A good day

I had worked through lunch in the office for the past four days, so it was nice to be able to step out. Went for Nasi Padang at the hawker centre on Waterloo Street and learned that Nepalese food is just like Nasi Padang, minus the sweet viands and about two times more chili. Then we even had time to go to Ngee Ann for Japanese gelato, which I know doesn't sound good, but it is.

The nicest thing about that spate of eating with the designers in the office is that they keep turning up yummy things to eat. The other day, someone went to get He Mee (Hokkien for prawn noodles) for all of us. It was just two dollars per bowl but boy, was it to die for. Prawns, some greens, noodles and lots of chili. The other specialty of this stall was laksa, but I only eat that once a year. Some amazing people actually had both - he mee to start, and laksa as the main course. Scary.

Left the office at the decent hour of 6:30, and treated myself to a wander-about through the shops of Paragon, while waiting for T. Had forgotten all about Giordano Ladies. But I was sensible and refrained from knee-jerk impulse buys.

Tomorrow the merry-go-round starts again. It's idea-churning time.

Production

In gradeschool, we put out this three page leaflet in dark and heavy newsprint via the cranky old mimeograph machine. It was called The Montessori Voice and I recall being asked to draw directly on the stencil to "fill the white space". As a highschool freshman, I joined and then, we worked with an actual press. But they did all the hard stuff. The typesetting, the blueprints. All we really had to do was proofread, and a literary magazine stuffed with adolescent poetry, 200-word personal essays that we would call short stories and half a dozen illustrations done meticulously with a 1.2 tech pen - this is easy proofreading. In my senior year, I was editor for The Theresian, which we combined with the senior year book. I forget whose brilliant idea that was. But the results, as I recall them, were less than impressive as all the pictures were in black and white, and the press failed to get the contrast. We made dozens of penned corrections on the blueprint - and as an echo of my childhood, I did a small, impromptu illustration to fill up some rather awkward white space.

My one-off freshman year at the University of Michigan exposed me to The Daily. A university paper that actually came out every day - it boggled my mind. How did the editors study? Returning to the Ateneo, I joined the The Guidon. Back then, I was just a writer and I recall feeling tremendously relieved even then that I did not have to do anything but file my story. Yes, one was enough for a rather thin, bimonthly newspaper. Of course, calling it a newspaper was putting it kindly. And production - or rather "press work" - consisted of my merely dropping by to "help" check blueprints - and that consisted of rather cursory proofreading as the entire exercise was merely an occasion to hang out and flirt.

These days, we do production inhouse. We line-edit, copy-edit and manipulate both the texts and the visuals onscreen. Oddly enough, we still encounter the problems of awkward white space but there are any number of ways to address these in the suite of items called design. Because it's all computerised on In Design, a powerful programme devised and customised for the magazine business, there is no longer any typesetting. Instead we copy-edit by cutting and fitting text and controlling its shape on the page. And we give the files directly to the printer in batches of four pages called "signatures". All that's left for them to do is the final art on photos and getting the colours right. The physical shaping of the text - literally the way words and sentences are lined up on the page - that's all done inhouse.

My preference is to imitate the old-fashioned typewriter. I hate right-justified text and the ugly, irregular spaces it causes. Not to mention, I hate the way I have to try to fill those spaces with short words, or rewrite the sentence in such a way that everything fits nicely. What's wrong with the hyphen, I have been known to whine plaintively. Why does the hyphen have to be edited out of existence when it has a real purpose?

And then there are those beastly orphans and widows - the copyeditor's work is all about killing the orphans and widows. I keep forgetting which is which. But there should be no single word at the bottom of any paragraph - there should be at least two words, ideally three. And there should be final line of a paragraph starting a new column leg. Likewise no first line of a paragraph on the last line of a column leg. Who decided these rules, I'd like to know.

The work of a sub-editor is thankless. In the end, nobody is going to care about orphans or widows - they can all go live together in a paper house for all you care. Nobody will see how you magically rewrote an eight word sentence containing three three-syllable words so that it would not cause a blasted orphan or widow. Nobody counts the seconds it took you to copyfit a four page story so that it still offered the essence. And even an error - which will be pointed out to you by many of course, no fear, and for which you will feel badly about for a disproportionately long time - will very quickly pass into oblivion.

But in the late hours of the night, when it's just you and a designer and maybe an obliging writer who offered to help process a seemingly insurmountable amount of pages before the next working day, there is a joyful sense of cameraderie that lends some ease and some much needed hilarity. In fact, there is likely too much hilarity ensuing likely from too much coffee, coca-cola, chocolate, cigarettes because everything seems funny.

But as much as the work is tedious and painstaking, it's also pleasurable in a strange way. There are moments, especially at night, when you feel a kind of brilliance. When all that shoddy overmatter is cleared and spanking new pages emerge, neat as pins and gleaming like jewels.

Of course, it could just be lack of sleep.

Sleeping with the kids

Letting the kids camp in my room while T is away, and my only thought is, Why didn't I do this before?

Bee Gees Night with the Idols

Two good choice songs from Melinda. Only one from Jordin in Run to Me - Woman in Love isn't what I would consider a great Bee Gees song. If I had to pick from the Streisand album, I would have gone with Starting Over but of course, it's a duet. What about Emotion by Samantha Sang? I would have picked (naks, kaps...) Words and How Deep Is Your Love, which I still can't believe nobody sang. That's the all time greatest Bee Gees song.

What would you have chosen?

Prior to flying solo for the week...

...we managed to have a full weekend anyway. Friday night, we scooted home for dinner with K and C - homemade burgers, the can't-be-beat beet coleslaw with lignan oil and lemon, plus oven crisp fries. We hung out with them long enough to find out what happened in school that day and read them a couple of stories, something they still enjoy, although they have long been able to read by themselves. Then we hied off to Vivo City to see Spiderman 3 with the Fs.

Aside: I though Spiderman 3 was terrible, by the way: long and unwieldy and all-over-the-place plotwise. Its flaw lies primarily in the screenplay which felt like a very, very rough draft - actually, it felt like it was being written by the actors as they went along. I felt like the screenwriter was passing off outright telling as characterisation - in fact, it was all telling, no showing at all. Then halfway through, they tried to go campy - and seemed to be striking flat notes all the way through. If you're camp, you're camp - and you have no business going into a moral - unless the moral is also camp. It was surreal. Plus Kristen Dunst - I'm sorry, but I really feel she peaked at Interview with a Vampire. Toby McGuire has fared better, but no great shakes here, either. They even looked like they were floundering. Exasperated and fatigued, I allowed myself to nap - not once but multiple times - and each time, I was like Are we still here? But enough of this rant. Maybe I'm pushing 4o and I'm too old for superheroes. Then again, I loved the X-men.

Saturday morning, T showed us his new digs at One Raffles Place, then we took the MRT to City Hall and ambled through Citilink to Suntec to eat Turkish food - doner lamb kebab and pide bread...taking a nice long amble back. When we finally got home, there was just enough time to get dressed for Catechism and Choir practice for 6pm mass. Choir was lots of fun...and if J and A have anything to do with it, it will be fun for a long time. On the agenda: at least one Pinoy English song from JMM for each mass that we sing. Should be good. Then it was home for calamares cooked two ways - adobo and prito, layguls and fruity agar agar. Lots of episodes from House 3.

Sunday, bright and early, we crammed our vocabulary words for Mandarin, right before Lao Shi appeared. Then lunch at my old haunt Bongout - an eating spot that was hotly contested by the kids, and then later they were pleased by it. K had the pan-fried beef, and C had shoyu ramen with pork and they gobbled it up like greedy goblins. Then there was nothing left but errands at Great World and then home to help T pack, or in my case, whine and mope. He left at 6:30...and we had pizza to cheer ourselves up.

For the week ahead - we're closing, so likely there will be late nights. I'm also letting the kiddies camp in our room, in the hope that I will be able to sleep better. Tomorrow, a girls' night out then dinner with M from Ann Arbor on Tuesday. Mandarin on Thursday and maybe I'll take the kiddies to see a movie Friday night at Great World, if there's something appropriate.

We shall see.

You gotta love em...

Parenthood

The hardest job I've ever had.

May Day

Everyone was game about breakfast out - so after some expected dilly-dallying, we were off for eggs, bacon, rosti and pancakes courtesy of Cedele. Then it was to Borders, to Cross Com, the school bag store at Forum. Then all the way to Marina Square, where K finally settled on the same more affordable school bag that C got. We were home by 12:30, and each went to his or her own puttering. T surfing and prepping for the trip. Me with the paper and Tom Plate's Confessions of an American Media Man, which is surprisingly engaging. C switched on Ninja Turtles and K played Penguin. Must confess that there was a bit of napping taking place, too, at least where T and I were concerned. At 3:30. we had a shamefully late lunch of tuna dressed with lignan oil, onions and sun-dried tomatoes in toasted wholemeal pita pockets, lettuce, pickles, coleslaw with beats, and a lovely bean soup. Then we were off to L for a long awaited massage - while K and C did Kumon in the reading room. When we emerged at six, there was time to toss the frisbee and kick the ball before heading home for baths and bistek dinner.Unfortunately, no exercise, but tomorrow is another day.

The Travelling T

After more than a decade of work in one place with travel taking place, at most, only two or three times a year, T is finding a change of pace in his current job, and by extension, so am I. Contrary to what it might seem, I am very much the ninny, unfortunately, when it comes to temporary marital separations. Apart from the accompanying anxiousness and missing, this is also largely due to the fact that I have an exceedingly difficult time sleeping alone.

But there's nothing to do except make the best of it.

Last week, T had a week-long three city trip through Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok. Next week, it's to be seven days in London. I, on the other hand, have bought Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives & Daughters and am saving Rome and House 3 for next week's daily evening viewing. And it's also closing week at the office. Onward ho.

Italian playboy and bombshell

That was the theme of tonight's party - la dolce vita. It's hard to go bombshell though, when you're pushing 4o and have two kids aged nine and eight, and you don't really want to make any statements, not any that call significant attention to yourself, anyway. I opted to go with a vintage halter top floral dress and strappy red heels. It seemed like the right balance and still, in keeping with the person I am.

That's probably the best thing right now. To keep to the person I am but low-key. Easier said then done, but I am trying.

hmmm

Sunday

Busier than usual with lola and lolo in town for four days. Am relieved that C resisted his all too natural impulses to be obnoxious - which he can be, unfortunately. As a mother, I find it rather difficult not to take these tendencies personally. Guilt is all the more tough to ignore when parents are in the midst. It's ironic how much more difficult and challenging parenting becomes when your own parents are on hand with any number of ready comments. Even the ones that remain unsaid blare out at you as though on dolby sound speakers.

Still, it was a fun visit and even C had moments of ingratiating amiability that made up a little for the bursts of brattiness. K, of course, was the little people pleaser, winsome and winning. Many good meals were had - Spagheddis, Wolf at Brasserie - adults only, Jumbo at Riverwalk and Marina Square food loft. Not to forget Chili con carne at home. I marvel too at the many errands that managed to be done - although we did not get to do any fun outdoor things or even the one indoor thing that I had planned. We should have been to Serenade. We should have made it to the Regent for the Sothebys auction exhibit. But it was not to be. Dentist and ear appointments for Kaylee, catechism, even a run at the track on Saturday afternoon and Saturday evening mass... and then today, the exhausting Chinese lessons, plus all the shopping for this, that and the other. ID pics were taken, school shoes bought along with school bags. Even managed to get Melin to crank up the crockpot for beef stew so we wouldn't be forced to go out to dinner tonight because at this point in my life, though I have the skills and the knowledge, I really can't be bothered to cook myself.

So now, the kids are doing homework and we're puttering around. T is trying to keep awake through K's 14 pages of homework that she had "forgotten" is due tomorrow. Am trying to get enough gump to hit the elliptical trainer for at least half an hour. Contemplating a fast tomorrow for the past few days excesses. Next week, T trips off to London for a criminal three days during which he has managed to book tickets to Wicked...lucky duck.

The bright spot this week? May 1 holiday and a new batch of HOUSE.

Parents' Day

When you live faraway from kith, kin and the closeness and connection of extended family, special occasions tend to centre around special places to eat. Today, I proposed booking a family brunch for four at our favourite Melt (usually reserved for festive occasions like Christmas and Birthdays). Not for May 13 or June 17 for one Sunday right smack in the middle, between Mother's Day and Father's Day, to be known henceforth in my little household as Parents Day. That way, we avoid the crowds and make it all our own.

T thought it was a great idea.

A matter of trust

Why fight the shoe, if it fits and everybody says the pair looks really nice on you, anyway. OK, maybe they're not you're favourite shoes. Maybe you want shoes that make you look taller or thinner or smarter. Maybe you think these shoes can't take you to the places you want to go. Or the places you think you want to go.

But really, are you the best judge of what looks best on you? Maybe, but maybe not. You like these shoes well enough. They're comfortable, and with every step you take, you feel like you're in your element. What's more, these are shoes that allow you access to other accessories, even other shoes, whole new outfits, in fact.

So why not just accept it? Stop struggling. Realise that perhaps what you think cognitively is not exactly in synch with what is right, even what is best, for you at this point in your life.

Maybe the right thing to do is to just take it step by step. Accept the shoes for what they are, for what they allow you do, and not find fault with them because of how you feel they make you look for the long term. What do you know, anyway? You're not always right.

For all you know, they are special shoes, magic shoes, ruby slippers that can click click click you into there's no place like home. And must be worn with trust and acceptance, and hope that even better, more powerful shoes are to come your way.

The way it happens sometimes

By serendipitous circumstance, A's Amazon order arrived at my house. No big deal. We agreed in a rapid exchange of emails that I would open the box, pop the books into an airmail bag and send it off, not to the city in Vietnam in which she and her family will be living for the next three months, three hours away from Saigon, but to her home in upstate New York. So I open the box and am instantly gripped by the first tome called Family Travel - an anthology of personal essays on travelling with people you love. An hour later, I am close to halfway through, and have thoroughly enjoyed most of what I've read. I also realize that I haven't read for my own fun in ages. I will send the books on to their rightful home - but not just yet.

That's just the way it happens, sometimes.

Seems like old times

Reunited 2

Reunited!

Sign we've been here 7 years

"Mom, I think my room needs an upgrade..."
-C

Wednesday

As a schoolchild I used to long for Wednesday. My theory was that weeks tended to slow to a lazy crawl Monday morning till Wednesday noon with a particularly torturous slow meander on Tuesdays at two pm, where I would usually drag myself through whatever I was doing because things were just so excruiciatingly slow. But once you hit midday on a Wednesday it was whoopdiddy whoopee till Friday after school, by far the best part of the week. This week however has sped by amazingly, with very little regard for the particular day.

This week, time is speeding on a freeway and it has not bothered even to pause to consider the day. Maybe it was Studio 60. I'm thankful for the speed though, because T is overseas, and time does tend to get everlasting when he's not around, at least ordinarily. Maybe it had to do with the Rice Pannings and the fun visit we had. But also because Cam is here from Hong Kong, and the usual flurry of socials that whirl up around her has taken place. Monday, after popping in to see the kids, I went for drinks at the Fs, browsing through C's collection (I bought a dress and a top), and then late supper at Que Pasa - love those burgers. Last night I had work to do and T was due to pop in en route from Jakarta to KL. But today, by sheer texting power, managed to wangle the kiddies a playdate with S and the E kids. Drove the whole caboodle including M to the East, and had a great cocktail hour as well. At home now, I'm keeping company with the American idols while doing the puttering for tomorrow. Also I wait for T's call. Tomorrow work stuff...and meetings. Battling a bit of a scratchy throat, but hey, can't stop now...

Sunday tale of K and C

T is off to Jakarta, so I dine at home with the kiddies solo. Since M is not home from "off" yet, I take out the leftover spaghetti and throw together a Greek salad with baby spinach, feta cheese cubes and olives. K is a voracious salad eater, and C loves feta cheese enough that he accepts the deal of eating four leaves per cube. We then gorge on HG ice cream bars which I never buy - except that C begged me to earlier that day.

Due to the busy-ness of this past weekend - friends from out of town, a visit to the lawyer, an eye appointment, a soccer tournament and not just one but two kiddie birthday parties, there was a bit of neglected homework to do.

C gamely attacks his English work - write an 80-word essay based on a sequence of illustrations while making use of as many idioms from another list. I am impressed as I read his first sentence in rather neat-for-him penmanship: "This is a cock and bull story." Cock and bull being #8 in the list of idioms. He writes diligently for about ten minutes, even though sometimes his letters grow and shrink in size. Meanwhile, K delivers an extemporaneous storytelling - writing in her head out loud - telling me the essay she would have wanted to write, if she had C's homework. And her first sentence is, "It was your typical Wednesday afternoon..." and her oral recitation has a beginning, middle, climax and denoument.

Oh my goodness my children are writers! I proudly tell them that. At age 9 and 8 respectively, they are writing what I was writing as a teenager. I praise them to high heaven, but am conscientious about issuing my caveat. "OK," I tell them, "You can always be writers - but make sure you're something else as well." K says she wants to be an architect. Great, I tell her. C says he wants to be a director. OK, I say.

Anything, anything, anything. Just don't be just a writer. Because there are lots of wonderful things to be, as well.

Post Easter Epiphany

What has happened is that I've allowed myself to forget the thing that I really love and want to do with my life. I've allowed myself to forget that I ever even wanted it. And the thing is - the signs keep coming, and I just keep foolishly and thoughtlessly ignoring them. The emails from JB about his STORY magazine. The reminders from Glimmertrain Stories. Running all of a sudden into a huge folder of all that book length work, circa 1990-1992. And now, just that brief conversation with A by the river. It's now as clean, clear and as shiny as the merlion after a rain.

It makes sense to have A come along at this point in my life. If I am, I am. I should remember that, and commit to that, and let the rest fall by the wayside, shouldn't it.

Here it is, isn't it. It's either I act, or I don't act. What's it going to be then?

Crammed full

That's how these days have been - but in a good way - thank goodness. Getting a lot of work done. Keeping the balance of work and workouts and a little bit of play even, thanks to Studio 60 and American Idol. Why, today, I even wrote a story!

And last night, dinner with J after what is it now... 20 years. How can it be 20 years? But I counted and it was. Last time we saw each other was on 2140 Bredefield Street in Ann Arbor. I did not even know T existed. And there we were last night, recognising each other instantly, and talking a mile a minute about everything and all the years gone by. He met K and C and called them "Splendid!".

Tomorrow, it's the BGSU reunion with A and M Rice. But fitness first literally at 7:30am. Then lunch with the sistahmahds at Epibong. Then dinner down by the river, topped off with beer at Brussel Sprouts. TGIF. Here's to a grand weekend that still gives us time for rest.

My fellow televiewers who value smart TV...

Today I went from the green zone to the yellow zone to the gold zone*... and that, by the way, just a few seconds ago. Just saw the opening of the pilot episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and it was brilliant. Just brilliant. The kind of brilliant that makes your toes curl and your insides feel warm and fuzzy. Am so happy I have ten episodes to go...

And I got an email from Seth Godin.

So cool.

*By the way, today I learned that gold stays liquid for about 8 seconds before it solidifies. And there is liquid in all of us. And we all have to translate that into nuggets of action. That's what getting in the gold zone means...

An Easter basket full to the brim

Despite being up late watching Mark Whalberg in Shooter at Vivo City last night, T and I were up earlyto bring K and C to the children's Easter mass at 8:15. It was a good idea as the children enjoyed being led out of the church for an age-appropriate sermon - although, it was a layperson saying it, and from what K said, the speaker did not seem to have made a meaningful connection with the kids. But it was good to have an early morning and after mass, we went for Cedele brunch and sailed easily into one of those coveted window booths for our eggs and pancakes. There was still time for leisurely rest at home, during which K and C showed us the beginning of Matilda.
Then it was off to the Ms Easter barbecue luncheon-swimming party-and egg hunt at Leonie Hill. Lots of food - barbecue chicken, grilled fish, lechon kawali and grilled liempo plus spaghetti, cheese sticks, aligue pasta and lots of dessert. Kids and adults alike seemed to havelots of fun, and though it was rained out towards the end, everyone had a good time. And because the kids begged us for extra time with the playmates, we made a day of it with the Ms, the Js and P.

We got home at 5:30, and since M was home, T and I decided to go for a much needed run on the track, even though there was a bit of a drizzle. Party leftovers for dinner plus T's yummy greek salad. And the best part? After six weeks of zero chocolate, I finally indulged in delicious dark chocolate with blueberries and cranberries. Yum yum yum.

Here's to keeping that awareness of the new Easter life that each day brings in the week ahead, and after.

Black Saturday

With T and C off to soccer, thought I would get a chance to sleep in for a change. But no way. K woke me persistently at 7:30, begging to be read Anne of Green Gables. Which I did. We covered three chapters. Amazing how certain parts of that book can so easily bring on the tears. T is reading C Rosemary Sutcliff's Black Ships Before Troy - the story of the Iliad, and the not so little boy is enjoying it. Perhaps not so much as he enjoyed King Arthur. We only stopped when we got hungry for breakfast. Then we had to review for a two hour session of Chinese. But our plans for soccer practice and a run on the track were thwarted by black clouds on black Saturday. All we could do was go for a drive. Tomorrow, Easter mass at 8:15am.

It feels good to just hang at home and do nothing.

A Good Friday

Fasting and quiet time with the children - which was not as quiet as we might have liked. C is going through a testy, difficult stage. K's exemplary behaviour does not help. We saw the entire Jesus Christ Superstar from "What's the Buzz" all the way to end. C skipped the leper scene though K said she was ready for it, and she was. Kids had crab cakes that we didn't have for lunch. At the end of the day we ventured out to buy the Easter stuff and had a light, meatless dinner of fish porridge and century egg at Crystal Jade Kitchen.

Maundy Thursday

It felt strange to go to work today, when at home, it's holiday. And it was very very hot. Sitting at my desk, I actually felt drops of perspiration forming on the surface of my skin as I typed. So in that sense, it felt very much like the Maundy Thursdays of my youth in Manila. When I left the office, there was a breeze, to be sure, but the air was hot and dry like air from a hair dryer.

I managed to attend service solo. It was very festive - it really and truly felt bigger than Christmas. Which of course it is - the whole preparation for Easter. All the priests were out so much that I saw a couple I had never even seen before. But it was long. Too much singing, and as much I hate to say it, it wasn't great. But still. Am glad I went.

Special projects within the next two weeks

• Write Sister B a thank you email
  
• Write a letter updating CelesteS
• Finalise Manila trip dates
• Do the piece for CB
• Prepare a twisted project
• Shop for gifts for L & M, and also for C
  
• Choose the books for rummage sale
• Draft the budget
• Lessons on notetaking for K and C

Reminder: Eat more fruit and vegetables

Body and soul

How strange and how wonderful.

Today I had a session with a woman who very clearly has God in her life. Today, at the beginning of Holy Week, I went to her Body Temple. I learned to take time out for myself. I learned I must do more to live naturally – in what I take into my body. I learned a new facet in the meaning of the word commitment. She runs Body Temple. It is a wonderful, positive place. And as just about the very height of rightness, Body Temple is on Carpenter Street. If people care to stop and take the time, if they don’t hurry and don’t worry and don’t forget to smell the flowers, they will see that He is always there. All we have to do is open our eyes, breathe deeply and take Him in.

Once on this island

Quite by chance, I found out that the La Salle SIA College of Arts was staging our old favourite
Broadway show Once On This Island (Ahrens & Flaherty 1991) which we had seen twice in New York, and twice in Manila. Naturally, I was eager for the opportunity to introduce K and C to the actual production, as opposed to just the music. Back in 2004, when we took them to Bali, we spent the ride from Nusa Dua to Ubud, singing them all the songs and narrating what we could of the book. And of course, once we got home, we let them hear the soundtrack. So for a wonderful $10 per ticket, we took in a Saturday matinee offering quite a professional little troupe with respectable vocal talent. The cast had two Pinoys in it - one playing Ton Ton Julien and the other playing Ezuli beautiful goddess of love. There were also quite a number of Caucasians in it, as well as Malaysians - all in all a nice mix and as I said, in terms of musicality and emotionality, quite strong. The kids enjoyed it immensely, even C who had said previously he didn't care to go. Well, they were both glad they did - though we had to forego Saturday catechism. Luckily, we made it to 6pm anticipated Palm Sunday mass. Kaylee confessed she was going to go for Drama Club next year, as a result.

It's funny that Phantom of the Opera is actually playing in Esplanade, and I'm still hemming and hawing about whether this is something I really want to take them to. Hold the two musicals side by side, and I'd still go for the Island...

What do you do when...

you're really upset with a person, and there's absolutely nothing you can say or do to her/him about it because of the situation. And by the way, when I say upset, I pretty much mean angry. Good old fashioned swear word anger. Yes, I am angry. Read something recently about positive ways to manage anger. I always thought that simply letting go and catharsis was the best thing. Apparently, release actually raises your stress levels. And that it's better to simply walk away. Walk away. Except what happens if you can't walk away? What do you do then?

Dear Celeste

I miss you fairly constantly, as you know. But most especially tonight. And I know that I wasn't the only one either.

Tonight, a number of the FX girls had a Holy Week reflection session with Sister Bubbles. And in that weird, unforeseen, greater-Force-at-work-way, it was exactly the sort of thing we all needed, at this point. Sister B spoke to us about finding our songs - and the way we sing - giving praise, as prayer, connecting both ourselves and the community to Him without words. We all had to go through that exercise of finding ( and singing) the song that expresses both who we are and why we sing. Type ko, type mo rin. For some reason (and am rather embarrassed about this) - emotion got the better part of me and I could barely get through Amy Grant's Arms of Love. AndI adore that song both as prayer and as song! I don't know why but all of a sudden I was suddenly overwhelmed by all the thoughts and memories Sister B was channelling - missing my sisters - M and L (By the way M, sabi ni Sister, You are extraodinary. You are a vessel!), missing you, unexpectedly missing R of Pinoy Lessons in Life and even my old friend from oh so long ago Fr. PP. Strange how things suddenly occur to you like background music - even though I was there - fixed in the moment - thinking of faith and family and feeling that greater spiritual connection. It was an inexplicable out-of-body experience, but it was such that even I, someone who doesn't usually relish the group dynamics and sharing nature of these sorts of exercises, found it somehow easy not just to open up but also to listen. But man, I made myself say that as much as I am aware of what song is doing for worship and praise and the community, I pretty much sing because of how it makes me feel - selfish as that might be.

What would you have sung to explain why you sing and who you are? What would D have sung for that matter? Just to let you know - there was a hodgepodge of songs sung: ABBA's Thank you for the music and the Carpenter's You and Hangad's Hangad and that song from Ice Castles - Looking Through The Eyes Of Love. Sister Bubbles sang Of All The Things. Exactly the sort of exercise I dig. (Another note to K of Lazy Sunday Afternoons - who should have been there - what would have been your song choice?).

Write me when you can, Celeste. A more comprehensive email will be forthcoming in a not so public forum. Need I say I miss you.

Reminder: Go to yoga this week

Check out a new way to watch a DVD

Put on something you haven't seen in at least five years. For us, it was Saturday Night Fever. Then switch on the subtitles for Director's notes. In this case, John Badham's scintillating musings on the making of this classic movie of the 70s. Plus, who doesn't love John Travolta as Tony Manero? Not to mention Yvonne Elliman's fervent If I Can't Have You playing in the opening dance scene. Gritty and real and smart and poignant and funny and wistful all at the same time. You can't get any better than Saturday Night Fever... it's a masterpiece.

Beach time over

A prayer for discipline and strength

We are in that quiet time that is in every sense of the word, "make or break". It is the time when the temptation to slow down and give in to good old fashioned sloth at its most powerful but it is also that time that demands huge quantities of discipline. It is in a way a different kind of stress - but no less urgent, no less pressing. I am reminded of the strong and stunning A, now tearing up the corporate ladder in New York city with the grace and the speed of a wild horse. I recall her drive and her inner presence - her ability to simply push herself and yes, I do envy it. Mine are usually the short bursts of inspiration - powerful but ultimately, temporary. It is the consistent and the constant drive that not only meets the best expectations but eventually surpasses them. Enough. It is time. In order that all may be achieved, once must focus and simply and matter-of-factly... do.

Flashback to Fort Canning Park Sunday Picnic

Weekend inventory

Pizza Friday night and Happy Feet in our room. Saturday morning soccer for C and T - who drove him there. K and I have breakfast and discuss plans for the day. We all have busy work - T on the household files, me with my magazines, K with maths homework and C with Kumon. Lunch of fried fish and picadillo. I drive K to a birthday party and yak yakety yak with people I have not seen in ages. I drive K to catechism at St. Igs where C is already there in his class. I pick up T for various errands and then we rush to 6pm mass. Bring the kids home then join friends at an Indian restaurant in the Esplanade for a birthday dinner, followed by scrumptious dessert at Chocolate Factory where I succesfully avoid chocolate. Home after midnight. Sunday bright and early for waffle breakfast and at 10am, Lao Shi arrives for two hour class. Then rush to dimsum lunch and 2pm Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - during which, to my embarrassment, I fall asleep. Out for coffee and a club sandwich split four ways at Mc Cafe. Then to the bookstore, then to the supermarket, then a drive to check out possible parks in
our future area in November. Then home to dinner of pork chops, mongo soup and steamed asparagus, brown rice and fruit and ice cream for dessert. Then one episode of
The Cosby Show.

Now a deep breath and another week of work will be upon us. Onward ho.

Esquire US April 2007 Swank Cover

At page 156, I hit on the perfect male read - or at least, what I think is the perfect male read - 6 pages by a rather talented writer named Kendall Hamlilton who as an experiment to see whether alcohol is really the great creative lubricant, agrees to accept a series of 6 essay topics from his editor - and to do quick takes on each for no more than an hour and a half, at increasing stages of inebriation - Johnny Walker to be precise.


This was smart, funny magazine writing that was also satisfyingly inventive while at the same time, offering even more for its worth than what it actually set out to achieve. Topic 1 is "Poor Jennifer Aniston? I don't think so. She's the problem. Agree or disagree." Topic 2 is "Starbucks is a metaphor for everting that is wrong with/great about America", Topic 3 is "Morning is the best time to have sex." Topic 4 is Boulder Colorado is the best place to live in America" (This is where Hamilton resides). Topic 5 is "USA today is the best newspaper in the world" and lastly a redux of the Jennifer Aniston topic - at Hamilton's most drunk. The feature also includes the author's post-mortem sober (not hung over) critique notes.

Good fun. And smart. And funny. The Jennifer Aniston topic strikes a personal bell with me as I've blogged about the inappropriateness of her going from Pitt to Vaughn - crazy crazy crazy.
Is this the best kind of magazine reading for men of today? Or is it just me?

Awww no more Friday Night Dates with the Wongs

The difference between then and now

Then - for about ten years, on and off - I lived and breathed women's magazines. My time was ruled by the fashion seasons and I was keenly attuned to the various trends in health and beauty and lifestyle first for women aged 21-35 then for women 25-40. And it was a pleasant life - were mini-skirts in or out? What was going to be the silhouette of spring? The search for a smarter, more accessible method of getting ahead, staying ahead, improving one's, revitalising one's health, losing five, ten, fifteen pounds and the various ways you can do it, powering one's love-aka-sex life, streamlining one's relationships, getting the man, getting over the man, accepting that a man is all well and good, but at the end of the day, your life is about you.

Now I am attempting to plumb alien depths, having learned that simply wading and treading the shallows of testosterone just isn't doing it. You have to go all the way to find those pearls, those gold nuggets, you have to sift through masculine sands and manly mud. So I now flip through pages in magazines that I had previously read only for fiction - GQ, Men's Health, Arena UK, Playboy with frequent forays into non-specific but seemingly male oriented titles - Wallpaper, The Robb Report, and to a certain extent Vanity Fair and now Monocle - which I am enjoying. I now read Vogue only for pleasure. Whereas a Saturday morning will find me diligently reading - not just flipping, mind you - the opinion pages of Esquire. What constitutes the desires of a man, what is his reason for being at this point in human history.

It is all extremely fascinating and occasionally even satisfying and pleasurable, having to try to empathise the mind, soul and body of a man. And yet, and yet, and yet - I am faced with a conclusion that even as deeply as I plunge myself into all of this alpha or non alpha maleness and as much as I credit my ability to empathise... it would all still be an approximation, wouldn't it, now? I mean, at the end of the day - yes, I am wise (but it's wisdom borne of pain. Yes I pay the price, but look how much I gain. If I have to I can do anything. I am strong. I am invincible - but ultimately, I am woman.

Back to the good stuff

Imagine one full 50 minute period where every single part of your body is energised - where your muscles are always flexed, tight at the core. Well, that was what my first yoga core class was like. It was completely a strength session and very addictive. So made it to yoga twice this week. What's more I actually got to see Dr. Theresa for my first accupuncture session in a month, since before Hanoi. She found me extremely blocked right down the meridien. Even the cups actually hurt - and a couple of the needles felt like electricity.

The result? Looking forward to a great night's sleep...

Obsessions, regrets and conversations with the young

I have always had that tendency to allow myself to be completely overtaken by work, even though I am aware of it and try not to give in to it, I find myself succumbing once again. It is not always a good thing though, especially when the work is only a small part of what I really want to do with my life. Is it procrastination? A delaying tactic? A way of fooling myself into believing that what I am doing right now is somehow worthwhile? Should I not just take it easy and cruise and try to fit in the thing that I feel I must do?

Interesting conversation with M at the office today. A young man of 23 at the very beginning of his life, he asked me, a practically 40-year-old woman, what I would do - given the option of starting fresh with a whole new set of years ahead of me. Say if I was 23 again, what would I do. And I said I would be a doctor. A gynecologist - but not just any gynecologist - one with a specialty in internal medicine. He was rather shocked. You wouldn't be writing. I argued - the mistake I made was that I thought that to write, I had to be a writer as an occupation. Not true at all. You can have an occupation, separate from the ability to write. I could have been a banker or a financial analyst or a doctor - and still write.

Coincidentally, yesterday, I spoke to B, also at the office. He is 27 - and already understands what it took me years to realise. So he's going for that finance career - and he will write on the side. Because he can. Then at lunch with M today, age 23 as well, and for the nth time, we talked about what she wanted to be doing. With M however, I sense that she is more sure about what she doesn't want to be doing than what she wants to be doing. Which is so much tougher.

As uncertain as they are, these young people are in enviable positions, I think. So much still ahead of them. So many things that they can yet achieve. Elphaba's refrain runs in my head - "Unlimited. My future is...unlimited."

Back to the practice

Finally, finally. It's been at the back of my mind for so long and the last time I did any was in early February. But today, circumstances fell into place and I was able to make it to the 5:30pm Hot Hour. While I definitely noted rustiness in certain poses, it really did feel wonderful - especially the bow and the tree and triangle. It was nice, too, that Catherine added in a few sun salutations for filip. Hopefully, this kicks off the habit once more.

Back from Bali

A nice little family reunion in Bali - just what the doctor ordered. For two whole days, it was nothing but sun, sand and sea - and save for the sunburn, we are all the better for it. And now we're back, ready to face a new school term, a new week, a new day. On the flight home, I couldn't decide what to watch, and finally settled on Stranger than Fiction. A small film, but one that had real moments of invention, not to mention, real engaging sequences - Dustin Hoffman as the lit crit and theory professor was hugely amusing. The exchange referring to "Little did he know" is really funny for writers, I thought. Tomorrow....life begins again.

Late nights and early mornings

That's what the last few days have been like, due to work. Fortunately, still able to keep all the other balls in my life up in the air. So C forgot his holiday homework - I actually managed to retrieve the worksheets. K had a number of medical appointments, and we managed to get it all done. Today was a colossal coordination act that required the work of all three of the adults in my household, myself, T and Melin. What with K going over to her friend's house in the East Coast, C having an eye appointment, hanging out at the office AND having a playdate visit as well. All that and managed to send out most of the pages this evening. The one thing I forgot? A piece I had to do for swingamahds - which I churned out just now while watching the rerun of American Idol. In between, I listed the Diana Ross songs that I would choose if I were in the contest. Still thinking that it's a toss-up between the slow ballad version (not the disco version) of On the Radio or Touch Me in the Morning. Wow ah. Kapal. As if. But still.

[Related aside to Lazy Sunday Afternoons...ikaw, Kiks, anong Diana Ross ang kakantahin mo, if ever?]

And tomorrow? Gotta get some cardio in to make up for the stress chips and pizza I had at work. Gotta show up at the office and be useful at least till noon. And gotta pack for the family trip to B. Am reminded of Desree's Gotta Be song. Another good one, no?

Listen as the day unfolds...challenge what the future holds...gotta keep your head up to the sky. Lovers they may cause you tears, go ahead release your fears. Stand up and be counted, don't be ashamed to try...

Weekend flicks

Music & Lyrics makes no pretenses about being anything more than what it is. Grant and Barrymore are so very charming, persuading you to overlook the thin conflict and the sloppy cropping - you hoo, we can see the microphone! The best part and what makes it absolutely worth watching? The parody of the 80's MTV with Hugh Grant coiffed all Duran Duran -- guarantees to keep anyone who came of age the 80s in stitches. Pop goes my heart! And then there was 300, a lush portrayal of the final battles of Sparta. Scenes were virtual storyboards and the battles were like ballet - admirably choreographed. Not to mention, it was great to see 300 alpha males in scanty clothing - cut to the six pack. Greek gods...very definitely.

Wierdness

Work is fun, but it's also wierd. In fact, I have to say, it's the wierdest place Ive ever worked. Even the things that are supposed to be sacred, aren't, well, not really. And the particular people who are supposed to do particular things, are doing completely different things. And time moves so excruciatingly slowly. I'm not used to it. It's wierd. Just plain wierd.

Old dog, new tricks

We have a new family activity - a weekly Mandarin class! Finally found a lovely laoshi to teach us conversational Mandarin, one who was willing to take all four of us in - aged 41, 39, 9, and 8 respectively! And it was no easy task to find someone willing to put herself/himself through that challenge. C especially is quite a handful being multiply sensitive to competition, easily distracted, grumpy and inclined to test authority. K is on the nerdy side, conscientious but stressed out when the class is too fast for her liking. The presence of the kids reins in T and my tendencies to compete with each other in classroom situations. The kids have better pronunciation than the adults and sometimes, better memories...but we're all kept on our proverbial toes.In short, we're a handful...hahahah. But it's a nice, positive project and one that will hopefully have us progressing nicely toward our chosen third language. The other amusing thing? We both got Chinese names. I am Ming Ling and T is Na Tan. On that note, wa an wo de pengyou!

Dearest Lola

I know it's early, but I've been thinking about you and wondering how you are. Are you baking up a storm. My mouth waters for puto and sans rival and chocolate cake. Are you tending to your garden? Are you and Lolo going for those early morning (4am walks) you used to try to get me to go on? If you visited me here, we would take you to the orchid gardens, and we would get up early and walk to the track, and we would go to the river and the reservoir and Chinatown. Or maybe we would buy plants so the planters at home can finally be filled properly and with the right stuff.

So many things going on, but it's not strange, is it, that I think of you frequently and wonder what you would think about all of it, and of K and C and T and the way things are here in Singapore. And what you might be able to arrange for L and M in terms of, well, you know what you want, right? I've always believed in your power and know that's truer now than it ever was.

Need I say I miss you so much? Give Lolo a kiss for me and tell him I miss him too - could have used his Lolo's medicine ointment on K's and C's bites, bumps and bruises. Advanced Happy Birthday dearest Lola...

Surprises in Singapore

Now I'm sure this happens in other countries as well. But it's nice to know that it happens in Singapore. Sometimes, you find not just one but a number of unexpected, richly insightful experiences taking place, clustered together like a bright, beautiful bouquet of wild spring flowers gathered from a most ordinary meadow.

Yesterday, a rather comely, intelligent young man from Nepal told me his life story and the fascinating twists and turns of how he came to be at the very spot he occupies today, sitting across a table as he handed me sheafs of paper to insert into some 350 magazines. Later that same day, an Indonesian manicurist who also cuts hair gave me his take on on the benefits of colonial history with lines like, "You are lucky to be colonised by the Americans or by the British. They do good for the people. Not like the Europeans." And in the early evening, an elderly cabbie lectured me on taking time to think about what I want, and think about what I need. "You must focus, " he said, "on yourself, at least some of the time." At the end of the day, I discovered many more good things about the people I work both with and for as we partied late into the night with champagne and fruitinis, as well as found out that I have come to a point that I can talk to anyone, anywhere about anything - a pretty useful thing in life.

It was a good day and for each and every one that happens, I am always, always grateful.

Best Picture for 2007

Am glad The Departed won. Am glad Martin Scorcese won. I saw this movie for the second time on the plane from Hanoi to Singapore, and it was as riveting as it was when I first saw it. No slow moments. No pacing problems. A great story with plot points that are both unexpected and sensible. What's more, it had some really textured work in terms of performances from practically everyone in the film. It is filmaking at its very finest. Am glad it won the Oscar.

Movie Weekend

There was something very poignant about Dream Girls - at least for me - maybe it was all the motown 70's rhythms and strong female vocals that got me. But even just eight minutes into the film, it did occur to me that Jennifer Hudson deserves every award and accolade she gets for her creation of Effie White. This is an annoying character, but with whatever she has, Hudson manages to locate the sympathy the audience requires to make a connection with her. And then there's her big, brassy voice which is so much bigger tan who she is. And then it is pure joy to hear Eddie Murphy and Beyonce and Jamie Foxx sing. Beside's it's a musicale. Who doesn't love a musical?

Letters from Iwo Jima is a good movie overall, mostly because of performances by Ken Watanabe and the newcomer who created Saigo, the Japanese baker-turned-very-reluctant soldier. Not without flaws, but really, hardly anything is these days. Some of the subplots were a bit old in a you-could-see-it-coming kind of way. I also thought there were pacing problems. Still, Clint Eastwood knows how to tell a story, and we are able to rest confidently in his able hands. When you think about his work - The Unforgiven, The Bridges of Madison County and Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil - there is no disputing he is truly a master, for this movie and hopefully more...

Found: Panning Rice in Vietnam

Once upon a time, some sixteen years ago, in the flattest flatlands of Ohio and a small university town of just two main streets, I met A Panning and M Rice. A was in first year fiction to my second year, and M was in the American Culture Studies programme. And apart from being graduate students and writers, we also shared the Philippines in common as they had each been Peace Corp Volounteers there. In fact, that's where they had met.

But in 1991, we all lived in flats in a town called Bowling Green. I was in a studio on N. Main Street, atop a bar called SamB's. Mine was basically just one room with a stove oven, kitchen sink, counter and fridge running alongside one wall, and three small windows along the other side. The heat from the radiator was sometimes excessive, so I always had one window cracked open about six inches, even through the winter months. When it got warmer in the spring, I would leave it gaping wide open, and would frequently wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of some undergrad puking ceremoniously in the parking lot, after having had too much to drink.

A and M's apartment was infinitely more pleasant, the first level of a pretty house on a treelined street, S. Grove I think it might have been. But it was no less strange. They had a large sprawling living room and a separate kitchen. Their bedroom was a little nook off of the kitchen with swinging doors offering very little privacy and just enough space for a queen sized bed. But they were as happy as campers there, and cooked up batches of stew or vegetable soup in their crockpot, often inviting me over to share their supper. We spent a lot of time together, writing, talking about writing, eating, drinking, gossiping, watching cruddy old videos that I rented from a cruddy old video store on South Main. And being intrepid entertainers, they threw many a wild party in that large sprawling living room area. It was a good year.

And then I finished the program, left Ohio, got married, as did they. And but for a few emails back and forth over the years, we had just about lost touch - though I knew they were both faculty at SUNY in Brockport. And I think they were aware we were.

But for some reason, out of the blue, two nights ago, I decided to write Anne again and say, what's up. Turns out this semester, the Panning Rice family is in Asia. More specifically, in Vietnam, three hours away from Saigon to be exact and with their two little kids in tow. The emails came lie rapid-fire and Bim Bam Boom - we're seeing them in April when they come visit.

It is wonderful how, sometimes, the world can be small and cosy for so long as you let it.

Post Ash Wednesday mass reflection and a dead Jesuit

Five minutes after Ash Wednesday mass at 7:30pm, I found myself standing in line to pay my respects to a dead Jesuit named Fr. Desmond Reid. I don't think I have ever met Fr. Reid, and certainly did not recognise him from his picture. But M, who was responsible for getting me in the queue, said he was such a wonderful person, a friendly man, who had led many of her bible discussion groups. So I said, okay, I would accompany her to the wake. It was also, conveniently, on the way to where I had parked the car, so there was that, too - a heavy flow of traffic that would have prevented me from leaving anyway. I was quite taken aback by the crowd of people who had gathered in the hall that for these past three nights had become a funeral gathering. It seemed there were more than two hundred people there, and more outside. Amazing and wonderful and to my mind, rather unexpected.

As we were shuffled, waiting for our turn, I found myself telling M, who I feel very friendly and homey toward (for the simple reason that she is/was a good friend of my cousin's in college), how it was only in Singapore that I started going to mass regularly again. That actually, once I stopped living in my parents' house, mass was only an every now and then thing. As and when. Now and then. And that I had no other reason for my return other than an inexplicable, indescribable need for it...you might even say a hunger. Also, I was worried for my kids, for my family. If I was not going to give faith to them, who was? They would be left bereft, without a choice simply because they did not know. I received it. I chose to leave it a little, and I chose to return. I pictured my kids as adults and realised that if they never had it, they might possibly never want it to return to.

M, who I see at mass sometimes with her children, rarely with her husband, seemed to understand what I meant. That night, for Ash Wednesday mass, we were both alone, and there was no need to speculate on the reasons.

As we shuffled closer to the open casket, I caught a glimpse of Fr. Reid. All of a sudden I remembered a story T had told me of a time when he was maybe in the third grade at the Ateneo. Some Jesuit, then as now, had also passed away. And all the students in all the classes were made to line up and pay their respects in pairs. T was paired with a school mate and as they looked down at the face of the dead Jesuit, T felt a mad uncontrollable impulse to laugh. Something about the man's face. Something off in a funny way. His eyes met with those of his friend's, and almost as if by understanding, they shared that wild desire for laughter. Biting their lips, they ran like mad, pell mell to the outside of the chapel. Only when they got there did they burst into spasms of gut-wrenching mirth.

Recalling this, I squelched a similar impulse of my own to laugh. I closed my eyes, bit my lower lip and said a silent prayer. For Fr. Ried and for my family and for our faith.

Of course.

A scene from the birthday picnic

If you blur your eyes

...Hanoi is an amalgam of many European cities. Tree lined boulevards and cafes recall Paris. The houses along green canals evoke Amsterdam. And if you look out onto the West Lake, and blur your eyes, it's like your looking at the Arno in Florence. And then parts of the teeming city are a little like old Manila and a little like Bangkok.

A little piece of Europe in Southeast Asia

Funny

They took it off its frame and rolled it up. They almost forgot about the certificate of authentification. When they brought out the file, there was no signature.

"No problem. We'll take it to his house for his signature...and bring it to your hotel room by nine o'clock tonight," Ms. Lan assured me. Alright, I agreed absently, distracted by the rather novel idea that Dao Hai Phong himself lived in a house in Hanoi, that there he worked, and gallery owners came to take his signature. How strange. Dao Hai Phong himself, working in his studio.
It was mind boggling.

"What if he's not home?" T asked.
"It's the lunar new year. He's probably at home with friends and family. Maybe he's entertaining. Maybe he's working."

But at nine o'clock sharp, the certificate came, signed, sealed and delivered.

Philosophising the search of Dao Hai Phong

It was much more difficult than we thought. Due to the limits of wall space as well as the limits of our pocketbook, we had to confine ourselves to certain parameters. But even then, even within those, it was not a cut and dry decision that was easy to make from the very outset.

For one, almost every painting I saw, I felt I would love and be proud to own. Amazingly, each and every one. It was further complicated by Phong's titles - all of which are pleasingly poetic, pleasantly provocative. "Quiet Evening" was a fishing boat, docked into a house on stilts, lit from within. "Twilight Moment" was a small village nestled behind a grove of three trees on a hill, the houses reflected in the still waters of the lake. "Countryside" was a row of houses on red. In his recent work, the artist seemed to be responding to more modern inspirations, the walls of his houses had graffiti - not a bad, there was something there.

"But what do you want most? What do you want to look at every day?" All of them, I thought greedily. I'd like to look at all of them. But T was right, I knew. We are not the kind of people to buy any number of work by one artist. You buy one. The one you like best; the one that likes you. And then you stop.

Being perhaps more existentialist than we needed to be, we asked ourselves, what makes a Dao Hai Phong truly Dao Hai Phong, without which it would not be a Dao Hai Phong? We locked upon his trees like clouds of cotton candy, we liked hills and churches. True, his fishing villages were charming - the house on stilts with the light emanating from it, bouncing of the surface of the water - a rhapsody in deep blue that is at once the sky, at once the sea. Beautiful, without a doubt, but there was just something different about those billowing trees.

"It's not like the fishing scenes are not powerful, they are. But we're not fishing people as much as we are tree people," I said, testing out my theory out loud to see if it held any water. T agreed. Fishing and the sea are great. But we are more about hills and trees and houses.

Finally there was the issue of colour. To make the choice between Phong's blueness or redness or yellowness was tough, as each had its merits. K hazarded her rather mature opinion that red was too hot, and that she preferred the serene of deep blue or the calm of the yellow. But I pointed out to her that because of the way Phong paints, even the red, as bright as it is, is calm and quiet and placid...some kind of magic that he is able to achieve, a gentle message from the eye to the brush, spelt out in the canvas.

In a red one called "New town" there is a cluster of houses on a hill and two trees. There is also the unexpected gift of falling yellow leaves, like the season of autumn.

"New town" had real hope and it grew in all of us. On our final day in Hanoi, we decided to
take it home.

Visions of Vietnam

Apparently, the fairly advanced development of the art scene in Vietnam took place largely because of the French occupation and such institutions as Ecole des Beaux Arts d'Indochine, set up by the colonialists in 1925, the harbinger for schools like the Hanoi Institute of Fine Art. Techniques like painting and sculpture were taught intensively, and later, indigenous art forms were added to the curriculum like lacquer painting and silk painting.

As it happens with all colonial histories in which one more powerful country actively takes over one weaker one, there were a few good things that happened amid the bad. And for Vietnam, visual art is one of them. Walking through the galleries in Hanoi alone, one finds many artistic voices worthy of attention - each with a personal vision, a particular discipline, an eye for meaning that is unique, powerful, and beautiful.

Years before we visited the city, I had spent many hours journeying through the websites of various galleries, visiting and revisting my favourites - the pure simplicity of Nguyen Thanh Binh (b. 1954), his serene, creamy spaces, elegantly singular compositions and the colour white which he expertly makes use of as a colour, as opposed to a non-colour. The subtle, single-hued panoramas of Hong Viet Dung (b. 1962)and the joyful street scenes of Le Than Son (b. 1962)

And then there are the poignant, surreal storybook visions of Dao Hai Phong (b. 1965) that never fail to elicit my wordless satisfaction. Most of his paintings enchant, because they deftly achieve the rare but keen pleasure located in the intersection where brightness and quietness meet and sometimes fall in love.

See http://www.thavibu.com/vietnam/dao_hai_phong

So when at last we paid the city of Hanoi a visit, it was my heartfelt wish, my intent to find a Dao Hai Phong that called my name. I wanted to find one and take it home that I might escape into it everyday, if I so chose. Not merely to look at it and admire it as a possession. But to actually engage in it, enter it, be one with it.

In the end, this, is what art is ultimately about.

A house in Hanoi

High Tea at the Metropole

As we wait for our vittels, K studies the Apricot Gallery brochure intently while C checks out what we should do the tomorrow...

Salin 'ko PO ng Nakapagtataka (Apo Hiking Society)

Thanks to my sis, I now have the tribute to the Apo Hiking Society album. Which means I have Nakapagtataka on loop. My colleagues asked what does it mean. So I tried my hand at translation. Sing it in English to the same heart-haunting strain...

A never ending whirl
Keeps swirling through my mind
The moment we agreed to go our separate ways
Decided we can't get along the way it stays
It's hard to figure out, what's it all about...

How strange it comes to this
The way it's all turned out
The countless times that we keep saying our goodbyes
And each and every time, regret is in our eyes
It's hard to figure out, what's it all about?

REF
Aren't you tired of all the pain
All the anger and disdain
So many times we fight it out
The ugly words, the hurt, the doubt

And when it's done, the tears, they fall
Our hearts are breaking after all
There's nothing left to do or say
And only sadness to convey

If we were truly meant to be lovers
Why can't we get along with each other
woooh wooh

The rain keeps pelting down
And where have you gone, sunshine?
What happened to the love that once was ours to share?
There's only emptiness and heartache and despair
It's hard to figure out, why do we even care...

(Back to refrain)

Hanoi holiday

Such a pretty city. Little houses in pastel colours. Stately streets lined with trees. Quiet green lakes and canals. French colonial buildings. And don't you just love all that zany traffic -- the complete craziness of cars, bicycles, motorbikes, cyclos - and by some miracle, everyone avoids a collision. It's the beauty of lunacy.

Balentymes

Remember, while it's just a day like any other day, you can make it special for those you love and consequently in turn, for yourself. Which is not a bad way to treat any other day, actually.

A girl after my own heart

" For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn?"
-Jane Austen

Monday meetings

I ran off to have a quality Japanese food and much needed quality time with M today. That was meeting one. Then in the afternoon meeting 2 with Dapper Y. I call him Yoda in my mind - He took me aside to make sure I was back on track.

He is Yoda for his wisdom and for the great force that he emanates. To my mind, he is the best of the Dappers. What's more, we have affinity, which is a good thing I think, and should serve me well in the long run.

In the meantime, closing goes on. Will there be a CNY break? Could be. Who knows.

Something's coming. I don't know what it is but it is gonna be great...
Or that could be wishful thinking. No workout today. But tomorrow, I hit the track again - literally.

Excesses

It's my own fault. Nobody asked me to stay out till 3am. Nobody insisted that I sing ABBA or Joan Jett or Billy Joel or Madonna or The Corrs. I did it to myself. So if today seemed like a longer day than it actually was, I have no one to blame but myself. I have to say though, it was great fun while it lasted.

But today was fun, too. We had perfect weather to manage 8 eight year olds rambling through an old historic park on a green hill with wide expanses of grass and gigantic trees. There was a scavenger hunt and a game of tag and lots and lots of water gun fights. Our menu of vampire blood muffins (pizza pan de sal), mud sludge pies (chocolate cup cakes) and lady witch fingers (cheese sticks) went over well, along with the goober alien flow (apple and grape juice packs).

The wind blew and the little boys played, dragging the adults in. Even K who was on duty as assistant game master was seen madly tearing after a boy who had open fired on her. She caught him, too. At one point, I was being chased by two litte twer-- er little boys...as they shot me with what can only be described as a water bazooka. Finally, I changed my tack and chased them, grabbed their weapons from their hands and blasted them full on on the face till they yelled in surrender. The birthday boy was properly pleased, and his sister got her reward for doing such good work - developing a pop quiz as one of the major games.

Now, as I contemplate the crafting of a relationship piece when all I really want to do is crawl into bed, I think, this day went pretty well, actually. If only work happens to suffer, that should be a small and unimportant thing in the long run that is life.

What are eight year old boys made of

Sunday picnics and water guns and eight other eight year old boys in the park, whooping and zipping around and being there own paradoxical selves. We've got the cup cakes, the mini pizzas, the cheese sticks and the juice packs. Not to mention ten well-packed goodie bags. Please don't let it rain.

Apocalypto

Last Friday Babel, this Friday Apocalypto.

Which is not to say that these films are not well-done nor well worth watching. They are. But I wouldn't say they were feel-good movies or even movies that are pleasurably gripping. In fact, they are quite definitely unpleasurably gripping.

For me, the best sub-plot in Babel was the Tokyo sub-plot. It was, at least, the most interesting and the most unexpected, in contrast to the others where you could see the anguish coming a mile away. The couple's Moroccan vacation nightmare was saved from sentimentality by Cate Blanchette who is just a brilliant creator. She doesn't have much to do, but she's so invested. Even when acting opposite Brad who is at his most wooden, it seems, and very diametrically uninvested. In the Mexican sub-plot, you can't take your eyes off Gael Garcia Bernal. But then, really, why would you want to? And weren't those children impossibly blonde - as in ghostly blonde?

In Apocalypo, the most joyful moment is "Almost's" transformation into the Jaguar's Paw - and that phenomenal leap into the falls. That and the water birth. If you're going to deliver a child sans doctor, hospital and epidural...it is best to push him out while submerged in a caveful of rain water.

All this action, all this cinematic tension.

And yet all I seem to be in the mood for are small domestic dramas. I would love to watch Little Children. T will say to me, "What, another infidelity movie?" Maybe I'll book tickets for Valentine's Day. Happy Valentine's Day to me.

The Greatest Salesman In The World

I should read that book. It may help on the job.

What's a garden without Weeds?

Just finished the second season. It's dark, depraved, deadly funny and completely addictive. But not for everyone, though. The show is by turns heinous yet oddly heartbreaking due to Mary Louise Parker and Elizabeth Perkins. Quite definitely not for everyone. Just those who are tickled by what's sometimes seen as downright perverted; these people will take a fancy to it. Granted, only a few people's names come to mind from my life, but they exist. Oh boy, do they exist.

And you just gotta love the theme song. Listen to it here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eXLWa1UZIS

If you can't, here are the lyrics - lovely, lovely satire.

Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of ticky-tacky, Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes, all the same. There's a green one and a pink one And a blue one and a yellow one And they're all made out of ticky-tacky And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses All went to the university, Where they were put in boxes, And they came out all the same. And there's doctors and there's lawyers And business executives, And they're all made out of ticky-tacky And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf-course, And drink their Martinis dry, And they all have pretty children, And the children go to school. And the children go to summer camp And then to the university, Where they are put in boxes And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business, And marry, and raise a family, In boxes made of ticky-tacky, And they all look just the same. There's a green one and a pink one And a blue one and a yellow one And they're all made out of ticky-tacky And they all look just the same.

Why...why...it almost sounds like...dare I say it?

Nah.

Accu-amazing

Pardon my going on about accupuncture. But it really is amazing. My accupuncturist, a Chinese physician, holds clinic on the second floor of an HDB commercial complex in Chinatown and refuses to give appointments. "Come when you come," she shrugs.

She is a card, a real character - and I warmed to her in the same way I find myself inclining toward quirky women. She takes cash only. She and her receptionist have a very giggly schoolgirlish relationship. And although her English is on the elemental, primordial side - she has that winning instinct of making herself very easily understood.

Yesterday, perhaps as a result of a difficult week, I was inspired to make time to escape to her for an hour. I got there at 11:30, blissful that the clinic was empty and she could see me right away. I went through the restorative cupping along my entire spine and the exhilerating needling and she gave me unlabelled pills to take - so that I could get "an - bocked".

She also showed me (with the help of a rubber and plastic model) that the human ear is
exactly like a human fetus. How great is that? Last night, once again, I slept like a baby and rose this morning with verve and energy - completely ready for doctor's appointments, a hundred errands, writing homework and choir practice.

Am so going again next week.

Who are the Van der Luydens

Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence is a novel about New York society as most of her novels were. To put it bluntly, who is in, who is out, who are the right people and who are the wrong people. And "right" seems to have no other discernable meaning beyond that of shared family and or socio-economic background - not necessarily shared interests, world views or humour.

The explores what happens when someone wants to leave the "right" people, deciding that he will no longer adhere to the usual conventions of who is right and who is wrong, but simply be with the person he wants to be with - in fact be himself, the person he wants to be. Of course, he is thwarted in the end. The book strikes a real chord with me every time I read it, because of its parallels with Pinoy society - and perhaps most especially, Pinoy society outside of the Philippines.

And while the whole Ellen Olenska-Newland Archer-May Wheeland triangle is the central plot, certain details and sub-plots have taken permanent residence in the way I understand social patterns today. The Van der Luydens, in Wharton's world, are an older couple whose approbation and estimation is valued, whose opinion is sought even though they studiously make their presence quite scarce as Ellen Olenska intimates, in part perhaps to ensure
that value.

It can be a tremendously amusing past time to characterise real people according to the roles of characters in a Wharton novel. Who is the Ellen Olenska who finally and irrevocably turns her back on the conventional norms, preferring instead to live life according to her own choosing despite the loss of a love affair? Who is the Newland Archer who struggles to with his desires for a different kind of life but is too trapped in the rules and norms of the society he himself has helped create. Who is the May Wheeland who has no other thought nor interest beyond what she has been taught to value and find worthy of attention. And who, who are the Van der Luydens?

One of the many wonderful things about great literature is the truth that it lends to what would otherwise be mundane, fairly ordinary life.

My career counsellor

From the mouths of babes

It is a wonderful thing to be able to talk to your children and listen to their opinions. After a difficult day at work that had me figuratively clutching my emotional tether with all fours, I came home last night beleaguered and bewildered, close to tears. I asked my son C for a hug, and he genially gave me one and I let myself whimper in his chubby arms.

With great presence of mind, the seven-year-old asked, "What's wrong?"
"Bad day at work," I replied.
"Tell me," he said.
"A lot of things not going to plan. Am having to face things I didn't think I would have to face."
"So what do you feel like doing about it?" he asks in utter seriousness.
"I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think you should wait and see. You don't know how it's going to be yet. Wait and see how it goes. Then see how you feel," he said, with all of Solomon's wisdom.

Today, when I reached home, he greeted me with, "How was it today? Did you follow my advice?"

I hugged him him and thanked him and told him I did.

Binge

Bad day. Tomorrow has to be different.

Theory

Consistently good sex is rooted in a relationship that contains a measure of conflict and contradiction, something with crests and troughs as opposed to one that is placid and smooth-sailing and always genial. It is to be found between two people who drive each other crazy, and not always in a good way. It thrives when two people have differences of opinion as well as just plain differences. And one of life's greatest ironies is that a relationship that is 100% pure mutual admiration, respect and caring seems to make for sex that's kind of boring.

Of course, that's just a theory.

What's happening to me?

Started the 3rd season of Grey's Anatomy and I'm finding myself irritated at the characters - practically all of them. The only character I find myself liking at the moment is Miranda Bailey. She and Addison Montgomery - the philandering wife of McDreamy who tries her best to work at her marriage. Everyone else just pissed me off, and none more so than Meredith Grey.

Is this a sign of ageing that I no longer have the patience for simpering twenty-somethings and their whiny little problems? What's that about.

Have decided to finish this series before going on to Weeds, then to Studio 60. House I will save for last. Resolutions for tomorrow: the 4k run, the healthy lunch and a complete concept for the story I promised to M and J.

Not a manic monday

Thanks to diligent weekend work, I managed to deliver on all my work commitments today. As such, I felt perfectly within my rights to go off for a lunchtime yoga session - another power hour class. Afterwards, I had a lovely salad with grilled chicken from Doc Greens. Nice fresh greens, yummy dressing and garnish of walnuts and cranberries. Nice place that - the kind of place which makes you feel like you can eat there everyday. Got home early and was even able to fit in a 40 minute ralk to the track. Were every day like today...

The Power Of Yoga

Flashback to Friday
Finally made it back to the yoga studio after two months. Wanted to do a Hot Class...but work circumstances conspired to place me into the Power 1 class that took place 45 minutes later.
And it was exactly what the doctor ordered. Pure power. Pure exhileration.

New friends

Here's what is wonderful about life. Even at a time when you think you are past a certain kind of experience, you get taken completely by surprise. And you discover something. Or something lets you know in no uncertain terms that you are wrong. There are things that can still happen to you. Whether it's making a mistake or picking a fight or outgrowing a friend.

Or making a new one. So to A who I met at a work event and shared a taxi with and coincidentally to A at church - thank you for showing me, I still know how to make friends. And choose good ones.

So much to watch, so much to do, so little time

I've got Weeds 1 and 2. I've got Studio 60. I've got House 3 or part of it, anyway. And I've also got Grey's Anatomy 3 or at least some of it.

BUT

I've got a book review and a column to write both due on Monday. Not to mention all the rest of the family stuff that happens on the weekend....

So how

It's scary when it happens. When finally, finally, the story that you thought through in your head has finally been captured, trapped on the page...and it though it looks good especially in stretches, there's something missing but you can't quite put your finger in it. And there's no point in doing anything else except move on. Write another one.

Accupuncture Adventure

After hearing so many positive stories from friends and family about the wonders of accupuncture, I decided that the first chance I got, I would try it out. So went to Tanjong Pagar Plaza in Chinatown, a little mall-ette attached to an HDB complex. On the second floor, just above the bank, I met Dr. Theresa - a Chinese physician and accupuncturist. In a quick conversation during which she felt my pulse, she basically made some guesses about my body and my eating habits. She told me how often I would get hungry, the poor quality of my sleep, and how I was frequently thirsty. All of it true - just from feeling my pulse? It was hard to fathom, though of course, she eyeballed me quite a bit as well. The bottomline: I have plenty of heat and wind in my body - so the toxins including fat just hang out...like a lot of murk in still waters. Then she had me lie down on my tummy while she massaged me rather vigorously in the neck and in the back.

"Ow ow ow." I said.

"Does this hurt? Does this hurt?" she asked squeezing harder.

"Yes, it hurts!" I retorted my face down in a paper towel.

"Ah ah..." she said knowingly.

She then proceeded to skin me with cups and then placed them all over my back. Then she pierced me with needles at various points. Call me a masochist...I rather enjoyed the experience and the localised sites of pain. She then left me for a bit and I fell into the deepest nap I'd ever experienced. I only awoke when I realised she was giving me instructions about various herbs and tablets I should take. I didn't pay much attention. So much better to just think it's all magic and hocus-pocus...so much more pleasurable to have the entire process shrouded in mystery.

I yelped each time she unpopped the cups - it was a new and not disagreeable. She then had me turn on my back so she could needle me at certain points in my tummy. The sensations at each needle-prick were rather strange - like little balloons of fluid being burst. I asked her about it, but only got the answer, "Aah, ah." Like this was all the way it was supposed to be. Why even bother asking, I thought to myself.

At the end of it, she gives me various pills to drink and a bottle of a horrific brown concoction - I no longer bothered to ask what it was. And that was it. That night, when K came in for her nightly wee, I did not even hear her. Last night, I slept straight through like a nine month old baby - a powerful, heavy sleep. I see her again next week...

Star lesson

"I realized that's what you have to do: You just say a sentence and hope the next one comes."
- Hugh Grant as quoted in February Vogue, on writing his book