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.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
Monday, February 19, 2007
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...
Friday, February 16, 2007
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...
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.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
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.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
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
-Jane Austen
Monday, February 12, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
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.
Nah.
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.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
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.
Of course, that's just a theory.
Monday, January 29, 2007
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.
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...
Sunday, January 28, 2007
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.
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.
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....
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....
Thursday, January 25, 2007
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.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
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...
"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...
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
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
- Hugh Grant as quoted in February Vogue, on writing his book
Monday, January 22, 2007
Super Trouper
Despite her fever, K was a happy little girl today as only a nine year old can be happy on her birthday. All sweetness and hugs..."I don't mean to be rude, but may I open my presents?" No longer did she care about her party, once she found out that we could move it to next week. At breakfast, she gamely posed for her bday photos - surrounded by her gifts. And when she read the card her Dad and I had written out especially, she was visibly touched - "Thank you Mommy! Thank you Daddy!" she exclaimed in her little girl laughter-laced peal. Utterly utterly sweet. She set about preparing to see the doctor, all sensible and business-like. And during the day, she claimed, "I can't really lie down and rest..." and set about fixing her school bag (even fixing C's school bag), painting her craft sample (the one she had planned for her and her schoolmates to do), assembled her new dollhouse, played with it, and gamely did all her Kumon worksheets. In other words, she was a terrific trouper. The only time she started fading was when night fell - and she hadn't much of an appetite for her spaghettti bolognaise and pizza dinner. But again, she smiled and blew out the candle on her birthday cupcake (she decided she would save making a bday cake for when her friends were coming). We ended the day with six chapters of Dr. Dolittle. When I got to a word - obstreperous - I commented that I didn't know the meaning of the word, K piped up, "It sounds like angry to me..." Just marvelous - that's what she is. I am brimming with joy and pride that I am her mother.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
The Dappers
After some 10 years working in women's magazines, I have entered the wild, weird, world of men's magazines. It is taking more than a measure of getting used to. To complicate matters, the company I've joined - it's now been a little more than three months - is a start-up. This means it's all the things you've ever heard, read or experienced on your own about start-ups - good and bad. It is interesting, though. And not boring. And in no way, automatic, the way women's magazines were getting to be. So far, the experience has taught me a lot about being a man. Some things happen fast, almost without warning. And some very important things are allowed to creep along unnoticed. A workplace laced with testosterone is very volatile, I must say. Decisions tend to be instinctive and all-of-a-sudden-like.
And then, there are the Dappers. I work for the Dappers. Was hired by them. They are not what they appear - but they are very comprehensively both as a group and as individuals very dapper. There is a lead one, a second in charge, one who supports and one who looks at the physical, day-to-day things. And there's a wise, yoda one - who is still very dapper. Sometimes, on the days I have time to think of things that do not matter, I am of the mind that they should also start a band.
And then, there are the Dappers. I work for the Dappers. Was hired by them. They are not what they appear - but they are very comprehensively both as a group and as individuals very dapper. There is a lead one, a second in charge, one who supports and one who looks at the physical, day-to-day things. And there's a wise, yoda one - who is still very dapper. Sometimes, on the days I have time to think of things that do not matter, I am of the mind that they should also start a band.
Chaos!
While C has no more fever, he's not quite himself eithe r. So we go out for K's family bday celeb - she had requested sushi and ramen. We also go shopping for her bday gift - she picks out a wooden doll house. We run our various Sunday errands as a family, glad that we have already attended mass the evening before. And then all of a sudden K says she's not feeling too hot. Which actually means, she is feeling hot. 38.4 hot.
This means we have to cancel her little after-school bday tea party. She is livid and desolate. C is too out of it himself to even react. Tomorrow will not be fun - as it means I have to hie them off to see Dr. N - without a car. The time for resisting a prescription of antibiotics is past. Now we seek professional help. K bursts into hot, tormented tears of anger, resentment and self-pity. No one wants to be sick on one's birthday. Misery is a sick little nine-year old girl - abject misery.
This means we have to cancel her little after-school bday tea party. She is livid and desolate. C is too out of it himself to even react. Tomorrow will not be fun - as it means I have to hie them off to see Dr. N - without a car. The time for resisting a prescription of antibiotics is past. Now we seek professional help. K bursts into hot, tormented tears of anger, resentment and self-pity. No one wants to be sick on one's birthday. Misery is a sick little nine-year old girl - abject misery.
Friday, January 19, 2007
TGIF!
What a week this has been! Kiddie medical business. Great good news in the family. Finding out about new responsibilities at work. Catching up with Cam from HK. Sympathetic supportive session with sunny side sister over Starbucks (Now, try saying that three times without stopping!). A visit from my dear kasin Ninarkitek and the wonderful four hour chismis session late into the night - just like old times, as though we were sixteen again. Topic: family business, real estate, modern relationships, men and ...well women, keeping sane and coping with failing memories, the multitasking life. Amazing how with family, you slip into your codes and there's no need to footnote references. She knew my Yentle lyrics. She got all the contexts. And laughing as only quintosians can about the perennial Pinoy romantic line, clearly considered courtship: "Have you eaten na?" That's a sign that a Pinoy guy cares about you more than just a friend. Even though, haha, that's a line T has never uttered to me. Ninarkitek tells of a version that's even one step higher: "O...make sure you eat well, ha?" We nearly died. I think we must have woken up the neighbors. (Note to Ninarkitek: You should start a blog called Ninarkitek... o...diba!)
The only cloud...C's down with a horrid flu bug and just not his old self. ("I hate this. I hate this," he mutters to himself almost unaware he is saying it out loud, his eyes and nose streaming. He is very good about expressing his feelings.) Taking him to the doctor later to make sure that it's not the new strain of staph infection that kills in 72 hours (What can I say - headlines affect me). The silver lining? T comes home tonight, I did five rounds on the track this morning. Let the weekend begin...
The only cloud...C's down with a horrid flu bug and just not his old self. ("I hate this. I hate this," he mutters to himself almost unaware he is saying it out loud, his eyes and nose streaming. He is very good about expressing his feelings.) Taking him to the doctor later to make sure that it's not the new strain of staph infection that kills in 72 hours (What can I say - headlines affect me). The silver lining? T comes home tonight, I did five rounds on the track this morning. Let the weekend begin...
Monday, January 15, 2007
Productivity
Why does it all come down to getting up early and getting exercise, first thing? Listen to me, could I be more annoying? Yet there's just something about this run I've been doing. Maybe it's because of this track on Evans road ... it's so inviting, it just begs to be run upon, even though you're not much of a runner, not really. But you want to be. So you try. You don't try. Like Yoda, you just do it. And the result is you wake up, you really wake up, and all the rest of it - like energy levels and mid-morning munchies - it all comes easy. Or easier. Who would have thought that there would be a discernable difference between a morning walk and a walk with a real 400 metre jog at brisk pace right smack in the middle of it? Managed to reinstall my yoga membership as well as my bookstore discount card in one fell swoop. All ready for Hatha or Hat with Mahds on Thursday. And would you believe it, I even got parking for while T is not here.
Had scrumptious noodles for lunch today with a lovely older gentleman, also a Dapper. He very gallantly invited me to lunch to talk publishing shop. He was so nice about it, I agreed, even though I had errands to run. Who would have thought you could still get a lunch for 2.8o on Orchard Road. Good food and fascinating conversation.
Tomorrow, Day 2 and hopefully more of the same. Forming the intention of productivity actually does work. And as far as everything else goes, I should just make like a duck and have it all simply slide down my back.
Non-sequitur on craft. If you're in the habit of starting with a title, drop that. It can be more stifling than a fellow student in a writing workshop. Don't think about a title. Just think about the story. And think on Electric Company terms: beginning, middle and end. Yes, very especially end.
Had scrumptious noodles for lunch today with a lovely older gentleman, also a Dapper. He very gallantly invited me to lunch to talk publishing shop. He was so nice about it, I agreed, even though I had errands to run. Who would have thought you could still get a lunch for 2.8o on Orchard Road. Good food and fascinating conversation.
Tomorrow, Day 2 and hopefully more of the same. Forming the intention of productivity actually does work. And as far as everything else goes, I should just make like a duck and have it all simply slide down my back.
Non-sequitur on craft. If you're in the habit of starting with a title, drop that. It can be more stifling than a fellow student in a writing workshop. Don't think about a title. Just think about the story. And think on Electric Company terms: beginning, middle and end. Yes, very especially end.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Later that night
Scratch that. Just had work interrupted by a terrified K who demanded that I take that book out of the house. Close to tears and near hysterical, she all but shrieked, "No more Roald Dahl!" I tried to calm her down. Come on, it can't be that bad. She wouldn't have me even utter the title of the book (Witches). "Take it out of the house. Please take it out of the house." Roused by her noise, C burst into the room all concerned. K dissolved into tears, all but inconsolable.
When we finally got her calmed down with hugs and kisses, rosary beads plus permission to sleep in C's room, I asked, "Was it really a bad book?"
She answered definitively, "Yes."
"Didn't it have a happy ending?" I asked.
"No," she replied flatly.
"But -"
"Just. Take. It. Out. Of. The. House," she chanted in a way that made the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on edge. What could be so bad about that book, I wondered to myself. Dahl wrote Danny Champion of the World and Charlie & The Chocolate Factory and Matilda - all three of which K enjoyed, by the way. Sure, he also created the stories in Tales of the Unexpected, and the TV series scared the pants off me when I was a kid. But I thought that was more due to Alfred Hitchcock's creepy narration and the circus music that played in the opening credits. Not so much the stories themselves.
When she was finally asleep, I located the book and gave it a quick skim, taking more time at the final chapter.
In the book, witches are just like you and me. You just don't know they are witches. The three ways you can tell - witches are bald, so they must wear wigs. Witches have blue spit. I forget what the third one was. Anyway, the narrator/protagonist is turned into a mouse by a head witch. But over the course of the book, even as a mouse, the narrator is able to save all the children in England as well as defeat the head witch and the entire coven with the help of his grandmother, who is, naturally, human. In the final chapter, they are having a conversation about whether there are any more witches in the world. The grandmother answers that there must be. The narrator, who is at this point, still a mouse, is dismayed. Together they unhatch a plan to locate all the witches in all the world and defeat them. In the final paragraph, they agree to set off on a great, new adventure.
In short, it's a fairly upbeat, quite hopeful even. However, I must agree with K. While it's not a sad ending, it's not a particularly happy one, either. After all, how happy can it be if at the beginning of the book, you were human, and at the end of the book, you are still a mouse?
When we finally got her calmed down with hugs and kisses, rosary beads plus permission to sleep in C's room, I asked, "Was it really a bad book?"
She answered definitively, "Yes."
"Didn't it have a happy ending?" I asked.
"No," she replied flatly.
"But -"
"Just. Take. It. Out. Of. The. House," she chanted in a way that made the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on edge. What could be so bad about that book, I wondered to myself. Dahl wrote Danny Champion of the World and Charlie & The Chocolate Factory and Matilda - all three of which K enjoyed, by the way. Sure, he also created the stories in Tales of the Unexpected, and the TV series scared the pants off me when I was a kid. But I thought that was more due to Alfred Hitchcock's creepy narration and the circus music that played in the opening credits. Not so much the stories themselves.
When she was finally asleep, I located the book and gave it a quick skim, taking more time at the final chapter.
In the book, witches are just like you and me. You just don't know they are witches. The three ways you can tell - witches are bald, so they must wear wigs. Witches have blue spit. I forget what the third one was. Anyway, the narrator/protagonist is turned into a mouse by a head witch. But over the course of the book, even as a mouse, the narrator is able to save all the children in England as well as defeat the head witch and the entire coven with the help of his grandmother, who is, naturally, human. In the final chapter, they are having a conversation about whether there are any more witches in the world. The grandmother answers that there must be. The narrator, who is at this point, still a mouse, is dismayed. Together they unhatch a plan to locate all the witches in all the world and defeat them. In the final paragraph, they agree to set off on a great, new adventure.
In short, it's a fairly upbeat, quite hopeful even. However, I must agree with K. While it's not a sad ending, it's not a particularly happy one, either. After all, how happy can it be if at the beginning of the book, you were human, and at the end of the book, you are still a mouse?
Rainy days and Sunday
It's been a good weekend, if rainy. We started with The Queen Friday night. Very very watchable. A good screenplay - just the right kind of talky. Good to have seen Borat one week followed by The Queen the next. Targetting The Good Shepherd which seems to have a cast of a thousand Oscar winners.
We opted to sleep in and just hang out Sunday morning. The second time this weekend since C's soccer training was rained out. It's the weather. What else is there to do on a rainy Sunday, after all? K and C are old enough to have a say in issues like when we'll go to mass, where we want to eat for lunch. They can be quite civilised when they choose to be, that is, if you can drag them from their books. C asked for more cheese. T replies, "I gave you some already." C pointed to his empty English muffin, retorting, "It's already a tepid memory." What a vocab. You have to laugh.
Yaya was on her day off, and she's decided to use the time to her advantage by taking a class at Holy Trinity College on Adam Road. She's currently enrolled for Basic Computer every Sunday from 1pm-4pm for the steal price of $10 a month for a 12-month course, organised for household helpers. Good for her.
The kids wisely get their Kumon worksheets out of the way. C, recently appointed Class Monitor, tries in vain to get away with doing just one, but we manage to convince him. He finishes both, but his time is on the slow side, at an average of 30 minutes each. Unlike K who gamely concentrates and manages to do one in 8 minutes and the other in 9 minutes. When she really wants to make good time, she tries to get one of us to race with her. Her idea of a race is having us give her a one-minute headstart. To my chagrin, I once raced her on one sworksheet, gave her a headstart and she finished in 7 minutes. I finished in 11. Scary. It pleases me that she's getting on in math and no longer seems intimidated by it.
Working on the story, but it's tough going. Woody Allen says he plots things in his mind before he writes, and then the writing goes very quickly, once the thinking work is finished. I tried to do the same, but it doesn't help when things start to change on the screen, veering away from the plan you thought was pretty much set. It's also weird when characters emerge more strongly than you had intended. We shall see, we shall see.
Procrastinated with the Sunday paper. Allowed myself to get peeved by Sumiko Tan's inane column in Life about her, her, herself and her unbelievably puerile little personal epiphanies. I don't mind reading about someone's personal life - in fact, I enjoy it - but I do mind it when the conclusion is something a pre-teen-aged girl could come to, with a lot less whiney reflection. It's terrifying what's passed off as human insight these days.
Then out we ventured for Pepper Lunch, some birthday gift shopping, a leisurely bookstore browse and later, coffee. Trying to get the kids to read better. K chose wisely - Roald Dahl. But C could not be budged from his Bionicle series. I felt a little better when I saw a kid reading the same book. He was at the very least, a fifth grader. At least, he's reading beyond his vocabulary. I shouldn't complain. Mass at 6pm, then dinner at Spizzas.
Now suffering Sunday night "I-don't-want-to-go-to-the-work" malaise. Fortunately, the sentiment is not shared by the members of my family.
We opted to sleep in and just hang out Sunday morning. The second time this weekend since C's soccer training was rained out. It's the weather. What else is there to do on a rainy Sunday, after all? K and C are old enough to have a say in issues like when we'll go to mass, where we want to eat for lunch. They can be quite civilised when they choose to be, that is, if you can drag them from their books. C asked for more cheese. T replies, "I gave you some already." C pointed to his empty English muffin, retorting, "It's already a tepid memory." What a vocab. You have to laugh.
Yaya was on her day off, and she's decided to use the time to her advantage by taking a class at Holy Trinity College on Adam Road. She's currently enrolled for Basic Computer every Sunday from 1pm-4pm for the steal price of $10 a month for a 12-month course, organised for household helpers. Good for her.
The kids wisely get their Kumon worksheets out of the way. C, recently appointed Class Monitor, tries in vain to get away with doing just one, but we manage to convince him. He finishes both, but his time is on the slow side, at an average of 30 minutes each. Unlike K who gamely concentrates and manages to do one in 8 minutes and the other in 9 minutes. When she really wants to make good time, she tries to get one of us to race with her. Her idea of a race is having us give her a one-minute headstart. To my chagrin, I once raced her on one sworksheet, gave her a headstart and she finished in 7 minutes. I finished in 11. Scary. It pleases me that she's getting on in math and no longer seems intimidated by it.
Working on the story, but it's tough going. Woody Allen says he plots things in his mind before he writes, and then the writing goes very quickly, once the thinking work is finished. I tried to do the same, but it doesn't help when things start to change on the screen, veering away from the plan you thought was pretty much set. It's also weird when characters emerge more strongly than you had intended. We shall see, we shall see.
Procrastinated with the Sunday paper. Allowed myself to get peeved by Sumiko Tan's inane column in Life about her, her, herself and her unbelievably puerile little personal epiphanies. I don't mind reading about someone's personal life - in fact, I enjoy it - but I do mind it when the conclusion is something a pre-teen-aged girl could come to, with a lot less whiney reflection. It's terrifying what's passed off as human insight these days.
Then out we ventured for Pepper Lunch, some birthday gift shopping, a leisurely bookstore browse and later, coffee. Trying to get the kids to read better. K chose wisely - Roald Dahl. But C could not be budged from his Bionicle series. I felt a little better when I saw a kid reading the same book. He was at the very least, a fifth grader. At least, he's reading beyond his vocabulary. I shouldn't complain. Mass at 6pm, then dinner at Spizzas.
Now suffering Sunday night "I-don't-want-to-go-to-the-work" malaise. Fortunately, the sentiment is not shared by the members of my family.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Would Higgins marry Dolittle?
T and I took K to see her first broadway musical in a theatre - a West End tour production of My Fair Lady at the Esplanade. Funny. My first ever broadway show was, I believe, a Repertory Philippines production of Oliver at CCP. I believe I was eleven. Anyway, it was a rather lacklustre Eliza Dolittle, sadly - her vocal transitions from chest to headtones were all too apparent, as though there were two people, two distinctly different voices singing. Higgins was much better, but overall, it's hard to outdo Hepburn/Matlin and Rex Harrison. The big surprise was an argument with T about how Higgins doesn't really love Dolittle in a romantic way. That it isn't love, not really. And I was just flabbergasted.
"Of course it's a love story," I insisted.
T was equally adamant. "Higgins just wants her around for company, but very likely, he's..." and so K won't hear, he whispers, "gay".
"What?!?! No way."
"What," T continued, "You think that Higgins will eventually seduce Dolittle, and they'll eventually get married?" He laughs.
But I'd always thought that I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face was a love song. "Her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs are second nature to me, now. Like breathing out and breathing in. .. Of course, it's a love story. How can it not be?
We turn to K. "What do you think..." Always the little pleaser, she answers, "I think you're both right."
"Of course it's a love story," I insisted.
T was equally adamant. "Higgins just wants her around for company, but very likely, he's..." and so K won't hear, he whispers, "gay".
"What?!?! No way."
"What," T continued, "You think that Higgins will eventually seduce Dolittle, and they'll eventually get married?" He laughs.
But I'd always thought that I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face was a love song. "Her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs are second nature to me, now. Like breathing out and breathing in. .. Of course, it's a love story. How can it not be?
We turn to K. "What do you think..." Always the little pleaser, she answers, "I think you're both right."
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Happy Birthday T
It's tough when your birthday's in early January - you have party fatigue and you're in the midst of trying to stick to new year's resolutions. Still we managed a good day. The treat was getting away from the office and going off for lunch at Corduroy & Finch. Managed to get a scrumptious mango cake upon which I had the words written, Happy Birthday Daddy. It was K's idea to forego a family dinner (after all, she and C had already blown out the 4 big candles and the single small one!). "Go out to dinner," she said. "Pretend you don't have any kids!" They were quite happy to stay home for spaghetti. So we walked the kiddies to the playground so they could have a little run, and then we walked ourselves over to Spizza's for a surprisingly yummy Aglio Olio with pepperoncini and shrimp plus Gina pizza with anchovies and capers. And it was another pleasant evening walk back. As for a gift, I bought him an antique Chinese chess set with intricately carved wooden pieces.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Thrown for a loop
What would life be without these out-of-nowhere surprises? The challenge is about taking it all in stride, keeping your eye on the ball, continuing to do what you do best and remembering why you found yourself at this very spot in the first place.
After all, you're the one who asked for rich and spicy, right? Rich, spicy and strangely unexpected. Remember, it's all good.
After all, you're the one who asked for rich and spicy, right? Rich, spicy and strangely unexpected. Remember, it's all good.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Vanity Fair Error
I am not proud of my own perverse pleasure upon spotting an error in a magazine. As a magazine editor and even an ex-sub, I have only always worked with lean editorial teams, usually no more than ten people, and that's including art - most of whom, let's face it, don't really read copy anyway. We don't have fact-checkers. We don't have proofreaders. We wear different hats, trying to do everything, and very frequently, not succeeding. As a result, astounding mistakes can take place - and we all live in deadly fear of it. The occupational hazard is we are weirdly attuned to these errors in just about everything we read. Including other magazines.
Like today, on my day off, I was reading an old Vanity Fair - November 06 with George Clooney on the cover. The piece was by Gore Vidal - in Letter From Italy - in which he writes his memories of Federico Fellini during the years Vidal lived in Rome, working on his novel. On page 130, there occurs a paragraph that starts with the arresting sentence, "Suddenly, one day in 1971, there was Fred on the terrace of our Largo Argentina flat." It goes on for about three inches of space. And then it is followed on page 131, by the same exact paragraph.
These errors are amusing, making you blink for a few good seconds of befuddlement, wondering momentarily if it is you - some mental synapse. And then the print comes into focus. And you realise - it happens. Even in the most global of publishing institutions. A mistake.
And foolishly, you find it oddly reassuring and make a mental note to show you boss.
Like today, on my day off, I was reading an old Vanity Fair - November 06 with George Clooney on the cover. The piece was by Gore Vidal - in Letter From Italy - in which he writes his memories of Federico Fellini during the years Vidal lived in Rome, working on his novel. On page 130, there occurs a paragraph that starts with the arresting sentence, "Suddenly, one day in 1971, there was Fred on the terrace of our Largo Argentina flat." It goes on for about three inches of space. And then it is followed on page 131, by the same exact paragraph.
These errors are amusing, making you blink for a few good seconds of befuddlement, wondering momentarily if it is you - some mental synapse. And then the print comes into focus. And you realise - it happens. Even in the most global of publishing institutions. A mistake.
And foolishly, you find it oddly reassuring and make a mental note to show you boss.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Finding Weeds
Although I am still in House Post Partum, we took a stab at the Showtime series for which Mary Louise Parker won a Golden Globe this year in her role of Nancy Botwin. Weeds is dark chocolate dark - even in its very premise. A suburban wife with two sons who copes with widowhood and impending poverty by selling pot to the neighborhood. The show is different, decisive and disturbing. First, there's the drugs, of course. Then there's the sex. The issues of parenting in these difficult times are dealt with. Just two episodes in, am not quite sure how I feel about it, but I'm compelled to keep watching.
Because Parker is so lovely to watch. So much is expressed in the mere parting of her lips. And then there's the talented Elizabeth Perkins (Remember her from BIG and ABOUT LAST NIGHT?) as her controlling friend, desperately trying to make her pre-teen daughter lose weight, while equally desperately trying to keep her teenage daughter from having sex with her boyfriend, who just happens to be Nancy's son, Silas. "Promise me," Perkins begs Parker, "Promise me they will not have sex under your roof." Parker answers, "I promise, as a mother." The kids end up having sex in the Botwin's guest room, which has a skylight. The precocious teenage nymphet argues, "At least, we're not technically under your roof!" There's the pothead CPA played by SNL's Kevin Nealon who tells Botwin she must put up a legitimate "front" for her real business of drug dealing. Parker says, "Can my front business eventually be my real business?" Nealon says, "Nah, small business is f**ked." Oh...I almost forgot...Botwin's teenage partner, a drug dealing poet. When Botwin warns him, "No selling to little kids!", he retorts in verse: "No grass on their field, no grass will I yield." But when she chastises him for a ten-year-old in the nieghborhood getting busted, he says, "I promise you. The kid swore he was 37!"
This is a show I just know my mother would hate. This is a show my friends in the US with, the ones with kids, would blanch at and squirm uneasily. Disturbing is one word. But it is also delightful. When the overwhelmed, distraught Botwin breaks down in the arms of her pot supplier, you can' t help but cry with her. And when she deliberately trips her son's bully, you cheer for her.
It's not House. But I like it.
Because Parker is so lovely to watch. So much is expressed in the mere parting of her lips. And then there's the talented Elizabeth Perkins (Remember her from BIG and ABOUT LAST NIGHT?) as her controlling friend, desperately trying to make her pre-teen daughter lose weight, while equally desperately trying to keep her teenage daughter from having sex with her boyfriend, who just happens to be Nancy's son, Silas. "Promise me," Perkins begs Parker, "Promise me they will not have sex under your roof." Parker answers, "I promise, as a mother." The kids end up having sex in the Botwin's guest room, which has a skylight. The precocious teenage nymphet argues, "At least, we're not technically under your roof!" There's the pothead CPA played by SNL's Kevin Nealon who tells Botwin she must put up a legitimate "front" for her real business of drug dealing. Parker says, "Can my front business eventually be my real business?" Nealon says, "Nah, small business is f**ked." Oh...I almost forgot...Botwin's teenage partner, a drug dealing poet. When Botwin warns him, "No selling to little kids!", he retorts in verse: "No grass on their field, no grass will I yield." But when she chastises him for a ten-year-old in the nieghborhood getting busted, he says, "I promise you. The kid swore he was 37!"
This is a show I just know my mother would hate. This is a show my friends in the US with, the ones with kids, would blanch at and squirm uneasily. Disturbing is one word. But it is also delightful. When the overwhelmed, distraught Botwin breaks down in the arms of her pot supplier, you can' t help but cry with her. And when she deliberately trips her son's bully, you cheer for her.
It's not House. But I like it.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
January 3, 1993
The weather cooperated. I wore a dress with a floral print to the hotel and me and L and M spent a few minutes taking photos of the sign that read CHUA DE JESUS nuptials. I was not nervous. In fact, I remember being hungry most of the day. T and I spoke once. "See you later," he said, like it was completely normal and ordinary.
At the church, we sat on a bench that had no back. I had to sit up straight so as not to look slouchy. The Company sang for the ceremony - through all that picture-taking. Then the reception. J as emcee. L assisting. Niether got to eat much, I'm told. The pianist played "Our Love Is Here to Stay" which M sang with wistful pathos and a touch of nerve. My Dad looked a bit pale. I could tell my Mom thought the programme went on too long, but I did not care. T said his long list of thank you's like it was the Oscars. When the mike was handed to me, I babbled, then I caught a glimpse of her face. She mouthed the word "Goodnight" to me. I dutifully said good night.
In the hotel suite, there was a large fruit basket - Chinese pears, oranges, a mango and a generous bunch of grapes. We devoured it. When I slipped out of my wedding dress, petals and petals of flowers fell to the floor, from what the guests had tossed at the church.
That was fourteen years ago. It was a good day.
At the church, we sat on a bench that had no back. I had to sit up straight so as not to look slouchy. The Company sang for the ceremony - through all that picture-taking. Then the reception. J as emcee. L assisting. Niether got to eat much, I'm told. The pianist played "Our Love Is Here to Stay" which M sang with wistful pathos and a touch of nerve. My Dad looked a bit pale. I could tell my Mom thought the programme went on too long, but I did not care. T said his long list of thank you's like it was the Oscars. When the mike was handed to me, I babbled, then I caught a glimpse of her face. She mouthed the word "Goodnight" to me. I dutifully said good night.
In the hotel suite, there was a large fruit basket - Chinese pears, oranges, a mango and a generous bunch of grapes. We devoured it. When I slipped out of my wedding dress, petals and petals of flowers fell to the floor, from what the guests had tossed at the church.
That was fourteen years ago. It was a good day.
House again
Finished. 24 episodes all gobbled up at the average rate of three shows a night. I won't say the series is without flaw. There were little underdeveloped bits, like small portions of undercooked meat. Like the episode where Chase asks for a break, gets assigned to NICU and despite interrogation from House, we never really find out why in a satisfactory way. The Stacey storyline deftly played by the stunning Sela Ward ends way too abruptly - why not stretch that tension out a little? And Foreman's brain problems - how now brown cow? One show, he is struggling with it, and the next, he's all too easily back to his old self. But these are picky points that sound much worse than they actually are, when you consider the shows in their entirety. The overall flavour and texture is delicious in a very rich and complex way and these minor imperfections only serve to enhance the experience.
House is neat because it's about so much more than what it's actually about. I've said this before but it really and truly is about the human condition - and not solely in terms of disease. The other disadvantage is that, of course, you start worrying about the holiday leftovers in your fridge and whether they will give the family some kind of toxin, bacteria or fungus that will make them violently sick while causing their organ systems to shut down. Definite high points: the episode when Foreman becomes a patient - an admirable physical performance by Omar Epps. The whole Stacey storyline exploring the very real draw of rekindling old loves - irresistible. And that final episode of House's hallucinations.
I tend to get infatuated with TV series'. In the early nineties, I could not get enough of Ally McBeal. This year, I tried to see it again and ended up simply getting annoyed. I tried to get my Dad to watch House, and he ran off at the first sign of a little blood from a routine intubation. "It's my age. It's too real." "Wait," I tried to call him back, "That's just the details. That's not what the show is really about."I wonder if House will stand that test for me, the way SATC and The West Wing do. Sigh. In the meantime, work begins, deadlines loom like dark clouds on the horizon, and I suffer withdrawal symptoms.
While I'm happy that the kids are enjoying it so much (and not just for the appropriate value formation), The Cosby Show just doesn't cut it.
House is neat because it's about so much more than what it's actually about. I've said this before but it really and truly is about the human condition - and not solely in terms of disease. The other disadvantage is that, of course, you start worrying about the holiday leftovers in your fridge and whether they will give the family some kind of toxin, bacteria or fungus that will make them violently sick while causing their organ systems to shut down. Definite high points: the episode when Foreman becomes a patient - an admirable physical performance by Omar Epps. The whole Stacey storyline exploring the very real draw of rekindling old loves - irresistible. And that final episode of House's hallucinations.
I tend to get infatuated with TV series'. In the early nineties, I could not get enough of Ally McBeal. This year, I tried to see it again and ended up simply getting annoyed. I tried to get my Dad to watch House, and he ran off at the first sign of a little blood from a routine intubation. "It's my age. It's too real." "Wait," I tried to call him back, "That's just the details. That's not what the show is really about."I wonder if House will stand that test for me, the way SATC and The West Wing do. Sigh. In the meantime, work begins, deadlines loom like dark clouds on the horizon, and I suffer withdrawal symptoms.
While I'm happy that the kids are enjoying it so much (and not just for the appropriate value formation), The Cosby Show just doesn't cut it.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Looking Back
I would do a collage ala the Swingapore Sister, but as yet, I know not how... so I must content myself with the hum-drum primordial list of the high points of 2006.
1) C's first day of school
2) K and C's bowl-o-rama bday party
3) The de Jesus Bangkok Bash in February - Part II in September
4) Beautiful Bohol
5) Finding VMG or rather them finding me
6) K's first communion
7) Europe with the Tman
8) Bono
9) The Francis Xavier Choir
10) Itzak Perlman & John Williams
1) C's first day of school
2) K and C's bowl-o-rama bday party
3) The de Jesus Bangkok Bash in February - Part II in September
4) Beautiful Bohol
5) Finding VMG or rather them finding me
6) K's first communion
7) Europe with the Tman
8) Bono
9) The Francis Xavier Choir
10) Itzak Perlman & John Williams
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Resolve...
In 2007 to...
1) Decrease the clutter from daily living
2) Care about health because it is more important than aesthetics
3) Strive for patience and a better hold on ye olde temper, especially in terms of T, K and C.
4) Spend more time doing the things you are meant to be doing.
5) Stop talking. Stop being greedy. Live simply. Express only the good.
6) Say no with firm resolution and a measure of grace.
7) Be open to different opinions, even the ones that run counter to mine
8) Stop worrying about work, let it slide and above all, don't take it home.
9) Keep in closer touch with the people who matter most
10) Devote more time to Him.
1) Decrease the clutter from daily living
2) Care about health because it is more important than aesthetics
3) Strive for patience and a better hold on ye olde temper, especially in terms of T, K and C.
4) Spend more time doing the things you are meant to be doing.
5) Stop talking. Stop being greedy. Live simply. Express only the good.
6) Say no with firm resolution and a measure of grace.
7) Be open to different opinions, even the ones that run counter to mine
8) Stop worrying about work, let it slide and above all, don't take it home.
9) Keep in closer touch with the people who matter most
10) Devote more time to Him.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Last days of 2006
The way it works is that you make plans. You make decisions. You make resolutions. You try to get things done so that the new year can stretch before you - a clear path, a route that you plotted out in a fairly organised manner, while leaving room for the possibility of surprises, inclinations toward the unexpected. You can do it that way. Or you can just let the new year wash over you, push you or pull you along like tides or the moon. Some people get zany excited. I used to. New Year's Day was like a birthday. Some people let themselves get discouraged. Either that or overwhelmed. Or just a a little low. And then there's new year's eve.
For our part, we are exploring hitherto unexplored territory. Taking long drives into the wide expanse of country that is thi small city state. Taking the kiddies to playgrounds. Buying school supplies and snacking on dried chili pork. Watching the The Cosby Show. And taking a tip from Tita Maya - and visualising our 2007 with drawings. Oh yeah...and House. If Project Runway is is about creativity, it makes sense that House, as a medical drama, is about the human condition and what that means at this particular point in the century. Have I mentioned I am really loving House?
For our part, we are exploring hitherto unexplored territory. Taking long drives into the wide expanse of country that is thi small city state. Taking the kiddies to playgrounds. Buying school supplies and snacking on dried chili pork. Watching the The Cosby Show. And taking a tip from Tita Maya - and visualising our 2007 with drawings. Oh yeah...and House. If Project Runway is is about creativity, it makes sense that House, as a medical drama, is about the human condition and what that means at this particular point in the century. Have I mentioned I am really loving House?
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
The doctors in the House
Have begun the second season of House and I'm dreading for it to end. Characters are growing and developing, but even better, the discernable formula - which most people didn't mind really - is now in the throes of reinvention. So much less structured now than it was in the first season. And still those lovely ironies. People ask how I can stand such a meanie, such a carmudgeon - and in truth, if Greg House existed in real life, yes, I would hate him. But as a fictional anti-hero, he suits my cynical tendencies to the bone. The brilliant diagnostician who hates patients. The healer who is himself a drug addict. The people's life saver who can't seem to get his own life together. House reminds me of, do I dare say it, so many people. And some of them are me.
And the writing? the creativity? The slick graphics and the irresistible characterizations of Cuddy, Foreman, Wilson, Chase, Cameron and Stacey - I don't ever want it to end. As second seasons go, this one takes the rich, rum, spicy fruit cake of the season, making Grey's Anatomy seem like feeble key lime pie - sweet, fluffy and not quite all there.
Let's give a hand for the House!
And the writing? the creativity? The slick graphics and the irresistible characterizations of Cuddy, Foreman, Wilson, Chase, Cameron and Stacey - I don't ever want it to end. As second seasons go, this one takes the rich, rum, spicy fruit cake of the season, making Grey's Anatomy seem like feeble key lime pie - sweet, fluffy and not quite all there.
Let's give a hand for the House!
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Let nothing ye dismay...
Despite being twenty minutes early to the 6pm Children's mass at St. Iggy's, there was no room on the pews. So there we are, the kiddie Christmas pageant is about to begin, and I have two dressed up sulky kids upset that they can't "see" the show. So I send them to stand behind the choir where perhaps they will get a better view and likely won't be sent away because, well, it's a children's mass and they're kids. The plan worked. The kids got to see the "show" which wasn't half bad, actually. Then T and I wriggled and squirmed our way near them, except when the show ended, the we lost track of where they were. K found our way to us...but C was nowhere to be found, and the service proper was in full progress. All at once I see a man leading a bawling C to the pew way on the other side of the church. Thank goodness, he wasn't yelling, just sniffling. As quickly as I could, I made my way back there and escorted him back. All's well that ended well.
Fr. Chris Soh gave a lovely sermon - the best I've ever heard here, actually. A reflection on the irony of the Christ child as a hero, so unlike Superman and Spiderman and yet so much more heroic in that he saves us with the truth. It was perfectly appropriate, considering this was the children's mass. And the youth choir did a great job...and the congregation left the church humming those great old tunes. Then it was back home to a homecooked family dinner of roast lamb, brussel sprouts, mashed potatoes, fruit salad and the gingerbread we baked.
The best thing? Waking up to a dry, breezy Christmas day. Hurrah. Hurrah.
Joy to the world. Good will to men and peace on earth.
Noel!
Noelle
Fr. Chris Soh gave a lovely sermon - the best I've ever heard here, actually. A reflection on the irony of the Christ child as a hero, so unlike Superman and Spiderman and yet so much more heroic in that he saves us with the truth. It was perfectly appropriate, considering this was the children's mass. And the youth choir did a great job...and the congregation left the church humming those great old tunes. Then it was back home to a homecooked family dinner of roast lamb, brussel sprouts, mashed potatoes, fruit salad and the gingerbread we baked.
The best thing? Waking up to a dry, breezy Christmas day. Hurrah. Hurrah.
Joy to the world. Good will to men and peace on earth.
Noel!
Noelle
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Traditions
Getting out the Christmas card with the Christmas picture. Sending home the presents to the dear folks in Manila. Buying outfits for Christmas mass - because we should all wear something new for Jesus' birthday. Having fruit salad and sweet treats like poppycock and ginger covered in dark chocolate. Baking the a batch or two of Tita Esther Esteban's gingerbread cookies as well as Mom's fruit salad with the secret zip. Making sure there is queso de bola, majestic ham and Spanish sardines for a noche buena for two. Doing a lot of Christmas reading from the books from Chapter 1 of Little Women to Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus and not to forget Luke 2:1-17. Doing last minute shopping on Orchard Road. Attending the children's mass at St. Ignatius, which is at the very earthly and civilised hour of 6pm on the 24th, thank you very much. Having a family Christmas dinner of either roast lamb or turkey and getting the kids off to bed early so that all the wrapping can finally be "wrapped up" - staying up or not staying up with hot chocolate. Getting awakened by the kids. Opening the gifts and then going off for Christmas day brunch...and then following it with something outdoorsy like the zoo or a traipse in the park or if it's raining (and Christmas day can well be a rainy one in Singapore) a walk in the museum or a browse at the bookstore. And on boxing day, we go through toys, clothes and books that can be brought over to Tita Belen's communities in the Philippine provinces.
Best of all, this Christmas - no work till the New Year!
Best of all, this Christmas - no work till the New Year!
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Feeling like a journalist
Last night, I dreamt I had an exclusive interview with John Travolta. It was a two-hour session at his hotel suite and I asked him incisive, penetrating questions in the way a shrewd, been-there-done-that and wasn't-born-yesterday journalist would. And while he squirmed his way through it, finally breaking down and giving in, I felt an incredible surge of power.
Been feeling like a journalist lately. This is surprising because as a writer in editor in women's magazines, I have never really and truly felt like a journalist. All of a sudden, now that I've left the automatic, easy and yes, comfortable world of female fash mags and am making my way through the strange and unexplored seemingly lunatic world that is the men's news magazine, I feel full to the brim with...what is it? Ambition? Journalistic drive? I don't know. Something. Of course, it occurs to me that aTravolta exclusive, even if it is a dream, isn't exactly the stuff
of hardcore journalism, is it? I guess my magazine sense is still very much esconsced in celebrity gloss and goss.
Shut up about your job already, T says, it's Christmas. OK, I will.
Been feeling like a journalist lately. This is surprising because as a writer in editor in women's magazines, I have never really and truly felt like a journalist. All of a sudden, now that I've left the automatic, easy and yes, comfortable world of female fash mags and am making my way through the strange and unexplored seemingly lunatic world that is the men's news magazine, I feel full to the brim with...what is it? Ambition? Journalistic drive? I don't know. Something. Of course, it occurs to me that aTravolta exclusive, even if it is a dream, isn't exactly the stuff
of hardcore journalism, is it? I guess my magazine sense is still very much esconsced in celebrity gloss and goss.
Shut up about your job already, T says, it's Christmas. OK, I will.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Counting Down
Still oh so many things to do and I'm not even going home for Christmas! Fortunately, a break looms in the horizon from the 26th all the way to the 2nd. What to do, what to do...
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Rain reigns
You would think after seven years here, I wouldn't be so startled by it. But sultry, sunny days all year make you forget that when December comes, it's quite possible to have incessant rain for days on end, with precious little regard for the festive season. C complained in the car all the way to Sports Camp, and the truth was, inside I was whining right along with him.
We've learnt the hard way too many times. At least now, we know not to book a beach trip in nearby Bintan - it all goes to waste in with the rain. But it's hard to keep that Christmas cheer when it's dark and gloomy outside. T says - in terms of the absence of light, it would be no different from the US or Europe, so we should all quit complaining. He is, as he is on many occasions, quite right.
I hope to get a glimpse of the sun on Christmas morning. If not, with any luck, we'll be able to make a little sunshine from inside out.
We've learnt the hard way too many times. At least now, we know not to book a beach trip in nearby Bintan - it all goes to waste in with the rain. But it's hard to keep that Christmas cheer when it's dark and gloomy outside. T says - in terms of the absence of light, it would be no different from the US or Europe, so we should all quit complaining. He is, as he is on many occasions, quite right.
I hope to get a glimpse of the sun on Christmas morning. If not, with any luck, we'll be able to make a little sunshine from inside out.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Birthday bliss
I'm that proverbial kid on Christmas day. First from T: a lovely item from Mulberry, bagged early due to convenient credit card sale. Saphire earrings from Mom and Dad. And from the girls: the 2nd season of Grey's Anatomy DVD set, Alain de Botton's The Architecture of Happiness, (the whopping how could I forget to mention) The Illustrated History of Vogue, 501 Books You Must Read, The Paris Review's Anthology of People With Problems, the hardbound edition of Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires the secret life of a food critic in disguise, four very pretty necklaces including one designed by an old school chum, a pair of earrings, a votive candle to keep serene for the season. And my dearest sisters in Manila tell me I've got new sleepwear and a new pair of yoga pants with my name on it! PLUS texts and emails from New York City, Chicago and Alabama and Manila and a phone call from Washington DC. Happy happy birthday to me, indeed.
Something odd: Turning 39 has made me feel for the first time in some three or four years, very much really and truly not 40.
Something odd: Turning 39 has made me feel for the first time in some three or four years, very much really and truly not 40.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The December Snowball
It happens every year, doesn't it? You hit the the third week of November and all of a sudden, days start to zipping by with the speed of light so it feels like you don't even have time to take a breath, much less get all the things you need to do done. This year is no different. Come to think of it, 2006 seems to have gone by exceedingly quickly and it's all rushing to a crescendo right now.
K and C are still amazingly keeping Santa Claus alive. Work is so very mentally absorbing that for the first time, I am finding it hard to blog about it. Friends and family are in and out of town and the flurry of festive socials has begun with a vengeance - what with brunches and dinners and cocktails. In the meantime, personal and professional deadlines loom for writing projects, so every bit of time from here till the dawn of 2007 will be crammed full to the brim. But but but...will also find the time to go biking at Bishan park, take the kiddies to see Deck the Halls, set our annual Christmas cookie baking session and organise our year-end donations to children's charities, not to mention the holiday card. But first, the birthday lunch...
Let it snow, let is snow, let it snow...
K and C are still amazingly keeping Santa Claus alive. Work is so very mentally absorbing that for the first time, I am finding it hard to blog about it. Friends and family are in and out of town and the flurry of festive socials has begun with a vengeance - what with brunches and dinners and cocktails. In the meantime, personal and professional deadlines loom for writing projects, so every bit of time from here till the dawn of 2007 will be crammed full to the brim. But but but...will also find the time to go biking at Bishan park, take the kiddies to see Deck the Halls, set our annual Christmas cookie baking session and organise our year-end donations to children's charities, not to mention the holiday card. But first, the birthday lunch...
Let it snow, let is snow, let it snow...
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
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...
Monday, October 30, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
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...
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...
Sunday, October 22, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 20, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, October 16, 2006
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.
Gotta pat myself on the back for that purchase.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
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?
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?
Saturday, October 14, 2006
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.
Total hours: 6! Hopefully, I can keep this up even after work starts.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
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.
- 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.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Sunday, October 08, 2006
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?
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?
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?
Friday, October 06, 2006
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.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
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.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
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.
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.
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Kids on break
So what are you going to do about it?
Reminder: Buy fruit
Likewise, Quintosians rule
on with family business
FLASHBACK MANILA
Isang Sandali
Sisterhood rules
Here's to being the best we can be!
Apparently, this is me. Now which card are you?
You are The Wheel of Fortune
Good fortune and happiness but sometimes a species of intoxication with success
The Wheel of Fortune is all about big things, luck, change, fortune. Almost always good fortune. You are lucky in all things that you do and happy with the things that come to you. Be careful that success does not go to your head however. Sometimes luck can change.
What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.