Losing the plot

This expression always used to tickle my funny bone. Now it's not funny at all.

I am at the precipice of page 76 on a novel I need to deliver a draft of by May 1. Which means I have about 130 pages left, more or less. All of a sudden, I'm not sure what to do next. The outline I structured no longer fits and I am now at sea. There are a couple of directions I can take it, but once I take even one step forward, I must be committed as there is no turning back. That commitment is tough to find.

I must first see it...and then make it happen.
Not the other way around.

Brother and sister

Today was a bad day for C.

We went to see the opthalmologist who said that C could no longer play gameboy. He wasn't told to reduce the playing time per session. Nor was he told to play just two days a week. Dr. F said he should stop - full stop - until his eyes stabilised, in about four years. At first I thought C was taking it well. By the time we got to the car, he was weeping inconsolably. After all, a week to a nine-year-old is already an eternity. He simply could not conceive of four years. I tried to comfort him as best I could. I said that every child has something they have to bear. I talked to him about how K can't submerge her head in water when she swims because of her ears, and how she has made the best of it. He can too. We decided that he would give his gameboy away to M's son - a boy who is older, whose eyes are not weak, and who would not normally have access to a gameboy. That seemed to placate him, a little - the fact that there could be some happiness out of his pain. But when he got home, he continued to cry for a good long while.

I let him play one last time as a goodbye.

Now no more. The only thing that cheered him up was the thought that we could buy his favourite Gameboy game on the Wii platform, which our opthalmologist does allow. But still, it was a very tough day.

Driving K home from art camp, I told her about C's troubles. She was flabbergasted.

"Four years! Four years!??" She sighed with genuine sympathy and murmured softly to herself,"Poor C."

When she got home, she said, "I have something to cheer you up, Coby." She handed him one of the canvas paintings she did at art camp - a charming, rather deft picture of a vase of sunflowers against a navy background. I braced myself for a sarcastic comment or an angry, quick-witted retort. But he looked at it for a moment, then said,

"That's really nice, K. Thank you. Mom, can I hang it in my room?"

He brought it to his room, and we looked for a spot it could stay until we could manage to get it hung. He looked at it again, and smiled a little even though his eyes were still swollen and his cheeks still tear-stained.

K had made him feel better.

One thing you can count on...

...when you're in the supermarket and they start playing Peabo Bryson's Nothing's Gonna Change My Love You, at least one supermarket staff member will sing along. Very likely more.

Easter Sunday

Pushing my family to 8:15am Easter mass may have been difficult, but it was certainly worth it. It was also the children's mass which not only made it not just appropriate but actually shorter than the other masses today. The children were led out Pied Piper style to enjoy their liturgy separately from the adults and K and C willingly went, as these days they are wont to do. But when they came returned, K had a face.

"How was it?" I whispered.

"Not great," she whispered back, clearly underwhelmed by the experience.

Then she proceeded to deliver a hilarious impression, complete with accent, of the lady in charge of preaching the children's liturgy...

"Jesus rose from the dead to save us from sin - be quiet and sit down!... and the bunnies give us life because they multiply...Put that down or leave immediately!"

I swear I almost burst out laughing right in the middle of mass.

I guess you had to be there.

Where are all the great Beatles songs?

Christy Cook should have sung From Me To You. Amanda Overmier should have sung Hey Jude. David Archuleta chose well with The Long and Winding Road, but he could have also done The Fool On The Hill or Nowhere Man. Michael John should have sung All You Need Is Love, although I do like A Day In The Life. David Cook chose well with Day Tripper but I guess the judges were right. It was too much like last week. He could have sung Norwegian Wood.

I actually liked Carly, the tatooed Irish chick's choice of Blackbird but she could have also done justice to Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. Brooke White should have sung Strawberry Fields like Sandy Farina or I Will. Jason Castro should have sung I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends like Peter Frampton did. He kind of has that goofy Peter Frampton quality.

Chikezie should have sung Get Back.
Sayesia was okay with Yesterday but Here, There, Everwhere would have also been a good choice. As for Ramielle Malubay, (who if I may say, doesn't seem to be hungry for this at all), if she really wanted to be upbeat, she should have sung any of the following: All My Loving or I Want To Hold Your Hand or She's Gotta Ticket To Ride or she should have stuck to her strengths with a meaningful ballad like For No One. Why has no one sung For No One?

Why aren't they picking them? I guess because they've never ever heard these songs before. Then again, who's coaching these kids? Why don't they have a Beatles mentor?

What about Nowhere Man? What about Golden Slumbers? What about Strawberry Fields or Penny Lane or You Never Give Me Your Money or my all-time favourite Paperback Writer?

Needless to say, I could go on and on and on.

Funniest IDOL quote for me

"I just found out that Ma belle is French. I thought it was English."
- Jason Castro

Sitting with the Amoy traders

Those who do not know Singapore tend to harbor all sorts of stereotypes about it. Some true, and some, just patently untrue. For instance too many people worry inordinately about chewing gum. Some will dismiss the city state unfairly as being a little on the sleepy side in terms of night life, something that may have been true when we first moved here in 2000, but is quickly changing, even as we speak. Other misconceptions? That it is a city with no sense of history or culture, that there is nothing to do here except shop, go to the zoo and the bird park, and eat. That it is a concrete, urban mall city devoid green.

And of course, that's not true at all. Back in 2002, at the height of SARS, we decided not to set foot in the malls for so long as the disease was at large. Instead we spent our leisure in the city's parks and reservoirs. With K and C just a wee age four and three respectively, we would pack our lunches and get them out in the fresh air, trekking or hanging out at the playgrounds. We would always eat at outdoor restaurants believing (and I still think rightly) that the better the air circulation, the safer we would be. Forget the Botanic Gardens, we traipsed around the nature reserves - Bukit Timah, Bedok, Lower Pierce and McRitchie as well as places like Sungei Buloh. But it was not just the parks. Unlike many cities in Asia, there are little pockets of green in unexpected corners of the city, as well as tiny slices of culture. Like the beautiful sculpture by the massive tree, suspended in mid-air of boys leaping into the river, right behind the Fullerton Hotel, for example.

Yesterday, I found myself arriving at my meeting in a shophouse on Amoy street much too early. And since I couldn't find an open coffee shop or eating house, I decided to sit on park bench and read my book under the trees beside the Amoy traders. Just another lovely sculpture in the city of Singapore.

Hanging in HK

Serendipity is one of my favourite words. M and I been planning this girls' mini-break to see C and her Vs, big and small, for months. It is a great break to enjoy such sustaining connections with two of a very small handful of female friends that I have who are constantly helping me defy, correct and outgrow my personal notions of female friendship, the result of too many imperfect experiences growing up.

It was going to be short but certainly sweet, as it always is. Just three days.

What I did not expect was to see J from the old days. But as fate has it, things worked out, and I was able to carve out some time. At the crack of dawn today, I snuck off to have a lovely breakfast and a very thorough catch up with J, all the while feeling that pleasurable rush of connection. As always, I am pleasantly surprised by how vital these kinds of friendships I have are. Despite not really having much time together, the few times we do get are always nourishing, always rewarding. It is such a satisfaction to talk shop and have our individual opinions, thoughts and insights confirmed by each other's mutual smarts and interpersonal acuity.

I am not the sort of 40-year-old wife and mother of two that builds vast numbers of friendships. So often, there is no time and truth be told, no real inclination. But every now and then, l am handed these tremendous gifts - people who don't need so much of you - just that slice of self I am able to give and it is, blessedly, just enough...and in some ways, even more than sustaining than the friendships I am able to tend to on a more regular basis.

The other gifts of this trip that is in itself already a great gift? Well, a great 55-minute hike up the hills of Hong Kong with C. Tremendous food. A visit (ok I'll be honest, two visits) to the fabulous H&M and HMV. A 15-minute visit to a city chapel and a truly beautiful Lenten prayers for just three HKD$. And finally the most adorable personality of little V.

And me being me, I feel at this point, amid all this blessed bounty, that I yearn to come home and share the largesse with my own T, K and C.

What every mom should hear...

C: "I wish every kid was like me...to have such a nice Mom like you."

[Am I a lucky mother, or what?]

Writing

In graduate school, the goal writers in the program had was to be able to make a living writing. That was the dream. I've achieved it to a certain extent. But there was also another dream - to write great fiction. I've written fiction - even good fiction. But great, full-length fiction? Not quite yet, I don't think.

Now it's time to make another dream come true.

"What would happen if I pricked this balloon...

...and it popped..."

Does anyone remember that priceless Sesame Street animated sketch? I'm finding it very useful as I talk to K and C about conscious decision-making. You know how it goes...

A little girl says in cause and effect steps, "What would happen if I pricked this balloon and it popped. That would scare my sister and she would drop the vase and then tell mother, and my mother would be mad and she would send me to bed without any supper...I would miss the chocolate pie Mother's making for dessert..." And there's this really funny audio "Pop! Whahahahah...Mommy!...tong tong tong tong tong Sally!" And then she ends..."Who wants to pop a nice balloon like this, anyway!"

I have told my kids about this as I come from an impulsive lot and while being impulsive has its joys and advantages, children need to be taught that an impulse is still very much in their control. Clearly, I have also spawned an impulsive lot.

We have been talking to K and C about impulses - about how there is in everyone a set of urges, triggers, knee-jerk reactions in the face of any specific set of circumstances. But as human beings, we must, in many cases, make the conscious act of choosing to follow the impulse or not. This means suspending the action for a moment and becoming aware, asking yourself - 'should I do this or not?'. It means thinking, 'If I do this, what would happen?', 'What would my mommy and daddy say?', 'What are the possible negatives that could happen and is there a chance that these would outwiegh the positives?'

I just wish I could actually show them the clip...maybe it's on YOUTUBE?

New favourite things

-Tennis lessons at night
-Reading non-fiction
-Recreating childhood comfort food
-Facials and massages
-Power walking first thing in the morning
-Doing weights in a class
-Staying home all day and not talking to anyone
-The Sun With Moon salad
-Ginger ale
-My new CD of assorted Woody Allen flick soundtracks
-Chopped cabbage,carrots, and beets mixed with dressed with olive oil and apple cider vinegar (don't knock it till you try it!)
-An apple, a pear, three dried apricots, a nectarine, all chopped up and dressed with lemon, a dollop of honey and grated ginger (ditto!)
-Magic miking after American Idol (a woman can dream, can't she?)
-Turning in early

Realisation

Not having seen any of the Oscar-nominated movies really takes the buzz out of watching the Oscars.

Bitten by the performance bug

Made my way to the school to watch the Arts performances the children put up for Arts' Week. K's class had put up a play about Mother Theresa and she was going to be the narrator. She had to memorise a long speech that included dates.Up until last night, she was worried about not being able to commit it to memory. There was also the fact that she left the speech in school. I suggested she rewrite it from memory on the computer and memorise that - which she did. I did not check up on her or test her or drill her. Whatever it was, she could handle it herself - I just said she should do her best.

And she did.

She was an excellent narrator - speaking slowly and clearly and making eye contact, when she could. Unlike the narrators in the other performances, she had no piece of paper. It was just her and the mike. She did a brilliant job.

Afterwards, she sat in the audience and I went to sit beside her. I hugged her and congratulated her and she hardly reacted. Her hands were cold. It seemed she didn't even see me. Could not even muster a hi for her Mom. In fact, she looked forlorn and woebegone.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She didn't answer. Just stared straight ahead at the performers onstage.

"What's wrong, tell me." I persisted, feeling anxious.

She was silent. Then she turned to me...

"After play blues" she whispered.

I laughed in relief.

"What am I going to do now?" she said like it was the end of the world.

A star is born.

What's going on

*K and I have started reading Elizabeth Enright's The Saturdays, which I still vividly recall borrowing from the Maria Montessori School Library in Pasay when I was 11. It's a wonderful story about these brothers and sisters who live in a brownstone in New York city in the 1930s. They each only get 50 cents pocket money a week, but they have the idea of pooling all their money together and taking turns to have an independent Saturday afternoon adventure.

*C is doing well in his handwriting therapy. For some reason, his cursive is much more legible than his print. Having therapy after soccer works. He's tired and in the mood to do quiet work.

*After the glory that was Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach, I have allowed myself the guilty pleasure of Hotel Babylon by Anonymous and Imogen Edwards-Jones. It occurs to me if that much pilfering can happen in a luxury hotel, we should not be surprised that it happens in a government.

*Today I returned to hot yoga. This, after I tried (unsuccesfully) to get out of my still a year-to-go membership. It wasn't bad. Today's instructor was a far cry though from the instructors I had in 2005 who delved into the spiritual with their language, while facilitating the physical with their bodies. Today's instructor was all physical. There was no inspiring lecture about the spirit and the mind-body connection, which I sorely missed.

*We are planning for holidays and booking tickets. To my surprise there is a two week break in the last week of March and a gaping eight week hole for the kids in June. Perhaps it is time to go to the US.

*I am in a love-hate relationship with Facebook.

From a distance

After almost a decade of living outside the country in which you grew up, it is very easy to fall completely out of touch with what has been going on. Either that, or you slip into the pattern where recent political events serve merely as touchpoints in amusing cocktail conversations. It is sufficient merely to scan the headlines and
gather just enough of the facts to enable you to go through the motions of a debate that everyone acknowledges to be endless, even pointless. Eventually, you come to that predictably pat conclusion that things are "tough" or "complicated" or "not likely to be resolved in the near future." Living in Singapore, the distance is emotional and psychological and that breadth of space is so much more than the three and a half hours it takes to fly back to Manila.

It makes me wonder what people think...or if they think at all about the recent political problems in the Philippines (as opposed to thinking about those political problems that are not so recent). As a storyteller, I find it fascinating for its plot points - this story about a mouse ( a country mouse, by all accounts) caught in a trap that forces him to let his captors know where the bigger rats are. There are sexcapades in Hong Kong and "personal relations" and bribery at golf clubs, and more...

I am certainly far from the best person to explain what has been going on - for that, turn to The man with the mike under other Planes of Reality - who not only relates the situation more or less but also coolly comments on it, even while his reactive audience toss in their two-peso or two-hundred-peso views for all they're worth. She Rules also has a interesting take, an indictment on what people power has become. And this morning, I received a copy of the homily that was given at yesterday's mass for Lozada. Before reading it, I tried to predict its overall gist, and find I was not far off in my prediction. Once more, there is condemnation and a call to change. But from a distance, it sounds too familiar and unfortunately, rings as hollowly as a derivative pop song especially to someone who came of age during the first people power in 1986. It has made me ponder however. If I were at home now, would I have been at that mass? Very likely. Would I have been at that rally? It is possible. Would I be calling for change? And that is a question, to be sure.

Those in or out of the country who refuse to get drawn in, those who throw up their hands in exasperation or remain silent because they can propose no strategy or solution for what happens next, I feel give themeselves a convenient excuse. They say, it's a mess. What's the alternative? Who will take over? Corruption, especially excessive corruption, may make you feel outrage, but how can throwing out the regime be the plan, if the system itself is corrupt? How do we know that this won't happen again? And how are you sure that these tides of change the people are calling for won't be surfed upon or used and subverted by similarly corrupt elements?

All valid, to be sure, but these arguments ought not blind people from seeing the truth and condemning the wrong. It is very wrong. At the very least, shouldn't we be able to do that...condemn the wrong and uphold the truth?

Not to do so seems to me, to be just the same as saying, "It's complicated..." and letting those words trail off in silence. Some of us will refrain from taking a stance and leave it at that because we are fortunate enough to be in a position to do so, and from a distance to boot.

Mad wives

Every now and then, you get a chance to revive some long lost skill - it could be writing or scrapbooking or gardening or cooking. It might be badminton. Or tennis. But whatever it is, may you be so fortunate as to be able to find a small group of people who are already doing it. May they be vastly different from you in as many different ways as possible because difference spells excitement. May they have a measure of maturity as well as a measure of kindness, or at least sympathy. May they be funny and interesting and spirited in their achievements. They might be crazy but they are in a good way. They might hold this skill as important beyond all else or perhaps not that important in the larger scheme of things, but at least for that hour or morning or section of time, they focus and concentrate and the practice of that skill, whatever it is, is all that matters.

And may they accept your need and welcome you with open arms as I have been by my MWF mad wives...

Forgot to say

it was a happy valentine's day - an evening best spent at home with those you love - and if you're luck - great gifts!

More about reading

Growing up, I considered myself very fortunate to have at my relative disposal, the extensive girlhood library of my mother and her three sisters, assiduously maintained by my Tita G on the dark wood shelves in my grandmother's house on Espana extension. My Lola, so I've been told, would buy books by the boxful from school libraries and take them up to Baguio for her children's summer reading. (Something always struck me as wrong about that - why were libraries selling their books?). The books were like no books you can find today - Grosset & Dunlap editions of various series' - Nancy Drew, The Bobbsey Twins, The Dana Girls, Honey Bunch, and various one-off titles like Nobody's Girl and Understood Betsy and Family Shoes.

I recall spending Sunday afternoons among the dusty, yellowed volumes along with my cousins, trying to decide what I would "borrow" for the week. Sometimes, Tita G, who seemed to know her shelves like the back of her hand, would make a recommendation, sometimes she would leave us to our own devices. One of her most fervent recommendations was the Maida series.

She had three volumes in a dark blue green hardcover. Maida's Little Shop, Maida's Little House and Maida's Little School.

Despite their coy, cutesy titles, the novels were rich, graceful narrations about children who, it is very likely, no longer exist in this world. And that first story of the lonely little invalid rich girl, the daughter of a Wallstreet maverick, who decides that what will make her happy would be to keep a little shop and befriends the children of the town has lingered in my mind, even now that I am 40, as I am certain it lingers in Tita G's mind.

When it became evident that our K loved reading, we started doing what my cousins and I would do as girls led back then by Tita G. We started book hunts. What I found, however, was that many of today's books for girls, even little girls exhibit a certain precociousness and preciousness that I found myself resisting. I was uneasy about the inclusion of brands in the plots, the overly flippant, overly matter-of-fact characters and their excessively easy and accessible language. I also resented some of the characters themselves - seeming to be almost like imitations of characters on television. And I wanted K to experience the pleasures of rich, complex sentences. I wanted her to read about children who did not watch tv or play video games when they were bored. In fact, I wanted her to read about children who didn't get bored - whether it was because they worked or because they had so many activities of their own making, they had no time to be bored. I wanted her to learn about children who chose to be good, to be just, to be kind, to be generous not because it is right to be these things, but because these were the kind of children they were. So I thought back to the books I loved as a girl - and I remembered the Maida series.

We had already found reissues of Understood Betsy but Maida was more difficult to come by. Finally, I found it on Amazon under the imprint Biblio Bazaar, it was a 2007 reissue of a 1909 book. A month ago, we read it together, chapter by chapter. I would not let her go off and finish it by herself. I wanted us to savour it together. It still reads like a dream.

Now she has gone back to rereading Harry Potter and Anne of Green Gables, but I have already ordered Maida's Little House. I am also in the process of buying Maida's Little School second-hand. Perhaps it might even be that old grosset and dunlap edition that Tita G has. And we wait till we can once again escape into that lush, charming, innocent yet wise world of children who are able to spend their days occupied by nothing more than the green nature that surrounded them as well as the fertile fields of their own imagination.

First Sunday of Lent

The kids were especially good in mass today. Even C. Maybe it was the readings. The first reading in which the serpent tempts the woman and she succumbs - aren't children always fascinated by that? And then the gospel where the Devil tempts Jesus in the desert. C seemed absolutely rapt with attention. And then there was the music. Great songs were sung by the 12noon choir, one after another, in waves of comforting melody. The last song You are Mine by David Haas, always moves me. Today, it seemed that the children were also, similarly moved.

After all, who wouldn't be moved by the verse that reads, "Do not be afraid, I am with you. I have called you each by name. Come and follow me. I will bring you home. I love you and you are mine."

K's voice was soaring and while C didn't sing, he read every verse along with the music, quietly and it seemed to me, reflectively. I have to confess seeing him like that sent a joyful thrill down my spine.

After mass, he leaned toward me and whispered, "Mom...that last song..."
"Yes?" I half-said, half-asked, waiting for what, I don't know.

Some kind of insight? A thoughtful epiphany straight from the innocence of a child's heart?

"That last song...
...It sounded like the song sung by Kermit the Frog."