Onward ho

It's been two days of moving, and we're still not done. The husband is under the weather with a very nasty cold bringing on an equally nasty temper, the mother is in town, and the children are clamoring for their daily routine. I don't know where my clothes are and I still need to find out what the hell is in those boxes. Then there was a must-go family dental appointment that revealed the need for more work. And now I sneak out for a minute with Mom to an internet cafe. And as much as all that's going on right now is chaos, disorder and frustration, in an instant, I am thrown out of my own life and my own petty cares into the world of Ally Samson and her parents, dear friends Mikey and Lou.

With poignancy, passion and utter truth, Mikey gives us daily updates on Ally's transplant procedure, intended to finally stamp out her leukemia and expresses his own thought process as he struggles to make sense of these days. Ally-booboo turns two on December 4, and has proven herself powerful beyond her years in her ability to withstand experiences that are downright unthinkable. I can't get over Lou and Mikey and their complementary strengths as parents -- strength that calls to mind their name. As Ally likes to say, "Ay naku, naku, naku..." Read about her in the website that Lou built, under WHERE I CLICK. Get thrown out of your own life in an instant...

Fifth time to Rent

Karen Mok and a New York cast are doing a run of Rent at the Kallang Theatre here in Singapore, for two weeks. And last night, their second night, was a rather uneven performance, I'm sorry to say. But the reasons are...multifactorial. First, as a veteran "Renter" that's seen the show four times previously, last night's performance suffered in comparison. Pregnant with Kaylee in 1997, I saw Rent on Broadway--granted, with seats going at $85 a pop, we were high up on the balcony...but that cast was excellent. In Manila, in 1998, I saw the New Voice Company's production at the Music Museum--the ideal, intimate concert venue for this show. I remember being blown away by JM Rodriguez's Mark and Monique Wilson's Maureen, and Jamie Wilson's Benny. Not to mention the beauty of the production itself. When Angel sings "Kiss me, it's beginning to snow" ...actual snowflakes fall to the stage. In fact, that show was so mesmerising, I saw it twice. Then in 2002, we saw virtually the same cast do it at the Victoria Theatre--JM was still doing Mark, Calvin Millado was still Roger...and Rachel Alejandro was a sultry vixen Mimi and her sashaying was totally hot to say the least...matched note per note by her golden vocal.

I will say though that last night's New Yorker Maureen was the best I've seen...beating out Monique, especially in vocal quality. But overall the production was on the uneven side...low-key and somewhat low-energy. It's true that the players may have been affected by the half-empty Kallang Theatre which is massive and a monster to fill. Or maybe they were discombobulated by the faulty sound system which sometimes caused erratic voice disappearances. I don't know. As for the much publicised Karen Mok and her Mimi--she was just on the okay side of the spectrum. There were a couple of instances that she was straining, even shouting vocally. Her Mimi was pretty, but not really the smouldering vixen of sensuality. And her "Let's Go Out Tonight" was actually awkward to watch, I don't know why. Most offputting was her British accent popping out at inopportune times. Hello. Mimi's a New Yorker, and hispanic to boot. I know she's the Canto pop queen of Asia...but...but...but...she doesn't make a very good Mimi, is all.

Still, Larsen's material overcomes in the end. And as a veteran "Renter" I still found pleasure in the melodies. It's hard to really mess up a great thing, I think. Or at least, you have to try really hard.

I'll Cover You

In this day and age, it's hard to come by, let alone write, a truly romantic song about selfless, unconditional love. Yet Jonathan Larsen manages with finesse in his
"I'll Cover You", a duet by the drag queen Angel and the macho homo grad student TA Tom Collins. Both as Angel says, "provide a comfortable home for the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome" --and they find each other and fall in love...just in time.

How wonderfully quirky, new age and authentic that this most romantic duet is performed in heartfelt harmony by a homosexual couple. And that's just one of the things I love about Rent. Sing it, baby.

Live in my house
I'll be your shelter
Just pay me back with one thousand kisses
Be my lover, and I'll cover you

Open your door
I'll be your tenant
Don't got much baggage to lay at your feet
But sweet kisses I've got to spare
I'll be there, and I'll cover you

You'll be my king, and I'll be your castle
Oh you'll be my queen, and I'll be your moat
I think they meant it, when they said you can't buy love
Now I know you can rent it, a new lease you are, my love
On life...be
Oh...lover, I'll cover you

I've longed to discover something as true as this is
Oh with a thousand sweet kisses
(I'll cover you)
With a thousand sweet kisses
(I'll cover you)
With a thousand sweet kisses,
(when you're cold and your lonely)
With a thousand sweet kisses,
(you've got one nickel only)

Oh lover, I'll cover you

The stuff of life

The movers come the day after tomorrow. The house looks like we're testing missiles. The trick is to sort through stuff and get rid of stuff and pack stuff, and still have enough stuff out so the kids can do their stuff--easier said than done. And of course, there's the whole time-consuming task of trying to decide, do I still need this? Will I still use this? And why on earth do I still have this, for goodness sake? And what about the stuff you accumulate, things that are meant to be mementos for specific occasions, with no other function than just that. Plastic thingumies and paper doodads. A menu card, a box of business cards from two jobs ago? I have done the impossible and just tossed it. Trickier are things like old magazines--special fiction issues of the New Yorker. Or those one-off copies given for an article written. Ordinarily, I would clip the article, file it in one of those books with the clear plastic pages, and toss the magazine. But even that task seems too daunting, not when the movers are coming in less than 48 hours. And we haven't even gotten to the clothes. This T-shirt looks horribly tired and ragged at the edges, but it's also so comfy, I can't bear to part with it. What then? I even have a little plastic bag of a few of my children's baby teeth, the ones I managed to keep. And what do you do with half-consumed bottles of moisturiser or hair conditioner in little bottles that we took from hotels...even though niether of us uses conditioner, ever. On the bright side, I did run into notes and old letters. Funny missives from friends, and photographs that never did get put in an album. These go back, higgledy-piggledy into a box I've labelled bits and pieces. Bits and pieces of my life. What is it with us, that we can't seem to organise? That our lives, the very matter that makes up our nitty-gritty... why is it, that it must be encountered in disheveled bits and pieces, odds and ends...and little doohickies we run into in the different corners of our everyday? And when will we learn to streamline and compartmentalise so as to have order? I see other people's houses and I wonder, where is all their stuff? Meanwhile, I run into newspaper clippings of job ads in my prayer book, and old credit card bills in my cookbook--and yet, I'm always looking for something I can't quite find. And there's always stuff enough to fill another box...

I'm taking a deep breath and closing my eyes and tossing a few of these doodads and doohickies...there's always more where that came from...

Ocean Park 

Disneyland -What a trip! 

Wak wak wak! 

My son, the graduate 

Something strange

We've been cleaning up, right? Setting old toys aside. Setting books aside that we no longer want. Clothes. Knick-knacks. It's operation streamline, and the goal is to just de-clutter.

Over the past week and a half, I put my ever reliable book, "What To Expect When Your Expecting" into the donation pile. After all, I will not need it anymore. I put it there three times on three separate days. The first time, I put it in the pile...but the following morning, I found it back on the shelf. So I put it back in the pile, thinking maybe I had Alzheimer's. Two days later, the book was again back on the shelf, so I put it back in the pile. Over the weekend, I had the pile of books put in a big box and we brought it over to the lady who sends things back home to poor communities. Then last night, I was looking for a book, and there it was, back on the shelf. Very very strange...

T says I should ask Melyn whether she's the one who keeps putting it back on the shelf, but I keep forgetting to ask her. Tomorrow I will.

A female tries...

I am truly back at Female, as they've given me a Female Tries assignment. Never boring, this column is almost always fun to do. Today was no exception. I went over to visit Soul Centre, and had a two hour session of Energy Emission Analysis and Colour Threapy, as conducted by Sally Forrest. The premise is that energy emissions, which are most focused and intense from your fingertips and toes, are able to clue a trained therapist into your physical health and emotional well-being. Once the problems and issues are identified via a photograph of those energy emissions, Sally then applies colour or light energy to the body at converter and acupuncture points. Light pushs the flow of energy through the body, re-energises and resets it, restoring balance and health. In fact, every finger and every toe corresponds both to an organ in the body and an emotion. At first, I was skeptical, because it all sounded way too new age-y to me. But I must say I was amazed by what she could tell, and also at what light therapy was able to achieve.

As Forrest explains: "Any emotion, which cannot for whatever reason be expressed verbally, is held in the body and later expressed as a symptom, illness or disturbance of the mind."

Light is a life force; we should all stay lit.

Express yourself! 

The Adobo Factor

No Adobo Factor 

After almost three years in this flat, that's more like a house than an apartment owing to its spacious two levels and its appealing hardwood floors, we are moving. The apartment is after all, a fluke. With old plumbing and none of the spanking, shiny bathroom fixtures upmarket renters in Singapore have a penchant for, we were able to rent it for a song. But sometime this year, it's due to be torn down. And it its place will arise one of those ubiquitous high-rise condominiums with which househunters are all too familiar. So we started a half-hearted hunt for our next home. We knew it need not be lavish nor spanking new. If we could find something with four bedrooms, even if the overall area were to be smaller, that would be fine.

But, among other things, we were of one mind about what we didn't want. We named it--the adobo factor. What we did not want was an apartment with a layout that would allow someone at the front door to clearly see exactly what you're having for dinner. In short, there has to be some sort of foyer or alcove, some sort of architectural pause that will prevent, say your UPS man from exclaiming upon entering, "Ay, adobo! Or "Fried chicken!" Or "Spaghetti!" Either that, or the dining area, if it's not a dining room (which it would rarely be), had to be sufficiently faraway from the front door so that though someone might be able to smell dinner, they ought not have a clear view of the dishes. You'd be surprised how many places we saw that seemed perfectly suitable, except for this idiosyncracy. "That was nice," we might concede to each other. "Kaso, adobo factor..." And we would move on.

Then all of a sudden, like a little bit of magic, there it was. Smaller, certainly, but four bedrooms. And no adobo factor. We move in two weeks...

An epiphany

I have a friend from college, L. She was always someone I felt drawn to, even while recognising how different we were from one another. As it turned out, we had much more in common beneath the surface. After we graduated, she and I went into the same field, had many mutual friends, and despite not being one-on-close, I felt we always had an easy affinity, something that we could easily call upon, whenever the moment or the circumstances arose in which we found ourselves together. As the years passed, we, of course, saw less and less of each other, so as to lose touch almost completely.

Anyway, about a year ago, I heard from a common friend that L. had had a baby. This was indeed news. The all of a sudden kind of news that simply boggles the mind, but only for an instant, as you instinctively know to take it in stride. Creative, intelligent and inspirationally energetic, L is definitely not your garden-variety Pinay, thank goodness for that. Why would she not have a baby, after all is said and done?

When I finally saw a photograph of her beautiful baby, I found myself getting choked up, inexplicably. In a strange, surreal moment, I remembered a story my mother told me when I was all of fourteen.

My Mom told me about one of her closest friends in school, a vibrant, amazing, creative woman named Ching. Apparently, after they all graduated from college, Ching made what was then the brave, difficult and unusual move of leaving the country to find fame and fortune in New York City. She did it shortly after graduation, and soon after, she wrote my Mom less and less, likely because her life was so very different and therefore, much harder to write about.

My Mom married and taught school. And some three years later, she and my Dad moved to New Haven, where my Dad went to get his PhD and where my Mom worked in the University bookstore. It was there that they had me. They lived a long train ride away from New York, but when, by some happenstance, my Mom had word from Ching, she made the trip with me in tow, to visit her old school chum in
the big city.

Ching lived in tiny two-room flat in the theatre district, and she worked and still went on auditions. My Mom recalled climbing up the dark, dingey stairs to Ching's apartment. When they got there, Ching looked at my Mom and said to her, "There's someone I want you to meet." My Mom did not know what to expect. This was the 1960s. Would it be a husband? A boyfriend?

Ching took her into the bedroom and there in an old wooden crib was a sleeping baby, maybe a year old. "This is Micah," she said. Mom told me she took one look at that baby and burst into tears. And the two friends, both of them cried.

My fourteen year old whipper-snapper self piped up, "I don't get it. Why did you cry?" And even as she explained, Mom got teary-eyed.

"Because she was my friend. We were kids together and played in the backfields of my Lola's house. And here we were, after so many years, and after I hadn't seen her for so long. She had come all this way, all by herself, and she had a baby. I had just had you--and had just gone though it all, giving birth away from family, in a strange place. And it turns out, she had done the same thing..."

I remember now how I smirked and shrugged and just didn't have a clue. All I could say was, "I don't get it." But then I saw a picture of L.'s little one, and all of a sudden, everything fell together. I got it.

And what do you know? L is in town and gave me a buzz. It's a good time to catch up and reconnect.

Sunday lovely sunday

sunday morning 

As children, my sisters and I enjoyed reading these illustrated Arch Books, simplified tellings of Bible stories. You may have read them, too.

I still remember that one of my favorites was the one on the Parable Of Talents. It tells the story of a master who has to go on a journey and leave his wealth in the care of three servants. The first gets eight talents, the second gets four and third gets two talents. The first and second invest succesfully, the third is scared and just hides it away. I remember, even as a child, feeling sorry for the third servant. Not being good at math or finances myself, I felt that it was rather harsh punishment to mete out to someone who was merely afraid, after all, of losing his Master's money. It took many years and a number of teachers to set me straight. But even after all that, I've felt a particular fondness for this parable, so much so that when I am called upon to do something that I know I'm likely able to do but am afraid to do, I compell myself to do it because I don't want to be that cowering servant who did not act, because he was afraid to.

Anyway, that parable also happened to be today's Sunday gospel. Apparently, according to Fr. O'Niell SJ at St. Ignatius, who on his good days (which thankfully are still quite frequent) is really such a wonderful homilist, this particular gospel is only read at mass every three years. In his sermon, he preached about making use of the gifts that we are given for His greater glory. He spoke not just of the intellectual, emotional and creative talents, but the gifts we recieve as members of the church--the sacraments. When are we actually spreading the faith to those who are lost and in need of it? When are we actively helping others find His grace, and the tremendous comfort and solace it brings?

It was an eloquent sermon, graceful in its brevity and far reaching in its depth. It made me feel thankful that I shepherded my family into going to the 10:15 mass even though it really was a mad rush through breakfast and there was a measure of whining and dragging of feet. But it was with lightness and gladness of heart that we all went about the rest of our Sunday--doing errands, strolling the river to brunch at Brewerkz, and just hanging out at home. So I nagged at them a little. Sue me. Nagging just happens to be one of my talents, one I'm not particularly fearful of putting to use. It was a good day.

Tripping Back 1: Amsterdam

263 Prinsengracht 

“…Your first seeing of a country is a very valuable one. Probably more valuable to yourself than to anyone else, is the hell of it. But you ought to always write it to try to get it stated. No matter what you do with it.”
Ernest Hemingway
Green Hills of Africa

We stole into the city before light broke, sailing into Central Station on an amazingly rapid train one eerily silent Sunday dawn. The cold, crisp early morning cast a gray white light on the Dam Square. There were no bicycles or trams, no shopkeepers or pedestrians. As we wandered down empty streets, we whispered, not knowing quite why. We wheeled our suitcases across the street to the Victoria Hotel, built very neatly around a single, narrow Dutch house so organic to the design that it remained practically unobtrusive. The story, we heard later, was that the owner of the huis simply refused to sell his property, forcing the developers to build the hotel around his home.

Not able to check into our rooms at that early hour, we trudged back out into the city streets on foot all set to take in the major sights. From the Dam Square, we made our way past postcard pretty canals to Prinsengracht, intending to visit the house of Anne Frank. Armed with a Streetwise Amsterdam map, we walked right by the museum twice, without realising that was what it was.

As it turned out, our timing could not have been more perfect. Once we finally got there, our third stroll down the same stretch of Prinsengracht, we happened upon the tourists. The line was a short one, just beginning to form by the house right next to it, which was gutted and modernised to accomodate the museum’s admission desk, reception, waiting area, gift shop and café.

We mounted the narrow steps up to the third floor of the annex, and stepped thru the bookshelf that was a door, and the space beyond it – if this space in which twelve people spent two years could hardly be called that. We saw the beds and the furniture. The pots and pans upon which they cooked what must have been the same food day in and day out for two years. The faded pictures Anne and her sister taped up on to the wall of their room. These took my breath away. That there ever was this thirteen year old girl with such a spirit who experienced such a prison only to leave it and find there were greater horrors was in store; that one so young and so optomistic could experience such day-to-day fear and still persistently believe in the good of life and the good of people.

Visitors to Amsterdam should not skip The Anne Frank Museum. The experience is by turns, so simple, so horrifying and yet so indelibly moving, for what it stands for and ultimately, for what it is. Of course, you emerge from this unlikely, unconventional museum experience filled with a quiet awe and a malaise that, fortunately, is fleeting. Do not try for a photo op at this moment, for the smiles will be wan. Wait instead till after you've had a cup of coffee or a bit of lemonade. Wait till the breeze blows off the city's picturesque canals, right there on Prinsengracht. Sieze this moment to take embark upon your on-and-off canal tour. Get into the boat and once it makes its way toward Bloemengarten, once you get a glimpse of the tulips… this is the time to take a shot.

When wives get together...

...inevitably, if they chat long enough, that is, one or another (and usually, it's the same one or another) will launch into some lilting, lingering, little story about her husband's sweet gesture (the sweetness of which often has no comparison). It might be an act of selflessness, or a strikingly thoughtful deed, or even something as simple and as concrete as a gift, for no reason at all: a trinket or a handbag or the fashionista's must-have du jour. Somehow, the telling of this tale is like a way of capturing a bit of living, breathing proof of true love in their bare hands, for all to see. It vibrates, perhaps struggling to be set free and yet trapped, caught, caged. Aha. I have you now. Look! I have it.

And the other wives will coo and twitter with marvelling, perhaps even envious tones. For a moment, one or another (and usually, it's the same one or another) will feel, though she may not own it, the finest thread of discontent working it's way into her emotional needle's eye. How wonderful. You're so lucky. That's so sweet. X would never. I can't even imagine. Wow.

It is to the latter one or another that I write, though I am certain, that deep down inside, she already knows it. This bit of knowledge that is, in fact, yet another length of thread, waiting to be taken up for stitching. She knows it takes a certain kind of person to do a certain kind of thing. And were she to imagine, even for a moment, her particular love doing this particular thing, she would soon recognise he would no longer be the person who does all the other things that she cherishes, values and appreciates, in fact loves - that is, if she is fortunate enough to see those things with her own eyes.

Perhaps this is just one item on the long list of amusing discoveries made aboutmarriage. That the person loved cannot always love one in the way one, every now and then (but not always) wants to be loved. And paradoxically, the person who would love her in precisely that way she sometimes (but not always) might want to be loved, is for the most part, someone she never would have fallen in love with in the first place.

Dancing through life