Take a vinyasa!

  

We should all simply

  
Bono has it so very right.

Yoo Hoo! You Too?

It's not the best time in the world to up and leave for a couple of days, but hey...when is it ever? Going down under to see Bono and hang with friends. Hopefully the weather holds up...

One Halloween

After almost seven years in Singapore, I took a ride on the Halloween Bus.

What's that? It's basically the official form of transport on Halloween Saturday for those in Singapore who enjoy getting dressed up in the scary costume of their choice and hopping from bar to bar in pursuit of inebriation. Or at least till their eyes are so frighteningly bloodshot, their faces no longer need paint for additional terrifying effects. The happenstance of why I came to be on that bus was a hen night for the fiancee of a friend. I can think of no other circumstances that would have induced me to go on such a spree, otherwise.

So there I was, completely wide-eyed and sober, sitting in the first empty seat I could find: a lone leopard with giraffe ears separated from my fellow leopards and zebras. Next to me was a guy who's costume I simply didn't get. (He was in a navy pin striped suit and wore a hat. When I asked what he was supposed to be, he looked all haughty and offended. "I'm in the mafia," he muttered disdainfully. The thing is, I felt he was more pimp than godfather. Of course, I refrained from telling him that.

Anyway, the sureal high point was when someone in the front of the bus started coming down the aisle toward me. He was frightening. He wore an under shirt, was barefoot, had scary black circles around his eyes and walked a little like a hunchback, with a shuffling gait. I looked at him and thought: Oh my gosh, it's Gollum from LOTR.

"Noelle? Noelle?" Gollum called out as he approached...coming nearer and nearer to me. I froze. I had no idea who he was.

Only when his face was just inches from mine did I recognise him. An out of context young colleague from my new office.

"What are you doing on the bus?" he asked me with palpable incredulity.

And boy, that's when I felt it. I don't know for sure how he meant it. But I was sure of what I felt. The unmistakable sense that I did not belong. I was officially old. And that spooked me. I felt like an imposter whose mask was pulled off. By Gollum. Tricksy, tricksy, tricksy...

The next day, I discovered, my colleague wasn't even Gollum. He was actually (so he explained) a character from some Japanese horror flick - a boy that had drowned and came back to haunt his home. I told him it didn't matter. He had scared me half to death all the same.

Romance on the River Seine

 

Travel is about the moments you witness and remember. If you're lucky, you have a photo... 

Just like... sex

Do you remember how you learned to ride a bicycle? Because I don't. One moment, I did not know how. The next moment, I did. And the exhileration of that sensation, of suddenly knowing with "exclamatory awareness" - I can do it. This is great. Wow. It is magic.

Witnessing that moment is magic as well. Yesterday, while K went off to her all-girl's bday party, we took C to to East Coast Park and we taught him to ride a bicycle. We decided, let's not even fuss with the training wheels. Let's just throw him into it.
He was apprehensive at first, but it took him, literally, minutes. More than five, and very much less than ten. T gave him two rules: Kick off with just one foot on the pedal. Slow down when you turn. Before we knew it, we were doing that scene in Kramer vs. Kramer, running and jumping and celebrating the joy of it.

And they say sex is just like riding a bicycle...

Raising Beatles fans

C's all-time favourite is Lady Madonna. Especially the part that goes, "See how they run." K was drawn immediately to the poignant and heartbreaking Eleanor Rigby, but she is also very fond of the winsome Penny Lane and the playful Hello Goodbye.

It wasn't planned. Just a haphazard cd changer choice and voila: we have brand new Beatles fans in our midst.

It's all good. Let it be.

Working with men

New job. New life.

I'm realising that throughout my working life, I've been surrounded by women, working with and for women. My first ever job I was a copywriter surrounded by female copywriters, and I wrote catsup copy and banking brochures. My boss was a woman, and although my secondary boss was a man, he was really more womanly than anything. I taught school for a bit, and there were more women there. The majority of my account managers were women. In the early nineties, forced to maximise my salary potential, I became an executive admin assistant in Manhattan. Then I worked for men but only from a very formal distance; my peers - a group of lovely secretaries - were all women. And of course, in the magazine business, it's all about women. Only 2 out of 10 staff in a magazine are men. That's not a real statistic, but it sounds about right.

These days, I work both with and for men - and ultimately, the readers I want to connect to are men. Maybe it's because I have no brothers but yes, it is new for me.
There's a lot to absorb. Things happen faster it seems. Communication channels seem to get crossed a whole lot more frequently. Attention spans are short - what, who where - and they're gone. Words are few and far apart. Ego seems a natural ingredient in testosterone. And assumptions are like puddles of dirty rain water - they just get stepped in - oops.

As someone blighted with the habit of being nice, I know I have to protect myself. I will not make coffee. I will not wash coffee cups. OK. Yesterday I found myself saying I would get someone a plastic bag for their waste bin. But hey, I was going downstairs anyway. I will not apologise. I will not flutter and dither. I will smile less. I will say what I think and leave it at that.

At the very least, I will try.

Playing Happy Family

Broke in the game I bought at Musee du Orsay - a game of Happy Families featuring seven great Impressionists - Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Gaugin, Cezanne, Renoir, and Degas. K and C had a blast and learned about art, too. Lots of rambunctious laughter and information retention.

Gotta pat myself on the back for that purchase.

Happy Birthday Rofel!

 

The interior of St. Vitus Cathedral, within the Castle in Prague. 

The amazing thing about the internet

I still recall in the early nineties, living in New York, reading speculative articles about this new medium, the "I-way", my boss at the time called it. (That name never stuck). People said things as blasphemous as it's only good for porn, which of course, in retrospect is simply mind-boggling.

And yet for all the many benefits there are today - the shopping, the banking, the booking of airline tickets and the making of reservations, all these for me pale in comparison to the broadest possibilities of intimate human connection. Through the Internet I have found a number of people who were at one time important to me: my best friend in kindergarten - Denise, now a bio computer scientist and a mother. My gradschool kindred spirit, Janette, a professor at UVA. And most recently, we've reconnected with Ka Magic and his little family, reliving all the hilarious memories of times shared back when we were once New Yorkers.

Today, I read from my highschool e-group that one of my classmates in first year highschool has made the tremendous, terrifying step of taking her small son and their belongings and sneaking out of her house to leave her abusive husband once and for all.

She writes with the same honest familiarity and openess that I remember she had when she was thirteen year old. She asks for our prayers, the prayers of her fellow classmates. We were good friends at one time, and yet, once we were in different classrooms, we allowed ourselves to lose touch. The last time I saw her was after college. We ran into each other once more, at the library at TJCC on Gil Puyat in Manila. She was then preparing for her GREs, full of hope for what I was certain would be her bright future.

And here we are - some twenty years later, having found each other because she reached out through the 'net during this very difficult time.

What is the internet, if not a way to bring you towards such connections and reconnections - despite being, as we are separate individuals all over the globe?

Yoga Blast

To make up for last week's inactivity due to wisdom tooth surgery, I've been at the yoga centre with a vengeance. Monday, I did a Power class with Laurence. Tuesday, it was Hatha 1 with Shyam. Wednesday, I did Hot 1 with Hanoi, but had to run out after an hour for a meeting with the Dappers. Thursday, I did Hatha 1 in the morning with Kumaran and then Hot Flow in the afternoon with Arun. Friday, it was Hanoi's power class, which was great. Arms and shoulders are slightly tender, but other than that I feel great!

Total hours: 6! Hopefully, I can keep this up even after work starts.

On the eve of your birthday

 

May your next five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes be filled with love, joy and all His blessings for your personal fulfillment! All our love and birthday wishes Tita M!! From your family in sunny, hazy, Singapore!  

"You know you're old ...

... when your dentist is younger than you."
- T

Dr. Aidan took the stitches out today - a short procedure that was not without discomfort. I said to him, "You know, I really didn't expect this whole thing to be so painful. The surgery. The recovery. Taking out these stitches..." And you know what he said to me?

"That's why it's ideal to get this surgery done at age 18. Recovery is most painless for the young."

Ouch. Gee, doc. Thanks. It helps to know that.

New displays at the Singapore Zoo

  

Kaylee's First Communion

  

The Scoop

As Woody Allen films go, this is definitely not his best one. But it's funny and engaging and story-wise, still inventive. Scarlett Johansson and Hugh Jackman are both fun to watch, and even the Woodman distinguishes himself in familiar territory.

But it is familiar territory, with plotlines borrowed both from his little novella The Kugelmass Episode as well as his 1995 flic Manhattan Murder Mystery. At least Allen borrows from himself, which is entirely acceptable. It's too easy for him - like nothing more than his own creative training session. That it's done in mostly British accents is refreshing, but it doesn't make it into the top 10 Woody Allen film list, not by a long shot.

What it is is a scoop of ice cream on hot day. Great fun while it lasts, but soon forgotten. And who gave Scarlett Johansson's stylist the day off, please?

Tick Tick Boom!

Also known as Jonathan Larsen's pre-RENT work with a little tweaking.

We went in with lowered expectations, and came out humming. It's more of a mini-musical really, not a full-scale production. But the New York cast was three-man strong - in fact, we were pleasantly surprised to find Jerry Dixon in it. We had seen him previously in two performances of Once On This Island and one ensemble Broadway show right here in Singapore with Judy Kuhn.

Anyway, while Tick Tick Boom's plot isn't exactly the stuff for panorama -- the angst of choices, decisions and turning (Oh my God, really?) 30; at least, musically, the show has some engaging moments. My favourites are as follows:

- The homage to Stephen Sondheim's Sunday in the Park With George in SUNDAY - a satirical comic piece on the quintessential New York thing to do: sunday brunch. Anyone who has hummed SitPwG will recognise its stirring counterpoints in this tune.
- The cute and quirky duet THERAPY, a singable ode to relationship nueroses.
- The haunting REAL LIFE is a little heavy handed but not unaffecting.
- A nice strong melody with a full female vocal COME TO YOUR SENSES
- WHY is not only singable, but musical lovers will recognise the cameo threads of Mary Poppins and West Side Story. It also functions as a beautiful commitment to craft anthem.

Should you see Tick Tick Boom? It's a show that's barely an hour and a half long and has no intermission. Hey, if it's running, I say why on earth not?

What I found along the Seine

  

Project Runway

Am sitting here at home, nursing my post-wisdom tooth surgery ache, which is proving surprisingly bothersome. But I'm cheered up, unexpectedly, by this show on Travel & Living. Watching these novice designers translate their inspirations into garments is genuinely absorbing. Very few things on television are so substantially about the process of creativity. Project Runway is definitely it. Besides, you gotta love all these beautiful, loving gay guys...they're just so sweet. Bitchy perhaps, but sweet nevertheless.

T for Magic

  

What gets me

You have this idea for a short story. But you're always too busy to write it. But it's a good idea. You even have dreams about it. Once, you even dreamed your way to the ending, which is frequently the toughest part. But you're still too busy. There is never that stretch of time in which you can lay down the beginning, develop the complication, and race to the end. Then you think, oh fuck it, just write what you can and if you don't finish, it's there for when you have more time. So that's what you do. You write the beginning. And it's nice and easy. And then the busyness sets in. And life starts happening. And for awhile, you forget about the story. Months pass, maybe even a year or two. Then your mind comes back to it. That story. How did it go again. And you start getting excited. And finally, finally, you have some time coming to you. A real nice chunk. So you look through your stuff for that beginning - those few paragraphs that you wrote that one time. Was it three paragraphs? Wasn't it even a couple of pages. Damn. Where is it. It was pretty good stuff, wasn't it.

But you can't find it. Even though you know in your heart you wrote it. And it was good. You realise you're probably remembering it better than what it actually was. But still. It would have been workable anyhow. Not like the pain of starting from complete scratch. But it's gone. You have no idea where it is.

And now you want to write. And you do have the time. Do you start on something new...or do you go back to that old one. The one you remember.

What are you going to do.

What was playing in a theatre in Montmarte!

 

Not surprising as his largest fan base is in Europe. Unfortunately, we had no time to see the play. Will have to content ourselves with catching SCOOP with Hugh Jackman and Scarlett Johanssen at GV Great World. Hopefully this weekend. 

Risotto & Reading At Kampa Park, Prague

  

It was goat cheese and mushroom risotto and it was delicious!

Bookhunting While Travelling

It's a habit that my husband has come to accept. I must buy a book in each city I visit, each and every time I visit. The T-shirts I ignore, not relishing the way I look in your average souvenir T-shirt. And, no judgement on my mother-in-law, but I have a peculiar aversion to refrigerator magnets.

A book is decidedly different. As a memento of a specific journey, as someting for my personal bookcase, as a signpost of a different culture, even, it offers abundantly more.But I limit myself to just one, especially in view of T's "pack light!" directive, not to mention my own budgetary concerns. That of course makes the process of choosing all the more difficult, but also all the more pleasurable. It is not a decision to be made lightly, and it cannot be rushed. You want to buy a book that has some sort of significance to the city you are in. Ideally, it would not be available where you live, and critical is that its purchase will not break the bank, at least, not unduly.

In Amsterdam four years ago, I remember I bought Anais Nin's dynamic duo of erotic tales: Little Birds and Delta of Venus. She's not Dutch, yet I felt, rightly or wrongly, my choice was fitting somehow in light of the red light district near the city's old Church. Besides, I argued to T, it's not like you can pick either of these titles up in Singapore. In Florence, I bought Mary McCarthy's exquisite Stones Of Florence as well as her Venice Observed, which are travel but also history, and so magnificently crafted, I swooned over her prose throughout the entire trip, carrying the books around in my tote and reading them out loud at odd moments.

The bookhunt for this recent trip to Paris and Prague, was unexpectedly easy. In Paris, all we had to do was pop into Shakespeare Books on rue la bucherie, parallel to the Siene and almost directly across the Notre Dame. After a few minutes of intent browsing in the travel section, I spotted the "winner" in of all places, the language section. Huh?

What I picked up was an English fiction "reader" designed for French people intent on learning English. New York Stories is a Lire En V.O. Anglais, a Nouvelles Annotees (Short stories?) with a preface de Patricia Highsmith.Its pages offer stories by such great names as Dorothy Parker,John Cheever, Bernard Malamud, Carson McCullers, Isaac B. Singer and Roald Dahl, among others. Every page features a list of vocabulary translations in the margins so I know that when Malamud's Sam in THE COST OF LIVING "stumbles into" the store, a French reader would translate the phrase as: "entra en chancelant". A plus for this once-upon-a-time New Yorker is that the stories are all set in that other great city, and I got the lovely little tome for just four euro. Cool.

In Prague, it was even simpler. I knew the title I both needed and wanted almost as soon as I took steps upon the Charles Bridge, my first highschool copy having been lost years ago. And there it was, so easy to locate - Franz Kafka's Metamophosis and Other Stories. The bonus? An insightful introduction by Adam Thirwell, which very intelligently and humourously situates the work in literary history. 320 Czeck Crown which comes to 21$SGD. On the pricey side, but hey, pretty much what I would pay if I got it in Kinokuniya.

I would have wanted to buy a book in Frankfurt, Vienna and Zurich respectively, but finding a bookstore within our alloted time proved a major challenge. I did manage to enter a bookstore in Vienna, but their books in English were on the paltry side, with such popular paperback fiction titles as you would find in any airport book kiosk. As the Austrian bookseller herself said dismissively, shaking her head - "I'm afraid we don't have much. Just...novels..." And I liked the way she phrased it - so fitting to hear her perfectly nuanced "I'm afraid"

Never mind T said. Next time.

Not to be outdone

 
Our own little K, who by the way, receives her first communion this Saturday, was also handpicked as one of the five in her badminton class that could be a school team member in a couple of years.

Such athleticism running in our family...who knew? 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

 

C was one of the grade one boys asked to join special soccer training, in view of possibly joining the school soccer team when he reaches grade three! 

Elisabetha on the Charles Bridge surveys the Vltava River

  

Waiting for the funicular on Petrin Hill in Prague

 

"Hey, at least we didn't walk up Petrin Hill, right?" 

Travelling With Your Spouse 2

A married couple's first trip to a foreign city or or, as is frequently the case, a number of foreign cities over a number of days, can be a close-up photagraph of that couple's marriage. A journey with limits to time and budget will draw the differences between husband and wife quickly and dramatically to the surface. And conflict ensues. I've heard a husband say that he can pretty much count on at least one quarrel with his wife during each and every trip. Our first trip to Paris as husband and wife involved a quarrel literally on the Eiffel Tower.

On the other hand, at a certain point, if a couple has travelled together enough, each spouse knows to sidestep potential areas of conflict, like landmines as it were. There are also some quarrels that have happened so frequently there's no longer an point in going through the charade. A smirk and a grimace functions well enough when conflicts are like well-worn grooves in wood or imprints on the ground. Wife and husband are also able to create their compromises and matter-of-fact strategies that neatly avoid full-on conflict. In travel, as in life, two people can each accomodate the other's needs and wants - in this way, they engender their own unique travel habits - this, of course, makes it a little more difficult to find another couple to travel with, but I digress.

- We pack light and separately - each party being responsible for their own stuff - including their own dirty laundry.
- On the plane over, we recognise the need for rest and sleep - and will limit ourselves to one movie.
- T knows that I require a substantial breakfast if I am to get through the day though previously it was his penchant to not eat anything till starvation set in, and only then would he concede to buy cheap and easy street food.
- I know now not to force the issue of a sit-down lunch, having come to understand that this is frequently a waste of time when there are so many places to go and things to see. The midday meal must be a quick affair - even taken on the go, on the run - a sandwich, street food or a few rolls from a bakery.
- We both understand that while there is daylight, we have to be on the move - seeing as many things as possible, ideally on foot.
- It is understood that I am to ask strangers questions - whether it's a request to take our picture or a plea for directions, for the reason that I am the one who most often believes I am lost.
- If there is a high point to climb to with a view of a city, we will certainly do that. Similarly, if there is a bridge to cross, we will cross it.
- T is now also accustomed to my need to create concept pictures with odd poses that often cause passersby to stare. I consider it quite a triumph now because even he himself will deign to pose in that manner.
- If there is bookstore, we must enter it and time must be allotted for browsing.
- If there is a military centre, monument or museum - it must be visited.
- We have also agreed to disagree once or twice - and no longer have to be joined at the hip. Now apparently, we can separate and agree to meet an appointed place when one wants to do a particular thing that isn't what the other wants to do.
- We also know that while I might want to talk about life and plans say, for the next five years during a trip to a foreign city, T will most definitely not to want to do that - reserving any such conversations for bedtime, if at all.

And once a unique modus operandi has been cobbled together, no matter how imperfectly, travel to foreign cities can indeed be the wonderful experience it is meant to be. Fortunately.

Bankers in Zurich

People who work in creative industries like music, advertising or publishing constantly celebrate the joy of their jobs. How wonderful it is, they will say, that we genuinely enjoy our work. How remarkable is our passion - that we can get up in the morning of each day and sincerely look forward to the hours that lie ahead. To get such a high, such a kick and to get paid for it? What could be better than that?

Invariably, I have heard one or another of us compare our jobs against what we, rightly or wrongly, percieve to be the dreariest of occupations. The words, "Imagine, working at a ... bank?" have been uttered with pure, unadulterated incredulity, to the point that the last word is said with such palpable dismay that the "k" sound at the end of the word hangs in the air like a resonating "ick ick ick ick."

As someone who only very slightly resisted the conventional English major's path,I understand the issues at stake. The money vs passion argument, which unfortunately, does come into play in the choice of occupation. My first ever job interview was for the position of a research and financial analyst for a securities firm. I am well aware that had I chosen to accept this offer, I would surely be making four or five times my current salary at this point. Instead, I chose to enter advertising, but harbored the actual desire to be in account management as opposed to creative. The position was as an account executive, but fate in the form of the Senior Vice President for Creative, entered and, rightly or wrongly, thwarted my plans as a creative position was instantly created for me.

I did however, marry a banker. T is the proverbial creative stuck wearing a suit - unflinchingly, but not without a measure of discomfort. As colleagues writing for the university paper - he made his position to me quite clear. "It's where the money is," he said with resignation. And he made this decision with wide-open eyes, pushing aside his own creative impulses, his own personal yearnings. Ultimately, we make our decisions and suffer the tradeoffs while we reap the practicalities.

Similarly, the young, sensitive, musing M has made her own choice.

I want to tell her, even as I know my words are ineffectual at best, that the most important thing is to do what makes you happy and not look back. Or at least, not look back too much. I want to tell her that of course, it is impossible to be completely sure what will make you happy in the long run. I want to tell her that there do happen to be happy bankers and accountants who exercise their soul and passion and creativity both in but more frequently outside of their work. R who does tax accounting in New York, for example, finds the time to take cooking classes and publish the occasional story. But there yes, there are those who are not so happy - those like L who leave an industry, say publishing, to work in finance and four months later, wanting to return because the money just wasn't worth it.

The point is no one can have it completely both ways. There will always be the stuff you give up and the stuff you have to live with, whatever decision you make. There will always be little spaces in your heart in which reside tinges of regret, perhaps a tipple of yearning for something else or something more or even, the road not taken. But that, it is likely M is already learning.

Recent travel ended quite fittingly I thought, considering these musings, with a day in Zurich, Switzerland. Zurich, I'd been told, is a bankers' city. So not very imaginatively, I pictured a staid, business-like place - a city of grey pin-stripes, laptops and manila envelopes. Instead T and I were pleasurably surprised by a fresh briskly green little city with glowingly blue-green bodies of water flowing through it. We gasped at the clean breezes flying off the clear wide expanse of Lake Zurich as well as soaked up the verdant meadows and the stunning views of the Felseneg mountain. Everywhere, people were on bicycles, swimming in the lake, playing with their children.

T and I looked at each other. Perhaps it is possible to have it completely both ways. If ever anyone had it all, would it not be these people? Laughing, we acknowledged yet another new yearning - to be a banker in Zurich.

The sidewalks of Prague

From the Meteor Plaza Hotel in Prague

It's all about walking. You need to feel a foreign country with your feet, and you can't do that without a large measure of walking. But thankfully, the city of Prague lends itself well to our footfalls. While we both marvelled at the majesty and the grandeur of the old town square, the stunning Charles bridge, the castle and the great cathedral within, I also found myself hypnotised by the sidewalks.

All the sidewalks are paved mosaic style with squares or parallelograms of coloured stone - white, gray, black, pink. Granite? I promise myself I will look it up once I get the chance. And such a variety of patterns. The white diamonds wrapped in black squares. The large black and white checkerboards. The pink rectangles with the grey borders. The pink crosses lined with white. The white crosses enclosed in black squares. Such simplicity in what seems to be a complex way of paving what will simply be trodden upon. Why? What for? It certainly can't have been easy to lay all those square stones evenly enough, and yet not so evenly - with imperfect perfection.

T says, "Isn't there just one basic pattern?" I insist I've counted more than seven.

And as we walked and walked through the old town and the new, sauntering through Kafka's beautiful city, we felt it pulsing upon the very soles of our feet, with every step we took.

Travelling with your spouse

from an internet cafe in the Frankfurt train station

Count on the following proverbial laws of Murphy:
-one of you will be hungry when one of you isn't
-one of you will need the facilities at an ill opportune juncture
-one of you, at a certain point, would rather shop for shoes than go to a military museum

But all ill will be forgotten in an instant when encountering something great and wondrous. Like a church that is hundreds of years old.Or a beautiful green graveyard at the edge of a city. Or a painting by Pissaro or Latour.

And you will laugh together - all because the z is where the y should be on a German keyboard.

Growing Pains

"I feel really lonely about this."

When my son said this late last night at bedtime, I swear I almost burst into tears.

He's going through a tough time in school, being teased for being "fat" by his entire school bus. We feel a lot of this has to do with the fact that he is very different from his schoolmates, both personally and in his physique. Beside most of the local boys who tend to be on the scrawny, shrimpy, toothpick side (clearly I am upset), C is a big boy. Ironically, back home in the Philippines, he would be just average...big, perhaps, but not fat and certainly not obese. In the US or the UK, he would be just average. But yes, here he is fat, plain and simple. And children can be as cruel and as narrow-minded as adults can.

So what's happening now is when he steps onto the bus, the entire troop yells, "Hi fat Carlos." And apparently, yesterday, one kid says, "Everybody who thinks Carlos is fat should whack him." And more than a number of them kicked him on his shins. I called the school bus coordinator first thing.

T and I sat with him last night to try and strategise. Because it's the entire bus and not just one or two, he can't really pick a fight - he'd be outnumbered. He has tried smart remarks, but with so many of them, he is outshouted. The other problem is that he refuses to just ignore it.

"They make me so angry, I'm tempted to say something back."

One of my suggestions is to answer, "Hi, toothpicks." Or even better, just hi, and simply ignore it. Lola's suggestion is to threaten to sit on them - however, I think that would backfire. T says to ignore it, to act like it doesn't bother him. But C was adamant. It does bother him, and why wouldn't it? He is an outspoken boy. He can't just ignore it.

Wisely, he vetoed the idea of either me or T coming down and shouting at the entire busload (which actually, I'm very tempted to do). But I know, the minute the bus gets on the road, it will simply start again.

He's now very conscious of what he eats and wants to be "thin." But I told him that he can't lose that much weight as he's still growing. Besides, no matter how thin he gets, he will always be on the bigger side - it's in his genes. He sighed and buried his face into the pillow. And that's when he said it.

"I feel really lonely about this."

You start remembering such moments in your own childhood when you felt "very lonely" about something. My moment was in the fourth grade, when the entire class of 17 girls decided to give me the silent treatment for no apparent reason. It lasted a week and a half, until one girl simply got tired of it and the rest followed suit. I ended up forging friendships with the boys. It was humiliating because even the teachers asked me what was going on. At 38, I still vividly recall the loneliness. And here C is feeling the exact same thing. Faced with small minds attached to smaller bodies, what's a boy of seven to do?

With aplomb, he wakes for breakfast. He puts on his clothes and goes to school, anyway. There are no tears, no resistance to what he has to do. He tells us he loves us. He says goodbye. He is resolute, perhaps a tinge hopeful, building inner strength and steeling himself against the feeling of forlorn aloneness.

I am sure he will survive this. He will emerge strong, I'm certain. But there's no denying that ache, that hardness in the heart. Be reassuring. Tell him this too will pass, even while knowing it will stay with him forever. What else is a mother to do?

If these people had blogs...

I would read them:
- Needless to say, I read every blog I've linked to right now, because, well, because I'm interested in the nitty-gritty of people's lives. I like being on other planes
of consciousness.

- My dear friend, creative writing Pinoy poet and teacher Rofel Brion. His would be pure Pilipino, spare and clean and to the point just like his poetry. Every now and then, his would have talasalitaan - some little known or perhaps archaic but useful word that people have stopped using. Now, wouldn't that be interesting?

- I would read TRM. He's an old, old, old friend who frequently drives me up a wall with his grumpy moods and carmudgeonly ways. But I know that deep down, we share a friendship, a history. He's a wire news service editor, very likely the best in his field, I'm sure. Right now, he lives in Beijing. He used to write fiction, likes writing sports, and now burns cds and creates photo journals. I hear he's taken up cooking. I asked him once why he didn't blog and he mocked me. He said (and I'm paraphrasing): "My thoughts are ephemeral, there for the instant for whomever is present, and then gone with the wind." Whatever. If he did I'd read.

- I would read BB's blog, if she had one.Maybe she does, but I have no way of knowing. BB was one of the writers in my writing program. I last spoke to her in 1997 on a trip to New York. She had a permanent temp job at a bank and had just gotten one of her plays running off off-Broadway. In school, she was a tiny little thing with broad midwestern drawl and a skull cap of chestnut curls that she then shaved off ala Sinead O'Connor. At the end of our two year program, she and one of our other classmates ran off to Mexico together. He left his wife for BB. Come to think of it, I would read that guy's blog, too.

- My cousin, the playwright Floy Quintos. I'm not certain what his blog would have. Not showbiz gossip, that's for sure. Well-crafted essays about antiques, architecture, theatre and family. Maybe the beginnings of his memoirs.

- My first ever beloved boss Emily Abrera, who saved me from a life of account service (although I now think I'd probably be making more money today if I had gone into it). Anyway, I would read hers...everyday. I would check it everyday. Very definitely.

- I would read my parents and my sisters. And my cousin Jon, a cardiologist in Chicago - especially if it had hospital anecdotes. Oh...and if Celeste Soliven, Camille Genuino, Angelique Faustino, Christine Esteban, Janette Martin and Leia Castaneda had blogs, I'd read theirs regularly. They live so far away and they rarely write. And Jaypee Sevilla who I believe is living in South Africa right now with his wife, on a project for the Harvard School of Public Health where he's there on tenure track.

- I would read Woody Allen's blog but it's not likely he would have one since he can charge the New Yorker for it. I would read Ethan Hawke, Jodi Foster, Steve Martin, Carrie Fisher. I would read Anna Wintour and Miuccia Prada. John Irving, Alice Munro and John Updike - but why would they blog, they've got books to write...

Clearly, I could go on...

Change is good, right?

Feeling a little hesitation. Maybe that's too strong a word. Minor reservations might be the best way to describe it. How does one cope with certain and impending change?
Think of it like a yoga posture...you just have to do it, move yourself through it with as much grace and serenity you can muster. At the end of the day, it's just another thing. And another thing.

The funny thing is the more things change, the more they stay the same, to use that cliche. I'm still battling the same enemies. Still rushing to make time for the things I want to do and the people I want to do them with. Maybe the change will be better for that.

Anyway, the kiddies are on school break...and I'm afraid I've left them to their own devices in the way of activities. Haven't signed them up for anything. I've said they can do the things they want to do this week, in their own time, at their own pace. I told them to enjoy being bored when they can't think of anything to do. Or perhaps, they can just sit around and do nothing for a bit. That was a large part of my childhood. Adults don't do that nearly enough...

The way things are going

  

Run, Run, Everybody Run

Anyone remember that? The catchy Sesame Street ditty that goes: Run, run, everybody run.Come run with me and we'll have fun. Hey, run, run, everybody run. Five, four, three, two, run. Let's run. You can run in the park. You can run in the street. It really doesn't matter, just move your feet. Just hold my hand, and what do you know? Take a deep breath and ready, set, go.

This is likely the first song I ever learned, the first non-ABC-common-garden-kindergaren-variety song, anyway ... but I digress. I read Miko's marathon musings and am very envious. I want to run,too. I've always wanted to run. But it's tough on the mammary glands, and I can never seem to get things off the ground. They say, start slow. Run for five minutes. Then ten. Build up. When I was a grad student in Bowling Green, my best friend at the time was Janette. She was the coolest. She still is. She with her black cats and her broccoli and pesto pasta. Plus she was beautiful and 43, and a lovely writer. We called each other every day to make sure we were each still alive - this was after we saw Silence of the Lambs together. Bowling Green is the middle of nowhere, America after all. That's what it felt like to us. Anyway, I'm digressing again, she ran. I was 22 and in complete awe of her discipline. Back then, I had no desire to run, as much as I admired it. And now, here we are and Miko's 23 and I'm...well...I'm pushing 40, and I am still in awe. But I feel the desire now. I want those endorphins. Start slow. Even a woman pushing 40 can take baby steps, right? Five minutes. Then ten. Walk, then start again. I want it.It isn't too late, is it?

Maybe this yearning is my body's way of mimicking my state of mind at the moment.
The body is wanting that mind-body connection. So run, people will tell me. Run if you want to run. Just shut up already.

OK, will do.

Trust in Girl Power

  

In the wee small hours of the morning...

- It is natural to worry.
- It is best to keep things in perspective.
- It is important to just breathe.
- It is comforting to pray.
- It is tempting to make plans.
- It is crazy to make decisions.
- It makes sense to write.
- It is nice to be surprised by a brilliant idea.
- It is better to make sure you write it down.
- It is ok to be uncertain.
- It is an occasion for wishing.
- It is not the right time to call people.
- It is good to be grateful for blessings.
- It is ideal to go back to sleep.

Let the games begin

Am looking forward to September 15, and not just because of Paris, although certainly that's part of it. Once again, I am led by impulse into circumstances of uncertainty, a good measure of hopeful faith held tightly in my proverbial sweaty palms. What does the future hold? As Elphaba sings in poignant refrain, "Unlimited. My future is...unlimited." I just hope and pray it's not going to end up with me melting into my ruby shoes. Cryptic, yes, and I'm sorry. But until I know what I know, I can only know what I don't know. And that't just not interesting, not really. The abiity to do something, even the ability to do it well, does not always come with the desire to do it.

I'm looking forward to Studio 60 On Sunset Strip. At least, I think that's what it's called. I saw the ad for a new series from the makers of The West Wing. They brought back Bradley Whitford and Timothy Busfield and put them together with Amanda Peet and Matthew Perry aka Chandler Bing. Should be good fun.

I am looking forward to a weekend that's more leisurely and more restful than the one I just had.

I'm looking forward to following the advice of Debra Spark in her book, Curious Attractions Essays on Fiction Writing...once I have a little free time that is.

I'm looking forward to slowly moving from a state of less certainty to a state of more certainty. Even just a little more.

And then, I'm just looking forward...

What kind of person are you

Do you overthink a good thing?
Do you act on impulse?
Do you flee in the face of risk?
Do you hate to regret?
Do you go for the goal, regardless of the danger?
Do you act with confidence?
Do you believe in yourself?
Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?

What kind of a person does that make you...

Happy Anniversary Francis Xavier Choir of St. Ignatius

  

Something's coming...

I don't know/what it is/but it is/gonna be great

So sayeth Sondheim and thus, I feel thusly. Despite the fact that things at the office could be a hell of a whole lot better, I feel the distinct opposite of John Irving's undertoad. Which is good, right? Good. It better be. It will be, whatever "it" is.

Celebrated the choir's first year anniversary yesterday. A small milestone but it felt good. Of course, that brought on a bout of CelesteS homesickness. How quickly things change. People came up to us to greet us and thank us, and that was gratifying. Then we walked to WestLake and gorged on yummy Kwapao (which I still recall Tanny eating in college teamed with chocolait in a tetra box), kikiam (which apparently here is called rather prosaicly, "prawn roll"), sweet sour pork, butter prawns, deep fried squid and salted fish fried rice - and happily toasted to a new year of prayer and music.

Tomorrow...have a shoot in the morning, lunch with people who enjoy analysing the publishing industry in this fine city state, and three client meetings. No time to go to the office, which works for me...why indeed wouldn't it. With any luck, a yoga class at 7am to kick off everything.

It just occured to me

Someone in my family (I can't remember now whether it was my sister or my Dad) told me about when they first watched Jurassic Park. Most of the group had already read the Crichton thriller, so the anticipation was high. Anyway, it was a small private premiere, and during that scene when the little girl finds the small dinosaur on the beach, one of my Dad's colleagues spoils the moment by yelping loudly and at a squeaky girlish pitch a split second before the little prehistoric predator attacks: "Oh no! It's the spitting kind!!"

After six years here, I can't help but make that same kind of yelp. 7 year old C reports that his classmates do it, why can't he? Then there's always the attention you need to pay on the sidewalks so you don't step into any hoktus. But my number one worst moment was sitting in the backseat of a cab as it zoomed across the ECP so I could get back to the office from lunch in town. All of a sudden, the cabbie rolled down his window, inclined his head out all too slightly to have made a real difference and ptewied into the wind. In that same half a second a droplet was blown back through his open window, to the backseat and onto my bare arm. Feeling it distinctly searing on to my skin, I let out a scream.

The spitting kind.

It was a moment so stupid and so disgusting, I just had to write about it.

Date Night

 

After dinner at Kazu, we saw HARD CANDY last night and enjoyed it immensely. What's not to enjoy? Provocative premise. Inventive plot. A tight, well-devised, dramatically paced screenplay. And great acting by non-Hollywood players. We didn't ask anyone to join us, mostly because we knew people would turn down seeing a movie about a teenage girl bent on revenge upon a pedophile. After all, R and C have claimed not to enjoy infidelity movies, science fiction and horror movies - we were fairly certain they wouldn't go for Hard Candy. To say it is a rather dark flick is an understatement. But really, it was dark chocolate. Devilishly good. The only person I can think of who would like it, off-hand, is Miko of the Musings.

Got home early and decided to put on THE BREAKUP with Vaughn and Aniston, but had to turn it off twenty minutes in; the inanity was just mind-boggling. Usually I watch anything with Aniston, even while being aware of her limitations and the tendency to fall back into Rachel-mode by default. Vince Vaughn is funny. But the problem with this movie is that it was ill-concieved, and while it was comedy,it wasnt the kind where tears run down your-cheeks and you clutch at your stomach. Nothing like NACHO LIBRE or even MEET THE PARENTS for that matter. Uncontrollable laughter. That's what I look for, sue me. Of course, THE BREAKUP, Hollywood flick that it is, will make more money than HARD CANDY. It's amazing the stupidity that makes money, and the intelligence that doesn't. Ironic and downright unfair.

Non-Sequitur: Happy Birthday, Omar. I read your blog by virtue of six degrees.

Ikaw naman! Wanted to comment but there was no comment mode. I'm certain you will enjoy your forays. It's still my hope that I will be able to attend one of your "beautiful people" soirees. You have a point; keep writing.  

10 Things to do when you're out of sorts

1. Yoga
2. Write a letter/email to someone you haven't spoken to in months
3. Watch Sex and the City season 4
4. Go for a hike somewhere green
5. Have a gelato
6. Recommit to an old goal
7. Allow yourself to be silent and alone
8. Read a good novel
9. Make a cup of tea
10. Pray

Happy Birthday Dad!

  

Something to think about

I love it when out of the blue, someone says something thought-provoking.

My office mate or as they say here, colleague D. at the office said: "90 per cent of all self-talk is negative. We should all try to reverse that and make our self-talk positive." I think that's true for many people. But here's another thought: I do know a more than a few people who are virtual fonts of positive self-talk and it's done out loud. The operative word being self. That can be a bit much, as well. Perhaps there's merit in keeping one's positive
self-talk ...to oneself.

Biker chicks

 

Sunday came and went like a flash. And now, I have that same Sunday night squeamishness I used to get as a child. Wish I could just rewind and play the weekend over and over again... 

TGIS!

Although I failed to get up this morning for the run I meant to take, I did manage some very thorough cardio. We decided to make a second visit to Pulau Ubin, a small rustic island off Changi Beach - just an eight minute pump boat ride away. The kids were thrilled, and it was better than the first time because there were much less people. Went for the tandem bikes and opted to do part of the ride on a dirt road trail - for major heart rate raising. All in all about one hour including two two-breaks. Afterwards, we had fresh buko juice, straight from the coconut before the pumpboat ride back. 4 dollars for the round-trip boat ride, 6 dollars for the tandem bike, and a dollar fifty for the coconut. Lots of fresh green clean air, pretty mangrove and sea scenes - really, what more could you ask for? Then it was a pizza and pasta lunch at our favourite spot, a drive around to explore nieghborhoods, gelato, home for a nap. And tonight, had home movie session screening of Shrek, after a yummy dinner of Chili and corn salad with pita chips!

A sublime Saturday...

What Tita Mariel Missed

 


A visit to the Singapore Science Centre and meeting a T-Rex named Sue! 

Tita Mariel's Mabilisan Visit

 

She was here for David Swenson's yoga workshop, which meant she was not with us for eight to ten hours of her two day visit (next time, stay longer). Still we managed two dinners out, Nacho Libre and an after-movie snack, as well as an hour long intense hiking session at Bukit Timah Nature Reserve. Then it was Pepperoni dinner, Estivo gelato...and lots of Magic Mike-ing. Fun fun, fun...

Next time, bring Tita Lara and stay longer! 

How it can happen

An old college friend came through town. We hadn't seen each other in a couple of years, but I had heard the great story of how she had met someone online and moved to another country to be with him. There was no news for awhile, and I wondered how it was going. And all of a sudden, this past weekend, she was here. We sat and had sandwiches and soup and coffee; everything was the same and yet everything was different. She was there. She was happy. It was a wonderful thing to see. Strange and wonderful how two people on opposite sides of the world can find each other and make that connection. And even greater that in these days, they can actually make the move, commit to the decision, and journey to their happiness, without having to wait for it to come to them. She regaled me with anecdotes, little tales of what their new life together is like, all the details of which I pulled together as though I were gathering my own little pile of colored confetti. They are now exploring the region, trying to decide in seemingly newly-wedded fashion where they will settle and make their life together.

This is not the only story. My mom told me another love story of the digital age. And my colleague at work yet another. People go on holiday in another country and meet someone, and from there they parlay it into something real. A romance. A relationship. No longer do you hear the antiquated, hum-drum or ho-hum? tales of highschool sweethearts or college courtships. This is the way it can happen these days, and when it works, just as it does conventionally, it's a wondrous thing, indeed.

It's all that matters

  

New addiction

It's amazing how you can start out ambivalent about someting, and then there's a shift, and you can be addicted to the very thing. Right now, am very deeply into Grey's Anatomy. Even though I get irritated by the lead and some of the plot lines are predictable, the effect of the series as a whole is pleasurable. Somehow, it all gets pulled together quite nicely and characters start growing on you. Non-sequitur: Finally saw Derailed with Clive Owen and Jennifer Aniston. Highly inventive. I grow O. Henry-esque in my old age in that I find immense pleasure in the unexpected. On the same note, have started rereading Roald Dahl for that same elusive satisfaction.

It seems at this point, I thirst (or is it hunger) for stories with irresistible once upon a times. This weekend, that Jack Black movie about nachos; going along with T and the Flo's despite my own misgivings. Should be good for a laugh or two.

Goal

December 13, 2006
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Communicative vs. Uncommunicative

The theory is people have a tendency to be either one or the other, and the latter usualy has pejorative associations. Recent events at work and in general at home have led me to acknowledge my own difficulties as an admittedly overly communicative, dealing with a non. How is that situation and conflict to be resolved? The popular view is while people can be led to change, it can't be something that's forced. And change can only happen if the individual recognises the necessity to change. What then is the communicative person to do when this is the only way available to her to function. Is there such a thing as being overly communicative? Or is it the manner of communication that needs adjustment (even as I type this, I know that the answer to this question is affirmative.).

Can't help thinking that situations like these involve a stalemate of sorts, a compromise. Either that, or the person that can change should change... to accomodate? But what would be lost in that situation? Wouldn't the person be denying the true self? On the other hand, what can be done to lead the non to a more comfortable place where she/he can be encouraged to communicate. And yet, realistically, who has time for that? What would Dr. Phil say? The non communicative should just buckle down and do it, and the communicative should adjust his/her approach so as to be less confrontational and more cooperative. That's just exhausting.

The truth is, the communicative who must temper, deny and manage communication needs, which of course, are vast, in order to accomodate and encourage the non, experiences as much pain, difficulty and discomfort as the non learning to be less non.

Maybe it's all that West Wing...

Was browsing at a bookstore with my brood. For some reason, I went beyond my usual fiction haunt, venturing to non-fiction and current events. The Truth About Hillary, a political biography caught my eye. And with the first para, I was hooked. Got greedy and teamed that purchase with Sidney Blumenthal's The Clinton Wars.

Then there was American Writers and Their Homes by JD McClatchy. It's a beautiful coffee table style book, but the thrill is not just in the pictures and the architecture. The text is quite substantial and of literary and historical bent. As it should be. The author was, and if I'm not mistaken, still is, the editor of The Yale Review. In graduate school, I once submitted a story to that literary journal. Mr. McClatchy was kind enough to write me a very encouraging personal note.

Is it a sign that it's time to start again?

The Trick To It

* Despite warnings, I braved the yoga hot room today. I think the trick is to stay
in savasana (dead man's pose) at the end for at least five minutes, and not rush.
It was pretty good today, and so far, no sicky. Plus, even though Ross had a full class, I was the only crescent room in the room! A big girl I may be, but I'm flexible.

* Thanks to LeiaCA, I have a weight watchers cookbook and the whole points system.
Something tricky to do is minimise your points by eating less than the amount stipulated. For example, a cup of grapes is 1 point. So eat half a cup.

* Work is swimming along, despite the fact that once again, I have no writer, and will soon lose my art director. So I just told the team, when the work piles, I'll justgo slower is all. They're up for it and are working ahead of time so it's not so
stressful.

* Time on the elliptical goes easy when you're watching The West Wing with subtitles. Fairly easy to get to 45 minutes, and that's 3 points.

* Speak calmly and quietly to your children...and they speak quietly and calmly to you. How's that for a trick? It really works too, even with C!

* New discovery: Pjur. Much much better than Astroglide...

* It's easier to leave kids for a three day trip to Hong Kong when your Mom is around! Whoohoo.

* Following World Cup is a good way to increase the mojo. So many lookers...

* Non-sequitur: It's also great to discover that a Nobel Prize Winner for Literature also believes in Fast Food Fiction. So he calls it Palm-of-the-Hand stories...that's still what they are. Great minds think alike, maybe...

All the sides of me as seen by K

 

Workouts resume... 

Magic Mike Sunday

K has learned Hardcore Poetry, although she doesn't sing it as well yet as her Waterloo. Coby digs his Lemon Tree. And the most hilarious thing is each of them trying their vocal hand at Limang Dipang Tao. I just couldn't stop laughing, but I had to hide it. You don't ever want them to be embarrassed, or all would be lost. Tanny goes for funny songs like Wannabe by Spice Girls. He also does a good Bluer than Blue. I try Chaka Khan's Through The Fire, but towards the end, it's more like I'm Chaka cannot. I also like songs that are the opposite of me: Janet Jackson's Let's Take Awhile and Freestyle's So Slow. Then of course, T does his Dido with Thank You ala Elton John, and I go for the pathos of Alicia Keys.

A slow Sunday is always a good Sunday, especially when there't time for a nap and a swim...

Forget Superman

Not that it wasn't nicely done. It was nicely done, but the story left a lot to be desired, I thought. Like a story. For one thing, you could see it coming a mile away.
And really, it gets tiresome the way Superman has selective hearing and he needed coordinates to find Lois Lane? Come on. Kevin Spacey was great though. Of course, that role is always great - remember Gene Hackman in it?

I guess at the end of the day, Superman has a pretty thin storyline - not to mention, rather flat characterisation. It just suffered in comparison to the Xmen series, which plotwise is just so inventive.

What I'm waiting for is Night At The Museum. Now that looks like a good story. And teaming Ben Stiller and Robin Williams. That's cool. Here's hoping the flick is as good as its trailer.

Dear Celeste

How are you now where you are?

How are the kids and Dennis. I can just see him beaming at you over your morning coffee. There is nobody for beaming like Dennis. You will tell me this, and I will laugh and laugh. I really miss that.

How is that little grove of trees in your backyard? Have you made a compost heap? I am told that is the thing to do when you are living in a house in Virginia. You get your cooking scraps, apple peels and egg shells and make your own mulch in your backyard so your grass grows green. I am sure you already know this.

Noel of FX told me he misses you, and I almost burst into tears right there. Choir is okay though. We're supposed to sing this Saturday, I think, but the mail hasn't come in on the lineup. I got a new chip for the Magic Mike. It's a bit of a cheat because there aren't that many songs on it. But the songs that are there are nice. Haven't been seeing much of anybody, because there hasn't been an occasion. Then again, I haven't really felt like seeing anyone. And also, I was sick.

Saturdays seem strangely empty. We are thinking about badminton, but just can't get up the gumption. What I'd like is to just sit and have coffee with you. You and your coffee and your ice cubes and your rich dessert that you will only eat half of. I would like to walk the stores, looking for pretty things that I will urge you to buy while we talk of nothing special until you have to rush off to mass, and for more than a fleeting moment, I will want to go with you.

I have not yet downloaded SKYPE. I have not called you, but it's not because I don't want to talk to you. It's mostly because I have so much to share, but there are no words. And what would be the use of that, tell me?

No workouts

No cookies.
No yoga.
No staying up late.
No junk food.

I haven't been working out because I'm taking it slow. That's what I tell myself anyway. But the truth is, I just can't seem to get up in the mornings. For some inexplicable reason, sleep seems the only thing to do that's absolutely worthwhile.
Last night I fell asleep to Brazil vs Ghana. And when I opened my eyes the next morning, T had won 300 dollars. Such a lot can happen when you're asleep.

In view of the fact that there's been no exercise, I've been eating with extreme care. The funny thing is I've apparently lost five pounds. Tomorrow, I will venture back to the yoga, but maybe not hot, maybe just power. Let's not tempt fate.