The RH Bill debate: Yes, this woman will rant

This entire hullabaloo over the RH Bill is so frustrating. What the antis need to realize is that women have as much right to their bodies, their reproductive and overall health and their LIVES as the next man does. This is one of those times that I regret the backwardness of the Catholic Church, choosing to turn a blind eye on reality and insisting on ideologies, as if they were, indeed, experts on both the former and the latter. That this certain throng would rather have women going through teenage pregnancies and the requisite failed marriages and broken lives which are to follow, would rather have women die in abortion clinics, would rather have an entire population of children going hungry,  would rather deny its youth of the education they rightfully deserve, would rather that sex be seen as a topic to be reserved for semi-conversations in whispers, that the very word "sex" itself be seen as taboo and, in the process, stripping it of its very dignity--is an appalling state of affairs. That we are a predominantly Catholic country would mean that a bill such as this would offend a lot of sensibilities; but for us to be deprived of the kind of education necessary for the elucidation of this certain topic means letting us even further down, shoving us into an even darker dark than what we are already finding ourselves in.

The whole thing spells further poverty for this country, the continuation of the on-going oppression of its women and more suffering for its children, spells the certainty of the elusiveness of progress.

The non-committals belong to an entirely different plane. Educate your people. If they weren't so in the dark, perhaps they'd find the backbone to speak.

Love in the context of "lost".

Love in the context of choice. Love in the context of reality as reality dictates, of the non-dream, of the non-fairy tale, of the non-illusion. Love in the context of day-to-day, of years against the ephemeral now. Love in the context of hospital rooms and office halls. Love in the context of the war, not of Helen. Love in the context of spaces between rocks and hard places. Love in the context of morning versus evening, of ticker tapes versus piano keys, of the light-bathed versus the sun-kissed. Love in the context of Alice out of Wonderland. Love in the context of unpaid bills and food on the table. Love in the context of right against wrong. Love in the context of lines and wrinkled brows and crow's feet. Love in the context of Daphne and Apollo. Love in the context of adjacents and acrosses and antitheses and polarities. Love in the context not of cascading guitar melodies, tenderness, smoke rings.

Love in the context of absolutes, of senses and sensibilities.
Love in the context of not-you.
Love in the context of not-us.

from the weekend couch:

Tony and Maria, for the nth time, and I still love this film to bits. I remember getting irked when, years ago, I heard someone say how it's so ridiculous that the Jets and the Sharks dance more than fight when they fight. I mean, this is Broadway, duh. Can't we have some culture around here?

I. want. you. both.

But then again, this question would always beg to be asked: after the bills have been paid, from which bowels of my paycheck do I get the funds to buy a Tory Burch with, huh? Hah.

My birthday's coming up. Paging Santa.
=D

And while we're on the subject of shoes...

These came in from the (e)mail today:

Chanson's shoes at age 5 (?) or 6(?), kept by mom all these years, unearthed last Christmas

Here, sitting alongside Chanson's shoes at age 30 (OMG I'll be 31 soon!!!!!!! Waaahhhh!)
My feet didn't grow so much, I realize. =D
Photos taken by my very handsome brother, Earl. Thank you for sending! =)

Not so high now, please

Nowadays, my compulsion to wear 3-inch heels has definitely mellowed. Call it growing old (cringe) if you will, but I seem to be realizing what a welcome respite comfort is, versus the second-by-second effort (the intensity varies, dependent on heel height/width) one needs to exert and all the balancing and pretending-to-be-completely-nonchalant-even-when-one's-feet-are-turning-blue thing when one is walking, or simply standing, in heels. It might even be the wearing away of the self-consciousness one experiences when the need to fit in (with the tall crowd? hahaha) dwindles away as one's self-confidence shoots up, that je m'en fiche! attitude one acquires after an epiphany of some sort happens, which has something to do with the acceptance of things, in general, and of one's real image/being, in particular.


So, I'm small, ehem, petite. So, sue me. Whatever the reason, sooner or later, that almost instinctive election of form over function begins to make less and less sense, until it reaches a point where its logic altogether disappears. I haven't reached that point yet (I would still never wear shoes or sandals that are totally flat--give me an inch and a half, at least), and I cannot be entirely sure if I'll ever get there, but things almost always change, and who knows perhaps I'll get there, someday (not that I'm wishing for it). After all, we are as tall as we feel. And, as far as I'm concerned, I've been feeling 5'9" high, recently.
=D

This unfluctuating propensity

to compartmentalize my life.

"Cause all I want is the moon upon a stick/ Just to see what if..."

The latest from Radiohead:

"Lotus Flower", here.

The Month That is

Tailing the heels of a funked-up first month of the year, my February is brimming over with laughter and Oscar nominees and Grammy winners and my kids' bout with and eventual recovery from measles and bonding time with my mom and prayers for and hopes for a good year and occasional givings-in to purchases and work, work, work and once more teetering in killer stilettos and allowing myself to indulge in conversations with good friends and revisiting old haunts and entertaining dreams of Tory Burch bags and Anthologie shoes. =)

I am blessed, and for that, I am thankful.

Friday morning, half-awake

We find ways, or look for ways.

When the creaking of a door reminds us of someone leaving, of someone arriving, of a door opening for memories to come in, or go out of; when a half-open closet brings to mind a messed up life, or a recently-concluded fight; when an indentation on a pillow intimates a sleepless night, or sleepless nights, of dried tears from those sleepless nights.

We look for an open window to look out of, to breathe through, then look up and mumble a prayer for a swirl of wind to whisk the despondency away.

The Carpenters "I Believe You"

Since it's almost hearts' day and all, thought I'd share this piece of loveliness with you.

Indeed, few singers could rival Karen Carpenter's heartbreakingly beautiful alto. Melancholic, enchanting, delicate.

Have a love-filled week. =)

Thank God For Mothers

This week promises to be a real grind, as Kim's got the measles and I won't be able to take time off from work so I'll be jetting (I wish!) between the office and Makati Med, and this I'll have to do everyday, until the doctor decides that the little guy is fit to be discharged.

A blessing comes in the form of my mom, who'll be coming here all the way from Bicol, so the little one will have someone watching over him while I'm at work. This has me musing about the cycle of life that my mom usually speaks about: one day, it'll be my turn to do what she's doing, when my kids have kids of their own and grandma Shan'll be on call to watch over their little ones when Mom/Dad can't.

Can't wait for Kimpot to get well. He looks so wawa with those rashes and the discomfort of being sick.

When I am unable to sleep, I listen to this:

And the cares go away like leaves blown by some vagrant wind.
Listen to "All I Want" here.

Fixin'

There's something extremely satisfying about looking into a closet of neatly-folded clothes, I realize that now. Yep, after months of putting it off and pretending I could still find my way in the mess that was my closet, I finally hauled my lazy bum to fold, organize, fold, organize. It was getting kinda difficult to look for something to wear,  what with the unrecognizable mess my clothes had become. I took everything out and nearly gave up when I saw how much folding and arranging I had to do. But I knew someone had to do it, and I knew that someone could only be me.

So that's the news for the day. 

And, oh, let me leave you with a quote, straight from the mouth of the great Sen. Miriam Santiago: "that kind of ignorance could only come from a one-celled amoeba!" Such eloquence! Astig talaga si senator!
=D

This blog has become an incoherent mess.

Will be fixing it soon.

Sign of the times:

Dragon Dance passing by...