe.
Breathe the darkness of the earth and again
look up! Again. Lightly and facelessly
depths lean toward you from above. The serene
countenance dissolved in night makes room for yours.

-Rainer Maria Rilke Uncollected Poems, trans. Edward Snow, p. 57-

I Love: DKNY Be Delicious

From sephora.com:

Be Delicious
A modern feast for the senses. Served in a sleek metal and glass apple bottle, this juicy fragrance combines the scent of apple with a sophisticated blend of exotic flowers and sensual woods. Like the city that inspired it, Be Delicious celebrates individuality with refreshing spirit.

Notes:
American Apple, Cucumber, Grapefruit, Candid Magnolia, Tuberose, White Muguet, Rose, Violet, Sandalwood, Tender Skin Accord, Blonde Woods, White Amber.

My Lola's House

Reading this post from The Cat's blog blew me into a nostalgic swirl. Spirals of memories of my Lola's old house in Albay where I spent my early childhood put a sentimental spell on me and I found myself traveling way, way back in time, when I lived each day one at a time (adulthood makes this concept virtually impossible, won't you agree?).

I remember writing about that very big, slightly worn and very charming old house in one of my journals (which I can't seem to find, darn) and raving about the loquacious chickens milling about with their chicks and the resident turtle inching his way with an upturned nose, never minding anybody's business except his own. There, too, was Queen, the dog, who was immortalized in one of my pictures which my dad took when I was a toddler in diapers, with pink curlers on my already wavy hair (what was my mom thinking?), my lolo, Papa, beside me, smiling that perpetually benevolent smile of his. It was from Papa that I discovered who Robin Hood was. My brother and I usually spent siesta on his hammock, listening to his stories.

Let me remember to tell you, too, about the mornings, when I would wake up to the smell of frying tocino, longganisa or badi (dried fish), which my brother, Earl, used to be really crazy about. The tocino and longganisa later made way for bacon. For lunch, it was cocido, or adobo, or mechado or afritada, or escabeche. Mama (my lola) made it a point to cook the best meals for her grandkids and her cooking is one of the things I miss fiercely. Mama's food was priceless. There, she poured out her love and her heart.

Come to think of it, that grand, old house was Mama.

The last time I passed by the place, though, I saw nothing but tall, green grass.

Thoughts on Women's Month

I've dipped my fingers--no, make that hands--in quite a number of debates, and most of these were arguments with male friends, verbal romps ranging from the mundane to the lofty, from flippant topics to weighty ones. There is something strangely satisfying in seeing the look on a man's face when he senses defeat creeping along with the words being thrown at him by a woman who's determined to avoid losing, at all costs. And it wasn't the woman who started the match, in the first place.

...or was it?

The thing with today's female is that she is angry, and rightly so. I don't want to indulge in prattling (as men would call it) about society's having favored the son over the daughter for centuries and centuries, but I will, anyway, because woman has held her voice in hushed tones for far too long and has lately refused to be silent.

It's written all over history and literature, that man has worn the iron glove for far too long. But woman will no longer have any of that. Out with the washing and the fingers burnt from cooking day in, and day out. Now, you see her out there, in her clicking heels, smart skirt and crisp, tailored blouse (with ruffles, too), ruling the corporate world alongside men; in her tiny, short shorts, braving the heat and the dust and overtaking the smug, muscled runner (who's male, of course) in last Saturday's 10k.

It doesn't matter what she is, or what she wants to become: truth is, woman is gaining on, and even outdoing, her male counterparts in fields which which used to be ruled by men. Goodness, she can now grasp the world in her hands if she wanted!

No more speaking in whispers and bowing heads in silence. Woman has, in all her emancipated glory, finally come out and the men better watch what they say or else they're really gonna get it.

May you realize your true worth this Women's month, and ever after.

Hurrah to girl power!

The Kim and I

Me: Do you know what tomorrow is?
Kim: Saturday.
Me: What else?
Kim: Last-day-of-exams day.
Me: What else?
Kim: Go-to-mall day.
Me: What else?
Kim: Birthday-Mommy day!

:)

Good Morning

A peek through the curtain revealed an 8 o'clock that was cool and mild, if a little gray, not the kind of morning you'd expect to see on a summer's day. Just perfect for running, so I slipped into my running pants and put on my running shoes, did some warm-up, turned on Robyn's "Cobrastyle" and prodded my legs into action.

I met a white man walking his dog (a very handsome husky--though I can't really be sure if it was male). The man said "good morning," and I said "good morning," back. Before that, he had greeted other joggers, which assured me that his having greeted me was in no way out of the ordinary. The thing with us, Pinoys, is that we like going our own way. I, for one, certainly wouldn't have thought of saying hello to a stranger, just because. Which is sad, come to think of it.

I jogged through the streets of the village, willing the sweat to come, pushing away the negative vibes, exorcising the morose thoughts. I ordered my mind to focus on the peacefulness of the morning. I felt thankful to be alive. With each swing, I tried to count my blessings. I took deep breaths. I ran, and ran, and ran.

It was the perfect way to jump start my morning. As I was eating breakfast, I felt mighty glad thinking that it had given me the energy to do things for the day--do some cleaning, perhaps, or re-organize my closet.

And now I am in front of the PC, hopping from my blog to my Facebook.

Today: TAKEN

I was shouting, "asteeg! astig ka, Liam! astig ka!" after Liam Neeson uttered these lines, via phone, to his daughter's abductor/s:

"I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you."

And in that incredibly calm and clear voice, too! Goosebumps and hysteria! I was trying my best to hold on to my seat (and my screams) all throughout. Didn't have much success, though.

I can only be glad that I didn't see this in the movie house. I would've annoyed the hell outta my neighbors.

This week, I watched:

1. "Zodiac"
Director: David Fincher
Stars: Jake Gyllenhaal, RObert Downey, Jr., Mark Ruffalo



2. "The Usual Suspects"
Director: Bryan Singer
Stars: Kevin Spacey, Chazz Palminteri, Gabriel Byrne, Stephen Baldwin, Benicio Del Toro

Middle of things

All in all, a very busy, very fulfilling week.

The inter-process calibration I've planned out and organized from late last year and scheduled for yesterday finally pushed through (and with fantastic results--all in all, a success!); I received a zero-variance rating on my monitors (for week 1, at least); plus, I've been running more regularly since the beginning of this month (oh, yes, March is indeed my favorite month, heat and all!).

Apologies for whatever jargon-like terms I may have used. I'm just so full to the brim with satisfaction that I had to let it out, otherwise I'd spill over.

Then again, I'd better not let it go overboard. I know something not quite so good will be bound to come around the corner, anyhow. I mean, doesn't it always?

And, oh, yeah, I almost forgot to tell you about what happened last Monday.

But let me save that for another post.

from THE NOTEBOOK

Noah: You're bored Allie. You're bored and you know it. You wouldn't be here if there wasn't something missing.
Allie: You arrogant son of a bitch.
Noah: Would you just stay with me?
Allie: Stay with you? What for? Look at us, we're already fightin'
Noah: Well that's what we do, we fight... You tell me when I am being an arrogant son of a bitch and I tell you when you are a pain in the ass. Which you are, 99% of the time. I'm not afraid to hurt your feelings. You have like a 2 second rebound rate, then you're back doing the next pain-in-the-ass thing.
Allie: So what?
Noah: So it's not gonna be easy. It's gonna be really hard. We're gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, for ever, you and me, every day...


giant sigh.

She knows Eddie Vedder
(spell check, please)

I wish we could talk
about Pearl Jam
but I only know
Maria Callas.

You laugh and ask me

if I'd seen
Fargo
I answer, "no, but
The Sound of Music, I'd seen
a hundred times."

Snicker

and then

separate ways,
as always.

But
have you ever thought of
wanting
to talk to me about
Camelot?

I guess
not.

Revolutionary Road

He should have taken her to Paris. He should have given her more time. He shouldn't have slept with that dumb brunette. He shouldn't have shouted at her, or called her "sick" or made as if he was about to strike her. He shouldn't have made her feel even more awful than she already did after the failure of the play she acted in. He should've listened to her more, understood her need for nonconformity. He should have taken her to a shrink at the first signs of depression.

He should've been more of a man...

Having said all these things, I wouldn't have the movie start and go and end any other way (good thing Richard Yates made the book that way and Justin Haythe saw it fit to write the screenplay the way he did).

In the sad, mad world of Frank and April Wheeler, that ending was inevitable.

And then there was Knox Business Machines and the run-of-the-mill bachelors and fathers offering unsolicited advice to Frank; the Wheelers' neighbors and good friends, the Campbells, who obviously were battling some low-lying demons in their relationship and home life, as well; John Givings, their realtor's medically depressed son, who became an immediate foil and a glaring reflection which so forcefully threw them toward reassessing their supposedly perfect life and "specialness."

And there, too, was the baby.

A heavy, beautiful one, this film. Made me swallow hard to push back the lump of dysphoria in my throat.

The tears rose, all the same. I am such a cry-baby.

Let's see you sit through this one and stand up cheerful.

The Reader

Beautiful.

I was teary-eyed, as usual.

Some random stuff I want to write down today:

1. That person you seem to hate so much without really knowing why? Chances are, there is a common trait (or two, or three) you and that person share.

2. There are good girls, but then, there are bad girls, too.

3. People come and people go.

4. Today is a gift, that's why it's called "present." --from "Kung-Fu Panda," so I've been told, though I think I remember someone having forwarded me this in a text message.

5. Kenny Rogers Roasters' chicken noodle soup is yummy!

6. The weekend will be upon us very soon--something to smile about, right there. =)

7. Coffee on the carpet, after a day or two of being there, will stink. eew

8. I have a thing for counting the steps when I climb a flight of stairs. And it is a must that I end with an odd number. Otherwise, I improvise. Or something.

9. If we look close enough, we'll find that there is always someone who will listen when we need to rant. If that person rants with us, then all the better!

10. We do our best to get by, day by day. And most of the time, we get by just fine.

Sloughing the Jigglies: Action plan #2

Since I have been unable to follow Action Plan #1 to a T, I have come up with a supplementary measure: I am running again!

Yoohooey for me!

LOL

Let's see how long I'd be able to keep this up.
Thanks to The Cat for the commiseration.
:)

It's my favorite month of the year!

MARCH
by Emily Dickinson

Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat-
You must have walked-
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell.

Perfume

The morning's wee hours proved the perfect time to watch "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer."

I was a clean slate (read: had no idea what the movie was about) when I watched it. I was glued to "Dangerous Minds" and then saw the flashing "next on Star Movies: Perfume" thing on the top left of the screen and thought "Perfume" seemed like a nice movie title. So, I decided to watch it.



My fascination with scents found a framework in this 2006 film, where the protagonist is an olfactory savant whose obsessive pursuit of the perfect scent (after having discovered that he, ironically, has no scent of his own) drives him to turn to unconventional (to say the least) methods. His detachment from everything else unnerved--and enthralled--me. There was something mystical about him, and something amoral, at the same time.

Directed by Tom Tykwer ("Run, Lola, Run"), this movie was adapted from Patrick Suskind's 1985 best-selling novel. It stars: Ben Whishaw as Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, Dustin Hoffman as Giuseppe Baldini and Alan Rickman as Antoine Richis.

Click here for information on Enfleurage.
But watch the movie first!

Twinklings

Today, someone told me: it's not the breath you take every moment, but the moments that take your breath away. I'm not quite sure I got that right, but it's a beautiful thought, nevertheless.

There's a fairy tale-ish element in those lovely, ephemeral three winks when you simply have to gasp (in awe, amazement, or pleasure), that stay with you long after they're over, sights as simple as:

a scarlet bloom amidst luxurious green;

the twilit sky, bursting into orange and red, with velvet, ashen evening in the background, ready to wrap the world in its gigantic embrace;

a child's wide-eyed and toothy smile, full of joy and trust;

that of you, walking back home and laughing at that most recent, silly moment, your hair blowing and your chuckle floating in the afternoon breeze...

May you have one such moment today.
Have a great weekend!

Lit Geek update #11: Italo Calvino's "The Daughters of the Moon"

I read this story over at TheNewYorker.com.
It puzzled me, but this paragraph, I think, would best encapsulate what it is the story is trying to tell:

"In this world where every object was thrown away at the slightest sign of breakage or aging, at the first dent or stain, and replaced with a new and perfect substitute, there was just one false note, one shadow: the moon. It wandered through the sky naked, corroded, and gray, more and more alien to the world down here, a hangover from a way of being that was now outdated..."

And then, follows another brilliant paragraph:

"Ancient expressions like “full moon,” “half-moon,” “last-quarter-moon” continued to be used but were really only figures of speech: how could we call “full” a shape that was all cracks and holes and that always seemed on the point of crashing down on our heads in a shower of rubble? Not to mention when it was a waning moon! It was reduced to a kind of nibbled cheese rind, and it always disappeared before we expected it to. At each new moon, we wondered whether it would ever appear again (were we hoping that it would simply disappear?), and when it did reappear, looking more and more like a comb that had lost its teeth, we averted our eyes with a shudder..."

Sheer genius. Just the mere thought of the moon dying... Won't that change everything the way we've known them to be?

The story ends with these lines:

"...we realize that now is when life begins, and yet it is clear that what we desire we shall never have."

Pessimism is Ugly.

Looking at the sky still shakes my faith, at times. Its vastness warps its beauty.

Sloughing the Jigglies: Action plan #1

For breakfast, NO RICE.
For lunch, pig-out.
For dinner, yoghurt.


Yeah, sorry, I can't get rid of the pig-out thingie. I told myself that even if I went on a diet, I will have to binge on at least one meal for the day, and lunch seems like the best time to do that.

You think this'll work?

Growing Up

Some years back, the sight of a plane in flight was a beautiful sign of good luck, a portent of something pleasant about to happen. Etched against the blue sky, the plane was my beacon of hope. It lifted me from my slump.

Now, I have realized that the only reason why I constantly see airplanes is this: I live near the airport. (Well, relatively)

Poop.

Parched

I am going through a dry--no, make that very dry--blogging spell right now.

It's been eons since I last posted an entry here. It's not like I haven't tried, though. It frustrates me to look at all the unfinished drafts staring back at me from my posting box. They blink at me, waiting, waiting, waiting for me to, maybe, click on "edit" and finish them, give them the shape they think they should have.

But, for the life of me, I couldn't. It's probably the stale, dusty winds in the workplace that are sucking my creative juices dry, not that I had much, to begin with. Too much reality for li'l ol' me, I guess.

I am waiting for the rains, summoning them whenever I manage to muster the strength to do so, eventually giving up because I always fail.

So this is all I'm publishing for now, though I wish it were something else.

I really do.

(image from here)

"What if this is as good as it gets?"

(photo from this site)

Awww... moment:

"I might be the only person on the face of the earth that knows you're the greatest woman on earth. I might be the only one who appreciates how amazing you are in every single thing that you do, and how you are with Spencer, "Spence," and in every single thought that you have, and how you say what you mean, and how you almost always mean something that's all about being straight and good. I think most people miss that about you, and I watch them, wondering how they can watch you bring their food, and clear their tables and never get that they just met the greatest woman alive. And the fact that I get it makes me feel good, about me."

-Melvin Udall to Carol Connelly, As Good as it Gets (1997)-



Sigh.

Running in Heels (or something like it)

One of my greatest fears is to trip on my heels in front of a crowd. (Oh, heaven forbid!)

Because of this, I try my best to be careful when I walk, as I am almost always in heels during work days. No casual spectator would notice, though, that I am being very ginger when I walk. As a result of constant practice, I have mastered the art of walking--even running--in heels.

When I was still working in Makati, there was this one lunch time where, with a single-minded goal to be in on time, a paper bag of burgers and fries in hand and my hair flying in several directions, I had to run a block in three-inch stilettoes, nudging strangers along the way, ejecting mumbled apologies here and there.

Now, thanks to the relative laid-backness of Alabang (though it's fast on its way to rivalling Makati in pace), I have somehow avoided having to run a block in a race against time. The most I do right now is to sprint from the car to the office elevator, muttering expletives (to myself) for not having woken up earlier than the 75 minute-allowance which should have been, at least, an hour and a half, if I had wanted to spare my feet from more varicose veins and my shoes from premature wear-and-tear.

I am aware that I am a walking recipe for foot and leg injury, but this is the point I really wanted to make, and which I will pose in question form: how do you equate running in heels to the highs and lows of life?

:)

Poor Dolphins!

Did you hear about the hundreds of Melon-head dolphins who got stranded in the shallow waters of Manila Bay?

Such sad news, the poor creatures. Hope they get back to safe waters soon.

(Thanks, Wowoo, for the update)

I am a Wolf

That's according to Native American astrology. This is my first contact with Native American astrology and I must say I'm intrigued.

I visited what's-your-sign.com and it has this to say about people like me:

Wolf: Feb 19 – Mar 20
Deeply emotional, and wholly passionate, the Wolf is the lover of the zodiac in both the physical and philosophical sense of the word. The Wolf understands that all we need is love, and is fully capable of providing it. Juxtaposed with his/her fierce independence – this Native American animal symbol is a bit of a contradiction in terms. Needing his/her freedom, yet still being quite gentle and compassionate – we get the picture of the "lone wolf" with this sign. In a nurturing environment the Wolf is intensely passionate, generous, deeply affectionate, and gentle. Left to his/her own devices the Wolf can become impractical, recalcitrant, obsessive, and vindictive.

Hmm... "impractical, recalcitrant, obsessive, and vindictive."

Very interesting.

Go, visit the site to check out your sign:

Otter: Jan 20 - Feb 18
Wolf: Feb 19 – Mar 20
Falcon: Mar 21 – Apr 19
Beaver: Apr 20 – May 20
Deer: May 21 – Jun 20
Woodpecker: Jun 21 – Jul 21
Salmon: Jul 22 – Aug 21
Bear: Aug 22 – Sep 21
Crow/Raven: Sep 22 – Oct 22
Snake/Serpent: Oct 23 – Nov 22
Owl: Nov 23 – Dec 21
Goose: Dec 22 – Jan 19

Vapors

I still feel like I'm teetering on the edge of some high place. After the hell I had surpassed, I've begun to think of myself as someone who will steadily face each setting of the omnipresent sun.

Lately, the feeling that this may not be the case has been nagging me like some persistent echo.

In January 7, 2007, I wrote:

You probably know how it is, when that tiny wail clamped inside your chest balloons into a huge lump of painful, ear-splitting screams. For some of us, it's easy to let it out. Never mind that the odds of being heard by the people two doors away are ninety-nine to one. It's as easy as one, two, three, scream! Then it's all over and you feel a thousand times better where it used to hurt like needle-pricks.

For the less fortunate ones (namely, the repressed), shouting is out of the question. The thought of it just never comes, simply because it's not the natural instinct. We probably never learned the trick as children.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. 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.

And then the tears never really come.They have retreated, pushed down, as well. And we think, what a feat it has been, what sweetness in the strength of temperance, one more victory for the taking.

If it's victory or something else, I can never really be certain.

Wanderlust: 0%

People talk about scheduling (or coming back from) a trip to Singapore, Hong Kong or LA, climbing mountains and cruising down oceans, driving out of town, sunbathing in Galera, girl-watching in Bora, etc, etc.

People go places (or at least express the desire to) like it were the most wonderful thing in the world to be somewhere other than where one is.

And I wonder: why can't I be like them?

Yeah, I do want to experience what that eagerness to gallivant feels like. Truth is, there is an element of envy here (the innoccuous kind, that is), some sort of "can we trade places for a day?" thing.

Friends have invited me for a day or two at the beach, a trip to Phuket, a shopping pilgrimmage to Hong Kong. I've always had some difficulty saying "no," because with the "no" comes the prerequisite explanation why. How do I explain that the prospect of toasting in the sun has absolutely zero appeal to me, that the thought of skin aging (few of us are aware, and we will only see the effects later on, but skin aging does start early and the sun is one of the biggest culprits!) makes me shudder and avoid the sun as much as I can. A long trip, on the other hand, or one that would require me to pack and board a plane and land in a place where everything is strange, has never been a part of my life's itinerary.

This is not to say, though, that I am as boring as I sound. There is that occasional longing to go out (aside from the proverbial coffee with friends and shopping at the mall) and have a good time somewhere new. But again, the word is "occasional" and the supplementary adjective is "fleeting."

And people, of course, would start preaching about how I am missing half of my life and all that good stuff. How do I explain that I'd much rather stay where I am, that a real break, for me, means sleeping for 12 straight hours in my warm, cozy bed (just because for the longest time, I haven't really had enough sleep), that a cup of coffee and a good book, movie or magazine are enough to keep me company to the places I want to go to, and that, through the words I've read, I've actually already gone to the places I want to visit?

How do you explain that to people and expect them to understand? In the same way that I respect their desire--and need--to go to far places and satisfy that itch to see the world (or the blue of the beach, for that matter), I expect them, too, to respect my wish to be left at peace and, when prodded to accept an invite, not have the need to launch into an obligatory, lengthy (because too few words would mean not getting yourself across and having to explain even more) explanation and, worse, be forced to say yes to something I don't want.

I appreciate the fact that I still do get asked to go, proof that my friends do not hate my company all that much (lol).

Well, who knows, one distant day, in a cafe in Prague, you'll look up and feel a jolt to see me offering you a cup of coffee. Or, one Friday in Bora, you'll catch a glimpse of me, bikini-clad and tanned, cavorting with my friends under the hot, glorious sun.

Now, that'll be the day. I'm in stitches, just thinking about it.

;p

LITTLE VOICE

Buy it, buy it, buy it!

All the songs are gorgeous!

Work-o-rama

Work has been--still is, and will continue to be--insanely stressful.

I cannot believe that after a super hectic January, February promises to be just as loaded! I'm finding it maddening, trying to fit all my deliverables (plus ad hocs, to boot!) within an 8-hour shift. So far, I have been able to catch my breath every now and then, thank you, but tomorrow, I'm positive, will be different. I'm almost sure I won't have the time to exhale!

So, does the paycheck justify the stress?

Facebook na lang!
Weehee!

:)

Don't you just love these men?

How to Read a Poem

...
when I recall how I've dipped tenderness
into blood, into that never startled
soundless heartblood of things so loved

Toledo, November 1912
p. 25, Rainer Maria Rilke: Uncollected Poems
translated by Edward Snow



Revisiting Rilke, I realized that I'd almost forgotten how achingly beautiful poetry can be--how reading the words make images float, leaving one transfixed after taking them in.

Someone once told me, "teach me how to read this poem," and I said, "I cannot teach, nor show you, how to read poetry. You have to learn it on your own, and that would mean a lifetime of reading. Got that? A lifetime. Read. Drink the words in, turn them over in your mind, sketch and paint them in the colors that they speak to you. You may, or may not, see the story there is in the poem, the nuances in the language, the gradations in its meaning; your well of experiences, in turn, will be the scale that will measure the depth with which it speaks to you. Read, read the words, and love them. And then you would have taught yourself poetry."

Rabbit at Rest

"A & P," Rabbit, Run--I will best remember John Updike for this story and this novel.

He was one of the most prolific writers who lived and the Literary World will surely mourn his passing.

Lit Geek Update #10

Last book I read: Soledad's Sister by Jose Dalisay

This book ended my (relatively) long reading hiatus. Poring through its first page at a bookstore roused my slumbering lust for print on paper. I finished the novel in a jiffy because putting it down without having read it to the last page was difficult. The pepper was as much the absurdity of the image of a dead woman in an erroneously labeled casket brought home aboard a plane and the numerous, similarly absurd stories it brings together to its unlikely wake, as the author's signature masterful hand at language, plot and characterization. Butch Dalisay is "old school"-- and it is a school all lovers of Philippine Literature had better keep themselves in.

For some strange reason, the book made me think briefly of George Eliot's Middlemarch, what with the seemingly random lives that really interlace, the vivid introspection of life's sad ludicrousness and the seamlessness with which the novel's junctures are brought together.

The caustic wit and humor are all Dalisay's own.




What I'm reading now: Babel Tower by A.S. Byatt

Revisiting Rilke

For I don't think back; all that I am
stirs me because of you. I don't invent you
at sadly cooled-off places from which
you've gone away; even your not being there
is warm with you and more real and more
than a privation. Longing leads out too often
into vagueness. Why should I cast myself,
when, for all I know, your influence falls on me,
gently, like moonlight on a window seat.

Duino, late autumn 1911

p. 15

Wanted: Ella

Been scouring Amazon for Ella Fitzgerald albums. Oh, but there are just so many that I like!

Pure Ella: The Very Best of Ella Fitzgerald



Oh, Lady, Be Good! Best of the Gershwin Songbook



The Best of the Song Books: The Ballads



And these ain't even half of 'em yet!

Tequila, Sheena Easton, Caldereta

I am 28 years old; in a couple of months, I'll be 29.

Last night, over at Mae's place, I had my first taste of Tequila. Can you believe spending 28 long years in this planet and never having had Tequila?

Tequila made me grab the mic and sing Sheena Easton's "For Your Eyes Only."

I woke up this morning with a headache. I guess Tequila doesn't agree with me. Made me belt out the above James Bond theme, though. And I remember grinning stupidly for most of the night.

I turned in early. I really am so not the "let's-party-and-get-drunk" type.

The caldereta was awesome. I should have had more.

Soledad's Sister Over Coffee

I dropped by Greenbelt's Powerbooks yesterday and, instinctively, found my way to the Filipiniana section (love your own!). I spent quite some time browsing through Dean Alfar's A Kite of Stars, making a mental note to buy it the next time I visited a bookstore. I was still, due to time constraints brought on by work, in a reading hiatus and knew that I had to practice restraint if I didn't want one more book to gather dust on the shelf.

I gazed around to look at the other titles, saw a copy of Butch Dalisay's Soledad's Sister on a nearby shelf, picked it up, read the first page, checked the cash in my wallet and promptly headed to the cashier.

So much for restraint. It was just too good to resist.

I read a fourth of it at a nearby Starbucks (the lighting was poor, but I didn't care), sparing a couple of minutes to preach to my friend (who's not that into Philippine Lit.) that he should read the book I was reading if he wanted his opinion of Filipino writers to change. "Read Dalisay, for heaven's sake. This book was shortlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize!" I told him and, satisfied that I had made my point, happily slouched back into my chair to read.

Guess this means the reading is on again. And, boy, does it feel awfully good!

Happy Birthday, Mommy

“Youth fades, love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; a mother's secret hope outlives them all.”
-Oliver Wendell Holmes

Remembering Heath

A year ago, he said goodbye.

More Mercury Retrograde Spoils

Last night, in the office, everyone was going crazy over how much work there was for us, as the on-shore team had sent word that they were experiencing "heavy" technical difficulties. As if we didn't have enough system issues, ourselves.

I spent much of the day running around, making sure that everything was in place.

And the rest of the time, I preached about how all these shit was happening because of Mercury Retrograde.

By now, I've pretty much become a pseudo-expert at explaining the said phenomenon to people who were interested enough to listen. And you'd be surprised at their number.

I'd loudly put the blame on Mercury Retrograde and then someone (or two, or three) would go, "Mercury what?" And then I'd launch into an exposition of what it is and then, prodded on by the interest in their eyes, I'd give examples of actual incidents related to it and then they'd go, "really?" and I'd go on some more.

La-la-la.

Thank heavens it's the start of my weekend.
Don't buy a new cell phone just yet, folks. Wait 'til February 2nd.

Happy Thursday!
:)

I love: Mika Dress by Rachel Roy

The black lace and bow detail are just lovely!



*photo from Shopbop.com, via Just a Formality.

Movie on my mind: Slumdog Millionaire

Ignorant fool that I was, I had fully expected a "small" film, so the grand scale of the movie that greeted me (and lingered long) was anything but. The vividness of the story was breathtaking (the squalor! the beauty!) and the path it took certainly had me glued (very Dickensian, according to a friend).

I had no plans of watching and was, initially, just taking peeks at the screen, but the poetic depiction of the ugliness in the brutal, truer-than-life scenes--slaughter, the slums, hunger, crime--turned the peeks to awe-struck (no exaggeration intended) attention. And the rest, as they say, is history.

The unconventional treatment of the material and the cinematic effects employed were some of the tell-tale signs that it was fiction. The acting, though, was so superb, it didn't seem like acting, at all. Until now, I am still prodded to ask whether, indeed, Dev Patel, et al, were really just acting.


(Dev Patel as "Jamal Malik" and Freida Pinto as "Latika")

Could it have been their lives that were being lived in those frames?


(Director Danny Boyle and actress Freida Pinto)

This Danny Boyle film deserved its Golden Globe Award and you'll definitely be missing a lot if you don't watch it.

So, go. Watch. Now.

Tagaytay Friday

Friday, January 17, 2009: It was freezing in Tagaytay and my team braved the cold... but only for so long.
Philstar.com says, "Tagaytay City temperature is 15.8 degrees Celsius" and Chuvaness contemplates the extra chilly weather "...in what must be the coldest night of the year." And we had chosen this day, of all days, to go up the highlands! Brrrr!

@ Picnic Grove: It was tolerably chilly in the early afternoon.

And we stuffed ourselves silly with Amber's pichi-pichi and barbecue.

The wind started to get really fierce as the afternoon wore on, though.

And the wind blew on, angrier, as evening drew near. My hair became extremely tangled you could hear the crunch when I combed it.

Solution: a cap. (My cam was acting up at this point)

Tagaytay by twilight. Photography by Wowoo Rañada.

Dinner at Dencio's capped the night for some. Here, Val and Cha were prodding me to look serene for a candid shot. In truth, I was shivering to my bones. Through chattering teeth, I was muttering, "hurry up! Shoot already!"

The real night cap was coffee at Starbucks. By then, though, we were too cold to take pics and one of us asked, in jest, of course, "is this Tagaytay or Alaska?"

Imagine what the Eskimos' life must be like!