Putting her foot down and assuming the role of alpha male are a couple of the tricks an emancipated woman soon learns after stepping out of her shell, and these talents, she soon finds out, are quite useful in making it in this "man's world" (which, I suppose, is fast on its way to becoming a "woman's world," but we'll get there soon enough).
Here are some tips that we can all use to make a man cower into submission:
1. Hold that stare, steady and steely. Trust me, you'll get your point across and win that argument/debate with this simple stroke;
2. make it a habit to put your hands on either side of your waist when speaking in front (or in the middle) of a pack of males, be it a business meeting or a team huddle;
3. shoulders on the level, back straight as an arrow--mom's reminders to keep your posture in check should come in handy now. A woman is more formidable when she is standing up straight. It wouldn't matter if you are petite. You can be as tall as you feel, so go ahead and feel tall!
4. put a mild swagger to your walk, though be careful not to overdo it, otherwise, you'll end up coming across as too self-assured, and that can't be good, as too much of anything is bad. Just walk like you always know where you're going (even if you don't) and focus your eyes on an invisible post. Don't walk too fast, and remember that swagger.
5. brush up on your reading and practice your speeches. There's nothing like a smart, intelligent and well-read woman to make a man realize that he is not the better gender. They might get their way with physical strength or force, but hey, let's make sure we win through sheer sharpness of wit, presence of mind, some French or German, and a little biting sarcasm.
Obviously, this is not all. I'll be back with more.
So, what wiles do you practice to put that punch to your touch?
=)
*part 2 here
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Status Updates
Have gotten in touch with High School best friends over at Face Book.
Very recently, someone's status update about putting one's foot down and being an alpha male (we are all female) and another's video link of Paul McCartney's "Singalong Junk" sparked up (online) conversations about girl power and dressing up in a black suit-and-daggers ensemble for when those "kickin' ass" moments come up, and wanting to be thirteen or sixteen again and going to the places one used to frequent when one was young, doing the things one used to do a lot when one was yet unwary of how beset with worries adulthood could be.
Are these signs that one is growing old?
Or maybe it's just the rain. Was scorching hot early in the week, and now, these downpours.
Or is it because Mercury has turned direct?
Let me make a mental note to type that on my Facebook status update space.
On second thought, I think I've already done that.
Very recently, someone's status update about putting one's foot down and being an alpha male (we are all female) and another's video link of Paul McCartney's "Singalong Junk" sparked up (online) conversations about girl power and dressing up in a black suit-and-daggers ensemble for when those "kickin' ass" moments come up, and wanting to be thirteen or sixteen again and going to the places one used to frequent when one was young, doing the things one used to do a lot when one was yet unwary of how beset with worries adulthood could be.
Are these signs that one is growing old?
Or maybe it's just the rain. Was scorching hot early in the week, and now, these downpours.
Or is it because Mercury has turned direct?
Let me make a mental note to type that on my Facebook status update space.
On second thought, I think I've already done that.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Pause
and the one thing that might cause me to shift
is the dancer's step.
-From "Vase Painting," by Rainer Maria Rilke-
I am waiting for Mercury to go direct. There is so much tension in the air, suspended tautly in this hot, dry weather; lying in silent, stagnant pools inside my brain.
All this waiting, and waiting, and waiting isn't good for repressed people. The possibility of an implosion--or implosions, if one may, because there are many repressed people--rises to dangerous heights.
May 30th.
I wonder what's in store.
is the dancer's step.
-From "Vase Painting," by Rainer Maria Rilke-
I am waiting for Mercury to go direct. There is so much tension in the air, suspended tautly in this hot, dry weather; lying in silent, stagnant pools inside my brain.
All this waiting, and waiting, and waiting isn't good for repressed people. The possibility of an implosion--or implosions, if one may, because there are many repressed people--rises to dangerous heights.
May 30th.
I wonder what's in store.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Cuckoo Over Farm Town
I have, officially, become a Face Book Farm Town addict. I never would have guessed, as I've never been a gamer my entire life. This age of virtual gaming was unheard of when I was a kid. Back then, my brother and I played real--though this term would vary in meaning, depending on which generation you belong to--games under the sun, with other kids our age, or close to our age. Even with the advent of the family computer, the PSP, the DS, and other what-have-yous, I have managed to steer clear of the gaming bug.
Until now. Or, last Monday, to be exact.
Now, I am on level 11 of Farm Town, which makes me a farmer, teehee. Make that "Tamsen The Farmer"--yes, I do get to name myself "Tamsen," which happens to be my second favorite name (next to my name, of course). I plow the fields on my green grass-bordered, apple-tree-and-orange-tree-and-lemon-tree-lined farm, go to the store to buy various seeds, plant them on the plowed grounds and voila, after some time, I get to harvest grapes, strawberries, tomatoes, potatoes, lemons, apples, and oranges. I am still waiting--very impatiently, if I may add--for the coffee, wheat, sunflowers, and rice to be ready for harvest. A bountiful reaping would mean lots of coins to be had after a trip to the market to sell the crops. Then it's back to square one, only this time, you have more moolah, more sophisticated, expensive seeds sown and a promise of an even more bountiful harvest which translates, of course, to an even richer, ever growing coffer.
Ah, such a sweet life it is. My Lola would have been proud of me. Mama, this one's for you.
Alors, gotta visit my farm, folks. Hope we can be neighbors, soon. Click here to read on how Farm Town has overtaken Pet Society on Face Book. =)
A great weekend to y'all!
P.S. My daughter is envious and itching to try it. I promised her we would farm tomorrow. =)
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Other Boleyn Girl
Nothing really spectacular about this film, except Natalie Portman, the costumes (loved 'em) and the lengths they went to to romanticize the story of Anne, Mary and that philandering Henry VIII. Well, the latter (the romanticizing, not Henry VIII's philandering) might've been Philippa Gregory's fault. Anyway.
Portman as Anne Boleyn was perfection--history writes Anne off as dark-haired, 5 feet and 3 inches tall, flat-chested, well-educated and headstrong, and Portman's portrayal of the role was more than satisfactory. Anne Boleyn must've been--or rather, was--an advocate of girl power, long before it became the fashion to be one. Imagine twirling the king of England around her little finger and being one of the pivotal figures in transforming the country's history! Oh, the feats women take on! I'm hoping Scarlett Johansson (Mary Boleyn) learned a thing or two from both Portman and Anne. You think Mary Boleyn wore only two expressions her entire life?
And Henry VIII, oh where do I begin? He's always been portrayed in paintings as this very heavy-set, very fat and sour-looking king. And then here comes Eric Bana. Like, hello? Didn't make sense at all. Plus he, too, worked on jut two facial expressions in the entire length of the movie. I think it might've worked if he had ended up with Scarlett, heehee.
Lots of blood in the movie, too. So a lot of women back then either died in childbirth or had stillbirths. Probably because they didn't have pre-natal care yet, in those times. I feel lucky.
And there you have it.
Ho-hum. Definitely not a movie I'd recommend.
Monday Morning Thoughts
I think it's sad, the way people get scared when parcels of themselves get exposed, bits and pieces they'd rather keep stuffed inside, parts of them that, if other people found out about, would really ruin how they are perceived to be.
In the workplace, we have this concept called "perception management" where it is posited that "perception is reality." Up to a certain point--and a certain point only--I would have to agree. But the line has to be drawn between perception and reality because, at the end of the day, after all the sad, mad, pretensions we have to keep up and go through in our sad, little lives, perception and reality are two very different things.
We are all guilty of judging people for sundry things: for being glum and morose and keeping to themselves three-fourths of the time; for sucking their thumbs during stress-filled moments; for liking Bjork, or Amy Winehouse, or the Backstreet Boys; for looking for a paper bag to breathe into during anxiety attacks (we snicker at the phrase--he/she is just faking it, we would say, what drama); for being happy three-fourths of the time; for being happy, period; for muttering to themselves; for having short, violent tempers; for being sloppy in dress and speech; for being too well-dressed. In short, we judge people for virtually anything. If there is anything discrepant in someone's behavior, our fangs take over. Then our capacity for seeing the bad in others goes up to tremendous heights.
But what do we know of their griefs, and what do they know of ours?
And that is why people in the low have nowhere else to go but farther down.
Or, perhaps, we are merely scared?
Enough said.
Have a great week ahead!
=)
In the workplace, we have this concept called "perception management" where it is posited that "perception is reality." Up to a certain point--and a certain point only--I would have to agree. But the line has to be drawn between perception and reality because, at the end of the day, after all the sad, mad, pretensions we have to keep up and go through in our sad, little lives, perception and reality are two very different things.
We are all guilty of judging people for sundry things: for being glum and morose and keeping to themselves three-fourths of the time; for sucking their thumbs during stress-filled moments; for liking Bjork, or Amy Winehouse, or the Backstreet Boys; for looking for a paper bag to breathe into during anxiety attacks (we snicker at the phrase--he/she is just faking it, we would say, what drama); for being happy three-fourths of the time; for being happy, period; for muttering to themselves; for having short, violent tempers; for being sloppy in dress and speech; for being too well-dressed. In short, we judge people for virtually anything. If there is anything discrepant in someone's behavior, our fangs take over. Then our capacity for seeing the bad in others goes up to tremendous heights.
But what do we know of their griefs, and what do they know of ours?
And that is why people in the low have nowhere else to go but farther down.
Or, perhaps, we are merely scared?
Enough said.
Have a great week ahead!
=)
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Not Just the Coffee
Good thing the 7-Up can was empty, else a good portion of the table cloth would have ended up soaked in the sweet, chemical-rich liquid. Still, the knowledge that it was empty escaped me for a split second and, in that wink of a moment, my heart walloped so hard I felt like wanting to reel from its aftermath. I sat there, steadying myself, awed by the Pacquiao-like (but painless) punch my heart had thrown against my chest.
I am easily startled. A handful of people at work know this and have taken to sneaking up from behind me and shouting "boo!" or "hah!" quite often, making me do any, or all, of the following: jumping, shrieking, shouting an expletive or two, and, always, that hard thump in the chest.
It could be the coffee.
Or not.
I am aware that it's natural to be startled when, well, we're caught off-guard, but lately, the intensity of the pounding in my chest whenever it happens has made me notice that it has, indeed, gone from natural to too much. A friend and I talked about it after the 7-Up episode and he agreed that it can't all be just the coffee (I like mine light on the caffeine, anyway, I mostly order mocha-flavored ones, except for those occasional really drowsy times when I have to force myself to be on the go, then I'd request for an extra espresso shot).
Perhaps I've built my wall piled too high with rocks that when it crumbles because I forget to stand guard, it crashes really loud and hard?
(clip art from clipart.com)
Friday, May 15, 2009
People are breaking, breaking, breaking... Dear God, please help them get through whatever it is they need to get through.
Meanwhile, I stand silently by, a mere observer, calm and steady; a witness following scenes with eyes that see too much from looking, and a heart saddened by the confusion, the griefs that friends try hard to keep between folded hands, yet which push themselves out, even so.
And in the middle of this seemingly aimless, static wait, I remember thinking how I was once where they are now, how I was them, once. And I remember how it felt, only, now, because I have learned how it is to keep oneself detached, the pain feels very faint, like a sigh on one's palm, a murmur in one's mind.
Remembering--and always remembering, because forgetting will not be possible--how it was and how it is, I find myself inching forward and reaching out a hand. I cannot, cannot keep looking and remain a bystander.
Because turning my back on them would be like keeping the door shut on my knocking, pleading self.
Meanwhile, I stand silently by, a mere observer, calm and steady; a witness following scenes with eyes that see too much from looking, and a heart saddened by the confusion, the griefs that friends try hard to keep between folded hands, yet which push themselves out, even so.
And in the middle of this seemingly aimless, static wait, I remember thinking how I was once where they are now, how I was them, once. And I remember how it felt, only, now, because I have learned how it is to keep oneself detached, the pain feels very faint, like a sigh on one's palm, a murmur in one's mind.
Remembering--and always remembering, because forgetting will not be possible--how it was and how it is, I find myself inching forward and reaching out a hand. I cannot, cannot keep looking and remain a bystander.
Because turning my back on them would be like keeping the door shut on my knocking, pleading self.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A Thought That Crossed My Mind When Once, I Read About A Girl Running After A Bus:
So what if they think you're less of a girl because you refuse their help in carrying those big, bulky things? If you can stretch your strength to limits they would never think you could stretch them to, go ahead and carry on, my girl. They'd be all the less for thinking there are things you simply can't do, just because you're a woman, and you'd be all the more for proving them wrong.
Monday, May 11, 2009
In Loving Memory of Edgar
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore..."
I just finished reading Jill Lepore's "The Humbug: Edgar Allan Poe and the economy of horror" over at NewYorker.com. As it turns out, 2009 marks Poe's 200th anniversary (damn, he's old!), so, a fitting time to read about him.
"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor."
He was born January 19th and he was a Capricorn.
You might say he's been some kind of a fixture in my life--my dad has been mentioning him to me since grade school, telling me to "read Edgar Allan Poe" at least once a year, I might say. "The Cask of Amontillado" and "The Fall of the House of Usher" were familiar stories to me, thanks to an old, tattered, browning book my dad gave me to read when I was, I think, in fifth grade. Soon, High School found me listening to more than half of my classmates reciting "Annabel Lee," with the requisite gestures (how on earth is one supposed to "gesture-ize" that poem? but then again, it was required, so they didn't have much choice) in front of a hard-to-please teacher. I, ever the deviant, chose Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "A Psalm of Life" for the precise reason that less than a handful of us chose said poem. Plus, yeah, I've always adored Longfellow. Have you read his "The Day Is Done"? It kicks ass!
Back to Poe.
"And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before..."
My undergraduate thesis, too, was unable to escape from this drunken writer of horror, whose own life was painted brown and gray and dreary by squalor and poverty. My topic being Strange Fiction, he inevitably found his way on the pages I was writing.
"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before..."
It is, therefore, not difficult for me to understand why, between Margaret Talbot's "Brain Gain: The underground world of “neuroenhancing” drugs", where I didn't even get to finish page 2, and the feature on Poe, I had more patience--make that "interest," even "eagerness" (okay, okay, so making up my mind over which word to use has always been a challenge for me!)--to devour the latter.
And, yeah, according to the text, it is to his Dupin character that we can trace the Sherlock Holmeses, the Nancy Drews, the Hardy Boys, and all the sleuths--and wanna-be-sleuths--of this world.
Hah.
I had second thoughts about posting his picture, such a sour, sad-looking fellow he was. But what the heck, genius lies behind that dark visage!
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
*all poem fragments taken from Poe's "The Raven"-
Royce
This
is pure heaven.
Now, I finally understand why people are lining up for said chocolate at the Power Plant Mall, Rockwell.
And I got it for free, gift-wrapped and hand-delivered, to boot!
A million thanks to V-- and Ate K--!
is pure heaven.
Now, I finally understand why people are lining up for said chocolate at the Power Plant Mall, Rockwell.
And I got it for free, gift-wrapped and hand-delivered, to boot!
A million thanks to V-- and Ate K--!
Lit Geek Update #15: Last Book I Read
After weeks of installment reading, I finally finished:
My take on it? It's Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
Enough said.
My take on it? It's Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
Enough said.
Food
I have just come fresh from blog-hopping and all these people writing about food really get to my nerves--or, my stomach! I don't like apple pie but reading about how (supposedly) yummy it is makes me wonder whether I've been too hasty in judging it. I'm suddenly craving for oyster cake and baked lasagna and stuffed portobello mushrooms and it's only been an hour since I had breakfast! Incidentally, the Tuguegarao longganisa I ate was yummy and along with spicy vinegar generously sprinkled with salt, it's hi-blood special, but what the heck, it was darn good, anyway. Yesterday, Ate K-- gave me Royce chocolates for Mother's Day. It's in the fridge right now...maybe time for a bite?
Food, food, food. But wait, there's more.
For most of last week, in the office, I've been having Hungarian sausage with buttered toast for lunch. Thirty minutes before that hour, I'd be almost giddy with excitement for said fare and then, thirty minutes into that hour, I'd be pushing my plate away, half of the meal still on the plate. My friend K-- would mutter how I never finish my food and then would dig into my left-overs and S-- would prod me, "finish your food, Shan, You need to eat." Yesterday, while I was out with the kids, I ordered sizzling tenderloin tips and ended up eating only a fourth of the Java rice and almost choking from trying to force myself to finish the ulam. During dinner, I merely picked on the roast beef and fish fillet I had on my plate. The host kept asking me to go for seconds and I had a hard time trying to smile and say "yes, later, thank you," knowing there weren't to be any seconds or thirds for me.
I have that takaw-tingin syndrome that is on its way to becoming worse. A few days ago, a colleague told me I was losing too much weight, which surprised me because every look in the mirror would leave me extremely dissatisfied about my arms (and I was wearing a sleeveless top that day). Anyway, I said "thank you" and he was, like, "what's there to thank me for? You look unhealthy and stressed. Eat!" And I just chuckled and told him that I liked being skinny and he just shook his head and muttered something about not understanding girls and their obsession with skinniness.
But seriously, now, I think I want those chocolates.
Food, food, food. But wait, there's more.
For most of last week, in the office, I've been having Hungarian sausage with buttered toast for lunch. Thirty minutes before that hour, I'd be almost giddy with excitement for said fare and then, thirty minutes into that hour, I'd be pushing my plate away, half of the meal still on the plate. My friend K-- would mutter how I never finish my food and then would dig into my left-overs and S-- would prod me, "finish your food, Shan, You need to eat." Yesterday, while I was out with the kids, I ordered sizzling tenderloin tips and ended up eating only a fourth of the Java rice and almost choking from trying to force myself to finish the ulam. During dinner, I merely picked on the roast beef and fish fillet I had on my plate. The host kept asking me to go for seconds and I had a hard time trying to smile and say "yes, later, thank you," knowing there weren't to be any seconds or thirds for me.
I have that takaw-tingin syndrome that is on its way to becoming worse. A few days ago, a colleague told me I was losing too much weight, which surprised me because every look in the mirror would leave me extremely dissatisfied about my arms (and I was wearing a sleeveless top that day). Anyway, I said "thank you" and he was, like, "what's there to thank me for? You look unhealthy and stressed. Eat!" And I just chuckled and told him that I liked being skinny and he just shook his head and muttered something about not understanding girls and their obsession with skinniness.
But seriously, now, I think I want those chocolates.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
That Top 5 Thingie c/o Facebook
On FB, today, I tinkered, once more, with the "Top 5 Things" thingie (love this application!) and, so far, here are two of the lists I came up with...
Top 5 Thigs I Hate To Love That Everyone Else Seems to Like:
1. The Da Vinci Code
2. Paulo Coelho books
3. "Twilight" (movie)
4. the beach
5. Cosmopolitan mag
(note on the list: might offend a lot of peeps here, but hey, to each his own, right? Peace, y'all!)
My Top 5 Dream Jobs:
1. Opera singer
2. writer
3. Broadway actress
4. Museum curator
5. dancer
(note on the list: basta art at pagiging maarte, go ako jan! And look where I am working... in a bank! Ah, the ironies of life and living.)
It's the weekend, my dears! What have ya got cookin'?
=)
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Mercury Retrogrades... Again
It being a stormy day and all, life in the office was all sunshine-y today. In some random way, things seemed to be falling into place--I, the people around me, the things around me. Some sort of realignment was taking place and I was happy to find myself in harmony with the rest of the planets--er, world, I mean.
And then I came across this site, from which I read that today, May 7th, Mercury retrogrades for the second time this year. I knew, of course, that this meant heavy rains of the usual system breakdowns falling on us all for the rest of the month (Mercury "turns direct" May 30th) but was puzzled by this particular part of the write-up, which made me look back at, and reassess, how my day really went:
"When Mercury retrogrades, we find that many parts of our life are being revised. Often these revisions can be a surprise or throw us back a step. However, these revisions which occur during a Mercury retrograde, are a "course correction" and provide a stop gap measure until we can review situations. During this time of revision, change is compounded and confusion is created by our reactions to the ever-changing situations. Thus anything started during this time will ultimately be taken back or even revised further, making for a high-frustration time. This will be especially true with changing our minds, reviewing new ideas and our communication being improved and honed so not to be misunderstood.
The best mode to be in during a Mercury retrograde is one of "non-reaction", and with air signs being impacted, things will be changing continually during a Mercury retrograde. Treat the time period as a time of gathering information, yet because the information will be in constant change it would be like trying to comb your hair in a wind storm. Best to wait until the changes stop before attempting to make things orderly. Therefore, just let the winds of situations blow around you without reacting. Once Mercury turns direct, take a look at the information that is still around at that time and go about putting everything in order, while maintaining the fine art of flexibility."
Call me superstitious. Because I am.
=)
And then I came across this site, from which I read that today, May 7th, Mercury retrogrades for the second time this year. I knew, of course, that this meant heavy rains of the usual system breakdowns falling on us all for the rest of the month (Mercury "turns direct" May 30th) but was puzzled by this particular part of the write-up, which made me look back at, and reassess, how my day really went:
"When Mercury retrogrades, we find that many parts of our life are being revised. Often these revisions can be a surprise or throw us back a step. However, these revisions which occur during a Mercury retrograde, are a "course correction" and provide a stop gap measure until we can review situations. During this time of revision, change is compounded and confusion is created by our reactions to the ever-changing situations. Thus anything started during this time will ultimately be taken back or even revised further, making for a high-frustration time. This will be especially true with changing our minds, reviewing new ideas and our communication being improved and honed so not to be misunderstood.
The best mode to be in during a Mercury retrograde is one of "non-reaction", and with air signs being impacted, things will be changing continually during a Mercury retrograde. Treat the time period as a time of gathering information, yet because the information will be in constant change it would be like trying to comb your hair in a wind storm. Best to wait until the changes stop before attempting to make things orderly. Therefore, just let the winds of situations blow around you without reacting. Once Mercury turns direct, take a look at the information that is still around at that time and go about putting everything in order, while maintaining the fine art of flexibility."
Call me superstitious. Because I am.
=)
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Check.
I've crossed out this movie from my to-watch list.
Why?
Because I've already seen it, that's why.
=)
Like "Taken," this movie is astig, just as long as the know-it-alls don't bend hell just so they could put in that credibility-and-storyline-and-serious-talk shit.
Seriously.
Why?
Because I've already seen it, that's why.
=)
Like "Taken," this movie is astig, just as long as the know-it-alls don't bend hell just so they could put in that credibility-and-storyline-and-serious-talk shit.
Seriously.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Synecdoche, New York
A: That was stupefying. Downright stupefying.
B: I know. Kaufman's movies always, always make me think. But this has got to be the worst! Damn that guy!
A: (laughs)
B: Initially, the line--if there was one, initially, that is--between reality and otherwise was imperceptible. Then it appeared, just enough for one to sense that there was one. And then it kinda opened up, very gradually, until it became a gaping mouth. You know, like this (gesturing with the left hand, in an attempt to illustrate the point). Unbelievable.
A: Cool. You've always been better at words.
B: Oh, yeah? So, we might say that I'm more...what's the word--articulate?
A: Yup. You're more articulate.
B: Which means you're deeper than I am.
A: Oh, yeah? How's that?
B: You know, because the more one talks, the more out there it is. And once it's out there, it stays the way it is. But because you keep it all in, you keep going deeper and deeper and it never really ends. You just keep finding stuff, you know?
A: (laughs) I never thought of it that way.
B: Oh, sure you have. But, hey, did this get shown in the theaters?
A: You mean, here? Hell, no. But in the US, yeah it did.
B: Wasn't a hit, was it?
A: Nope. A movie like that? No way.
B: But what did the critics say?
A: It wasn't as well-received as Kaufman's other films.
B: Hmm..
A: 'Cause it's not really much of a movie experience, you know. More of an art experience. It's too complex. Obtuse, at its worst. Kaufman must still have been on screenwriter mode when he directed this.
B: See, you're articulate, too.
A: (laughs)
B: The ending is just something else. Damn, that was a good one.
A: So, time for Roger Ebert?
B: In a while. So, hey, what about that Genius Grant?
A: Yeah, sure would be great to be given that. Would mean a lot of pressure, though. Did you know that David Foster Wallace had one?
B: Hmm. Probably why he killed himself.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Saturday Night Trippin'
I had to choose, between two movies, which one to watch first. And, after my very high-strung week, I'm glad I chose this:
"I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." -Harry Burns-
And now, on to this:
"I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." -Harry Burns-
And now, on to this:
All those cliches about merry-go-rounds, roller coasters, wheels, et cetera have more than a grain of truth in them: round things do turn; circles make cycles; cycles go in circles.
If, at any point in our lives, we may have felt that rock-bottom was within reach--or if we've actually touched rock-bottom, or even spent a while lying on its hard, jagged surface--really, don't the hands of the clock always tick towards the left?
Of course, I'm right.
So if your back is touching cold, hard stone today, do look upward--you'll be on your way there, soon.
Might as well get used to the discomfort, though. Better to remember the feel of rock-bottom than to have to start all over in befriending the pain once the next drop comes.
If, at any point in our lives, we may have felt that rock-bottom was within reach--or if we've actually touched rock-bottom, or even spent a while lying on its hard, jagged surface--really, don't the hands of the clock always tick towards the left?
Of course, I'm right.
So if your back is touching cold, hard stone today, do look upward--you'll be on your way there, soon.
Might as well get used to the discomfort, though. Better to remember the feel of rock-bottom than to have to start all over in befriending the pain once the next drop comes.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Words
by Dana Gioia
The world does not need words. It articulates itself
in sunlight, leaves, and shadows. The stones on the path
are no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted.
The fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being.
The kiss is still fully itself though no words were spoken.
And one word transforms it into something less or other--
illicit, chaste, perfunctory, conjugal, covert.
Even calling it a kiss betrays the fluster of hands
glancing the skin or gripping a shoulder, the slow
arching of neck or knee, the silent touching of tongues.
Yet the stones remain less real to those who cannot
name them, or read the mute syllables graven in silica.
To see a red stone is less than seeing it as jasper--
metamorphic quartz, cousin to the flint the Kiowa
carved as arrowheads. To name is to know and remember.
The sunlight needs no praise piercing the rainclouds,
painting the rocks and leaves with light, then dissolving
each lucent droplet back into the clouds that engendered it.
The daylight needs no praise, and so we praise it always--
greater than ourselves and all the airy words we summon.
The world does not need words. It articulates itself
in sunlight, leaves, and shadows. The stones on the path
are no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted.
The fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being.
The kiss is still fully itself though no words were spoken.
And one word transforms it into something less or other--
illicit, chaste, perfunctory, conjugal, covert.
Even calling it a kiss betrays the fluster of hands
glancing the skin or gripping a shoulder, the slow
arching of neck or knee, the silent touching of tongues.
Yet the stones remain less real to those who cannot
name them, or read the mute syllables graven in silica.
To see a red stone is less than seeing it as jasper--
metamorphic quartz, cousin to the flint the Kiowa
carved as arrowheads. To name is to know and remember.
The sunlight needs no praise piercing the rainclouds,
painting the rocks and leaves with light, then dissolving
each lucent droplet back into the clouds that engendered it.
The daylight needs no praise, and so we praise it always--
greater than ourselves and all the airy words we summon.
Monday, April 27, 2009
please someone put a title to this
Whatever rocks your boat, beautiful, do it before they tell you not to. Everybody says don't as the song goes but few people I know actually know that song and fewer still like that song, or could sing to that song. My mind feels light as air or something similar to air and I really should be fumbling for a pillow to lay my head on. I've been complaining about not having had enough sleep and now the words come out of my fingers as if they were gushing out and I am not aware what sentence I am in or if what I am writing is still a sentence and it should be good to let go at times but there is still that --that-- I can't find the darn word oh yeah, that neurotic compulsion--even when one is afloat--to look back and check if the sentence is still following its proper thread or if the punctuation is correct but at this point it'll be too far behind to look back and really see what one has gone through as there are things that we, even with the utmost earnestness at bringing back we can no longer bring back, or change, or wipe clean no matter how we try to wipe things clean they remain stained or tainted with something what that something is we could not put our finger on or even think of naming because our mouths have run out of names to give to the things we see and hear and touch and cannot we drift along like words falling from the mind to the page, in streams sometimes in drops when the mind draws blank after blank after blank.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Broadway Frenzy via YouTube
Some lasting impressions:
1. Bernadette Peters has this amazing performance of "Being Alive" from Sondheim's Company at the "Hey, Mr. Producer" concert. She is one feisty redhead! Click here to watch.
2. Robert Cuccioli is hysterically wonderful as Dr. Jekyll/Mr Hyde in Jekyll and Hyde. Click here for his moment in "This is the Moment."
3. Lea Salonga awes as Fantine in Les Miserables. Is there anything this girl cannot do? Watch her here.
4. I love this clip of Mandy Patinkin singing "Children Will Listen" from Into The Woods. Here, he sings a medley of "Loving You" from Passion and one of my all-time favorite Broadway songs "If I Loved You" from Carousel.
5. In this clip, Michael Ball sings "I Only Want To Say" from Jesus Christ Superstar with such aplomb that I played it over and over when I bought the Andrew Lloyd Webber 50th Birthday Concert DVD. Il est magnifique!
6. Michele Marsh, as Hodel, sings "Far From the Home I Love," perhaps one of the saddest songs from The Fiddler on the Roof. And, of course, "Matchmaker"!
7. I read somewhere that Vanessa Redgrave, by far, overshadowed Julie Andrews in the Guinevere role (Camelot) and I couldn't agree more. In "The Lusty Month of May" and "Take Me To The Fair," she delights as the slightly bored, inwardly playful, scheming, perpetually singing queen.
8. Here, Lea sings the Gershwins' "Someone To Watch Over Me" from Crazy For You in a beautifully laid-back way. And, without a doubt, here is the most beautiful version of "I've Never Been in Love Before" (from Guys and Dolls) I have ever heard.
I could go on and on.
Some other time, perhaps.
=)
Friday, April 24, 2009
So let me try to change the way I look at the rain and, perhaps, I'd find something else in it...
Does the rain in Paris speak French?
Yeah, I know, it's a stupid question.
Oh, well.
photo from A Cup of Jo.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
More on the Weather:
Dear, dear me, been getting headaches because of this confused, temperamental weather. Been lazy and cranky and blah and it doesn't help that work has not been a slide down the rainbow lately.
One bright spot to my week is that my dad and brother were in the city for a few days and the kids and I got to spend time with them, roaming Glorietta (which has become a dismal disappointment) and Greenbelt (which is gorgeous, thank you).
Other than that, I've been trying to assuage my weather woes with as much good music as I could get my hands into: lots of India Arie, Carrie Underwood, some Broadway, Christina Aguilera (tried her "Walk Away" and "Save Me From Myself" upon a friend's recommendation), and good ol' Ella Fitzgerald.
Several friends are in La Union for some surfing and I kinda feel a tiny pang of regret that I didn't go with them--even if they had tried to cajole me into it, like tens of times--though, at the same time, these rains would've taken away whatever fun I would have had if I'd gone.
There, you see, the weather has got me all confused, too!
What are you doing to keep dry and sane?
=)
One bright spot to my week is that my dad and brother were in the city for a few days and the kids and I got to spend time with them, roaming Glorietta (which has become a dismal disappointment) and Greenbelt (which is gorgeous, thank you).
Other than that, I've been trying to assuage my weather woes with as much good music as I could get my hands into: lots of India Arie, Carrie Underwood, some Broadway, Christina Aguilera (tried her "Walk Away" and "Save Me From Myself" upon a friend's recommendation), and good ol' Ella Fitzgerald.
Several friends are in La Union for some surfing and I kinda feel a tiny pang of regret that I didn't go with them--even if they had tried to cajole me into it, like tens of times--though, at the same time, these rains would've taken away whatever fun I would have had if I'd gone.
There, you see, the weather has got me all confused, too!
What are you doing to keep dry and sane?
=)
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Unsaid
So much of what we live goes on inside–
the diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
of unacknowledged love are no less real
for having passed unsaid. What we conceal
is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.
by Dana Gioia
(found at Jonathan Carroll's blog)
the diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
of unacknowledged love are no less real
for having passed unsaid. What we conceal
is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.
by Dana Gioia
(found at Jonathan Carroll's blog)
Rain
Another gray day.
The rain falls in an incessant, stubborn rhythm and there's a muffled wailing that accompanies it. After weeks of glaring, yellow mornings and sticky, orange afternoons, this wet grayness is, surprisingly, an unwelcome foil to what is supposed to be the dry season. And in as much as I abhor the heat, I would have wanted a less sudden transition.
If, indeed, we are shifting into the rainy season.
Isn't it a little too early for that, though? Or, perhaps, I am merely letting myself drown in the despondency that hit me unawares this morning, the usual way it catches me when it comes.
The rain falls in an incessant, stubborn rhythm and there's a muffled wailing that accompanies it. After weeks of glaring, yellow mornings and sticky, orange afternoons, this wet grayness is, surprisingly, an unwelcome foil to what is supposed to be the dry season. And in as much as I abhor the heat, I would have wanted a less sudden transition.
If, indeed, we are shifting into the rainy season.
Isn't it a little too early for that, though? Or, perhaps, I am merely letting myself drown in the despondency that hit me unawares this morning, the usual way it catches me when it comes.
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Sky's Mood Swings--and So Does Mine (?)
What's with the shift in the weather's tone?
Suddenly, it's raining (and raining hard!) in the middle of what is supposed to be--and what has promised to be--an excruciatingly hot April.
I overheard someone ask: is it the end of summer?
And, despite my cranky take on the heat, I found myself thinking: I hope not.
I mean, summer ain't all that bad, right?
Tee-hee.
Let's Talk
A and I have been "talking" via our blogs, she having written a post about what she would tell her 16-year-old self should they get the opportunity to have a conversation. Tough chance, I know, but still, it's a whimsical and very pretty thought.
This got me thinking about my 16-year-old self and here I am, trying to think up things I'd say to her should we ever have the chance to meet.
I'd probably tell her:
1. to take her writing post at the school paper more seriously;
2. to study, study, study, especially the Math lessons she'd taken for granted for so long;
3. to quit whining about the trivial, frivolous so-called "problems" she's facing daily--there's much, much more to come and she'd better save those tears for when they'd really need to be shed;
4. to listen to her mom and dad--they're right, most of the time, didn't she know that?
5. to go out some more and not confine herself to her room, much like the hermit that she was;
6. to smile more, laugh more;
7. to throw away those over-sized shirts and start buying girly tops;
8. to sing, sing, sing;
9. eat all the 3M palabok she can possibly eat because she's gonna miss it horribly when she's older and far, far from home; and
10. to stay a child for as long as she could because adulthood will last ever so much longer and by then it'll be too late to regret not having stayed a kid when she had the chance to.
She probably wouldn't listen, though. She'd be too far away, too caught up in her stubborn little shell of adolescence.
She's one to dig her heels pa naman.
Hay.
This got me thinking about my 16-year-old self and here I am, trying to think up things I'd say to her should we ever have the chance to meet.
I'd probably tell her:
1. to take her writing post at the school paper more seriously;
2. to study, study, study, especially the Math lessons she'd taken for granted for so long;
3. to quit whining about the trivial, frivolous so-called "problems" she's facing daily--there's much, much more to come and she'd better save those tears for when they'd really need to be shed;
4. to listen to her mom and dad--they're right, most of the time, didn't she know that?
5. to go out some more and not confine herself to her room, much like the hermit that she was;
6. to smile more, laugh more;
7. to throw away those over-sized shirts and start buying girly tops;
8. to sing, sing, sing;
9. eat all the 3M palabok she can possibly eat because she's gonna miss it horribly when she's older and far, far from home; and
10. to stay a child for as long as she could because adulthood will last ever so much longer and by then it'll be too late to regret not having stayed a kid when she had the chance to.
She probably wouldn't listen, though. She'd be too far away, too caught up in her stubborn little shell of adolescence.
She's one to dig her heels pa naman.
Hay.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Lit Geek Update #14: Kafka, Funny?
I mean, the thought of Kafka as funny never, ever occurred to me, in all my readings of him. I pored through his stories with unabashed earnestness, approaching them with utmost thoughtfulness. Man's essential solitude and loneliness have been his central themes, all throughout, have they not?
I--and most of us, I'd presume--would turn out to be mistaken, apparently. In the initial paragraphs of "Some Remarks on Kafka's Funniness," the third essay from David Foster Wallace's Consider the Lobster And Other Essays:, he writes:
"...it is next to impossible to get them to see that Kafka is funny. Nor to appreciate the way funniness is bound up with the power of his stories." -p. 61-
And I spent more than half an hour mulling over these lines:
"No wonder they cannot appreciate the really central Kafka joke: that the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from the horrific struggle. That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home." -p. 64-
I rearranged the ideas in several different ways, tried to twist the logic to see if it would give, caught a headache in the process, finally decided I'd had enough, then went back to it with a firm resolve not to give up until I could roll the words of the simplest paraphrase in my tongue as comfortably as I can. Eventually, and thankfully, I succeeded.
What a feat!
And then I read the passage to a friend, asked him to turn the lines around his head, then tell me what he thought about it.
I'm guessing he went through the same thing I did.
=)
Wallace ends the essay with these superb lines:
"You can ask them to imagine his stories as all about a kind of door. To envision us approaching and pounding on this door, increasingly hard, pounding and pounding, not just wanting admission but needing it; we don't know what it is but we can feel it, this total desperation to enter, pounding and ramming and kicking. That, finally, the door opens...and it opens outward--we've been inside what we wanted all along. Das ist komisch." -p.65-
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Summer Whining From the Sun-Hater
Hah!
Oh, yes, folks, time to welcome the sweltering heat again.
It's that time of the year when electric bills skyrocket to alarming heights because of A/C and electric fan abuse (Christmas is another thing, what with the lights and all, but I think most of us have come to our senses and realized that decking our homes in ridiculously numerous colored lights is just not worth it); when the A/Cs and fans themselves conk out from over-use; when wet bodies frolic in the beach and under the sun, tanning and burning in reckless abandon, mindless of the premature aging the precious skin is put under; when tempers flare with the hot, dry winds (are there any winds, by the way?).
Poof, I was never really a summer person, never one to get all giddy to go to the beach and laugh and grin and toast like there's no tomorrow. The most I'd do there--if some really persistent friend would ever succeed in convincing me to go, in the first place--is to lather up on tons and tons of sunscreen, put on a nice pair of shades, find a really shady corner under some really leafy coconut tree (a bunch of coconut trees would be best--the more shade there is, the better), stack up on two good books, or three, sit on a thick, dark blue towel and curl my toes in the sand. Worse, I'd probably fall asleep, willing myself to wake up only when it's 6 pm, when the scorching heat would already have simmered a bit.
For all that I am a Pisces, I'm really a goldfish in a fishbowl, happy to swim in my own little space, where the waters are tranquil, and where I am safe.
And where there's no premature skin aging happening.
Party-pooper, you might say. And missing a lot, or something to that effect.
Whatever.
Oh, yes, folks, time to welcome the sweltering heat again.
It's that time of the year when electric bills skyrocket to alarming heights because of A/C and electric fan abuse (Christmas is another thing, what with the lights and all, but I think most of us have come to our senses and realized that decking our homes in ridiculously numerous colored lights is just not worth it); when the A/Cs and fans themselves conk out from over-use; when wet bodies frolic in the beach and under the sun, tanning and burning in reckless abandon, mindless of the premature aging the precious skin is put under; when tempers flare with the hot, dry winds (are there any winds, by the way?).
Poof, I was never really a summer person, never one to get all giddy to go to the beach and laugh and grin and toast like there's no tomorrow. The most I'd do there--if some really persistent friend would ever succeed in convincing me to go, in the first place--is to lather up on tons and tons of sunscreen, put on a nice pair of shades, find a really shady corner under some really leafy coconut tree (a bunch of coconut trees would be best--the more shade there is, the better), stack up on two good books, or three, sit on a thick, dark blue towel and curl my toes in the sand. Worse, I'd probably fall asleep, willing myself to wake up only when it's 6 pm, when the scorching heat would already have simmered a bit.
For all that I am a Pisces, I'm really a goldfish in a fishbowl, happy to swim in my own little space, where the waters are tranquil, and where I am safe.
And where there's no premature skin aging happening.
Party-pooper, you might say. And missing a lot, or something to that effect.
Whatever.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
"Beautiful Flower" (India Arie)
This is a song for every girl who's
Ever been through something
She thought she couldn't make it through, yeah
I sing these words because I was that girl, too
Wanting something better than this
But who do I turn to?
Now we're moving from the darkness into the light
This is the defining moment of our lives
Cause you're beautiful like a flower
More valuable than a diamond
You are powerful like a fire
You can heal the world with your mind and
There is nothing in the world that you cannot do
When you believe in you
Who are beautiful (yeah you)
Who are brilliant (yeah you)
Who are powerful (yeah you)
Who are resilient
This is a song for every girl who
Feels that she is not special
Cause she don't look like a supermodel Coke bottle
The next time the radio tells you
To shake your money-maker
Shake your head and tell them
Tell them you're a leader
Now we're moving from the darkness into the light
This is the defining moment of our lives
This song is for you (Yeah you)
This song is for you (Yeah you)
This song is for you (Yeah you)
Yeah you
You are brilliant...
video from youtube.
Ever been through something
She thought she couldn't make it through, yeah
I sing these words because I was that girl, too
Wanting something better than this
But who do I turn to?
Now we're moving from the darkness into the light
This is the defining moment of our lives
Cause you're beautiful like a flower
More valuable than a diamond
You are powerful like a fire
You can heal the world with your mind and
There is nothing in the world that you cannot do
When you believe in you
Who are beautiful (yeah you)
Who are brilliant (yeah you)
Who are powerful (yeah you)
Who are resilient
This is a song for every girl who
Feels that she is not special
Cause she don't look like a supermodel Coke bottle
The next time the radio tells you
To shake your money-maker
Shake your head and tell them
Tell them you're a leader
Now we're moving from the darkness into the light
This is the defining moment of our lives
This song is for you (Yeah you)
This song is for you (Yeah you)
This song is for you (Yeah you)
Yeah you
You are brilliant...
video from youtube.
Mulling Over My Week
My dad sent me a text message this afternoon, asking me what I did during the Holy Week and it got me thinking: what did I do this Holy Week?
It occurs to me that without having mapped out anything in particular, things simply conspired to provide me the "air" I needed for the culmination of Lent, namely: I came across "Jesus of Nazareth" while channel-surfing yesterday (Holy Friday) and decided to watch it (what remained of the 6-hour film, anyway), finding myself involuntarily reflecting on the world's current religious/spiritual state and, inevitably, leading me to ponder my current spiritual state;
and this morning, I finished reading Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal, which is a seemingly tongue-in-cheek story told for laughs, but from which we just might get the reflections we seek in the other, more serious books of our faith and could not seem to find. Now, I started reading this book a few weeks ago, with no thought, at all, of the Holy Week and it strikes me as significant--even strangely calculated--that I should get to the final chapters (where the Christ's passion is relayed) during Holy Friday, and finish the book by Black Saturday.
Below are some lines in the afterword that had me musing:
"This story is not and was never meant to challenge anyone's faith; however, if one's faith can be shaken by stories in a humorous novel, one may have a bit more praying to do." -p. 443-
Tomorrow, Easter comes. I wonder what'll be in store for me, then, and thereafter.
It occurs to me that without having mapped out anything in particular, things simply conspired to provide me the "air" I needed for the culmination of Lent, namely: I came across "Jesus of Nazareth" while channel-surfing yesterday (Holy Friday) and decided to watch it (what remained of the 6-hour film, anyway), finding myself involuntarily reflecting on the world's current religious/spiritual state and, inevitably, leading me to ponder my current spiritual state;
and this morning, I finished reading Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal, which is a seemingly tongue-in-cheek story told for laughs, but from which we just might get the reflections we seek in the other, more serious books of our faith and could not seem to find. Now, I started reading this book a few weeks ago, with no thought, at all, of the Holy Week and it strikes me as significant--even strangely calculated--that I should get to the final chapters (where the Christ's passion is relayed) during Holy Friday, and finish the book by Black Saturday.
Below are some lines in the afterword that had me musing:
"This story is not and was never meant to challenge anyone's faith; however, if one's faith can be shaken by stories in a humorous novel, one may have a bit more praying to do." -p. 443-
Tomorrow, Easter comes. I wonder what'll be in store for me, then, and thereafter.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Found:
Sasha Frere-Jones contemplates the timelessness of U2's music in this New Yorker post.
Some interesting bits:
"The band’s first (but not its sole) legacy is its sound, easily identified within a few bars: a high, chiming guitar figure, usually simple in structure but fleshed out by the ringing of open strings and the doubling effect of a delay unit; a charging, near-military beat and bass line stretched out with a little extra swing; and singing that is defiant and loud and slightly weird."
and:
"Yes, the band’s most famous member is the least technically gifted, and the most influential, the guitarist David Evans, a.k.a. the Edge, is the least likely to pipe up in public."
Her article further cements my belief that the band's detractors are wrong to judge “No Line on the Horizon” the way they are doing. Hmp.
(photo from TheNewYorker.com)
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Lit Geek Update #13
I'm so lovin' this book! Funny funny funny!
For the easily offended, though, read at your own risk!
For the easily offended, though, read at your own risk!
Friday, April 3, 2009
From Rilke:
Lingering, even among what's most intimate,
is not our option.
***
...Here falling
is our best. From the mastered emotion
we fall over into the half-sensed, onward and onward.
***
Only you
drift like the moon. And down below, your nocturnal
landscape grows bright and darkens--
-from "To Holderlin"-
My shy moonshadow would like to speak
with my sunshadow from far away
in the language of fools;
-Muzot, mid-February 1922-
from Uncollected Poems
is not our option.
***
...Here falling
is our best. From the mastered emotion
we fall over into the half-sensed, onward and onward.
***
Only you
drift like the moon. And down below, your nocturnal
landscape grows bright and darkens--
-from "To Holderlin"-
My shy moonshadow would like to speak
with my sunshadow from far away
in the language of fools;
-Muzot, mid-February 1922-
from Uncollected Poems
Lit Geek Update #12
Here, Virginia Woolf writes, "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is going to write."
Shakespeare's sister must've had severe clinical depression, tsk, tsk.
If he had a sister.
Re-read the book over a cup of Starbucks' tall mocha latte with an extra shot of espresso. One thing about Woolf's writings is that one reading is never enough. I must've read Mrs. Dalloway thrice and I still feel it's not enough.
Rachel Getting Married
I am not well-versed in matters about film and I've only recently discovered that Jonathan Demme was the director of "The Silence of the Lambs" and "Philadelphia". This piece of information made me go, "hmm..."
I felt embarrassed because despite a friend's recommendation that I watch it, I had shrugged "Rachel Getting Married" off as a chick flick just because Anne Hathaway was in it (such a stupid conclusion, I know). I ate my words, yes, and, along with them, several huge, painful lumps of emotion.
I did not at all feel that my intelligence was being insulted--the movie made me think and ask questions, one after another. Its raw depiction of reality, and all the ugliness and pain that comes with it, at times became too much for me, but perhaps that is where it succeeds most. The script is superb (Jenny Lumet did a wonderful job) in that it is devoid of sugar and sap, yet--and perhaps owing to that--the movie hit home, right where it should.
Being the opinionated, thinking human being that I was, I empathized with the main character so much to the point of hating almost everyone else in the film. The thought of depressed people being judged by other people depressed me to almost below zero (or zero, then, alright). But then again, with the movie climaxing, and my emotion-blinded brain clearing up, I realized, hey, depression isn't--and will unlikely be--a low-hanging fruit that anyone could just reach out for and put in the palm of one's hand as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Very few people would recognize it for what it is, least of all acknowledge that they are afflicted with it, so expecting the sane to understand would be like telling someone to chew on broken glass and expecting them to do it.
Whew.
This movie hit me hard. I'd recommend a hankie, or a pack of tissue, should you decide to give it a try. They just might come in handy.
=)
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Lines
Let me erase the word
before the final letter
falls on the page.
You refuse to speak
so let me
be mute with you.
If the upturned palm cannot hold more than what it could give
what right has it to ask for more?
So I will close my hands
and keep them so
folded
dove wings.
before the final letter
falls on the page.
You refuse to speak
so let me
be mute with you.
If the upturned palm cannot hold more than what it could give
what right has it to ask for more?
So I will close my hands
and keep them so
folded
dove wings.
Haircut
Finally, some time to breathe.
The past couple of weeks had me waiting in the wings to exhale. The excitement from the tension and pressure at work had built up to an alarming crescendo and it felt like I was holding my breath the whole time. So, this afternoon, I went to trusty old David's for a much deserved (and long delayed) haircut. This was partly brought about by my thwarted attempt to purchase something nice and pretty for myself--I searched the shops in vain but found nothing to my fancy, so a trim seemed like a good detour with which to channel my frustration--and partly by the ball and chain that my heavy mop of long, unruly locks had become.
Now, dark circles around the eyes would disappear with careful dabs of concealer, but split-ends are an entirely different matter. My extremely dry, frizzy and very long hair had become the telltale sign of the tremendous stress in the workplace and no amount of conditioner could mask the miserable tangles they had meshed themselves into.
I think the haircut did wonders.
My head feels pounds lighter, my mind a little less clouded.
The past couple of weeks had me waiting in the wings to exhale. The excitement from the tension and pressure at work had built up to an alarming crescendo and it felt like I was holding my breath the whole time. So, this afternoon, I went to trusty old David's for a much deserved (and long delayed) haircut. This was partly brought about by my thwarted attempt to purchase something nice and pretty for myself--I searched the shops in vain but found nothing to my fancy, so a trim seemed like a good detour with which to channel my frustration--and partly by the ball and chain that my heavy mop of long, unruly locks had become.
Now, dark circles around the eyes would disappear with careful dabs of concealer, but split-ends are an entirely different matter. My extremely dry, frizzy and very long hair had become the telltale sign of the tremendous stress in the workplace and no amount of conditioner could mask the miserable tangles they had meshed themselves into.
I think the haircut did wonders.
My head feels pounds lighter, my mind a little less clouded.
Monday, March 30, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, March 23, 2009
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.
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