Oh for Obamarama

All I can say is I am so very very glad.

My friend S

Ever since I discovered that someone I know, a woman I used to work for eight years ago for just four months, had a resurgence of the cancer she had previously battled so succesfully, I have been reading her blog religiously. She is 41. She has a husband, a daughter and a son. The children are under the age of six. And despite a mastectomy, the cancer has returned to her body - her liver, her lungs and her brain.

She is a master blogger - posting every day, Monday through Friday - despite her illness, the various combinations of medication, oxygen tank sessions and chemotherapy, not to mention the journals, recordings and scrapbooks she is preparing for her children, so they will have communication from her after she is gone.

It is possibly one of the most difficult blogs to read due and there are more than a few posts that have brought me to easy tears. S is a humanist in the traditional sense. She believes in the power and the goodness of human beings, but despite being the daughter of Christian pastor, she most emphatically, does not believe in God. God, she says is nice to have, but He is a fairy tale that human beings have created because they are simply not strong enough to accept the truth that life is just that, and when it ends, it ends, and there is nothing more.

I read this blog every day, and even post comments occasionally. I do not make the mistake, as other blog readers have done, of trying to get her to see God. I know her too well. She will not let me get away with that. I worked with the woman as my editor for four straight months, and the work part of it nearly drove me to my wits end. She was and remains incessantly intense in the putting forth of her opinions, demanding explanations in the manner of a human bulldozer. But there would be moments outside of work, when we would talk of my K and C or when we would have lunch, when she would have unexpected softness that would surprise me and win me over, if only for that moment.

I also read her blog to make sure she is alive, to read her impressions and opinions which are less bulldozing on the internet page than if verbalised face to face. I pray for S every day, for her healing and for her peace and for the continually amazing courage of the members of her family. S is one of the most courageous people I know. The fact that she can be like this despite her disease all the while believing in nothing eles but herself is amazing. It is true that death will come to all of us. But S lives with its grim reality every day, like bread and butter at breakfast. More than anyone else, she lives with its certainty and manages with grace and courage to keep it at bay with every passing day.

Yesterday, I read that she will no longer blog five days a week but reduce it to three. She says she can no longer get to it these days...and she apologises to her scores of readers. "You have all the time in the world, but I do not."

Vicky Christina Barcelona and Osbourne Cox

Of late, the truly entertaining, well-written movie has become somewhat scarce for us. But in the last two weeks, the tide has turned in Singapore as both Woody Allen's Vicky Christina Barcelona and the Coen brothers' Burn After Reading are playing at the same time.

As a Woody Allen fanatic, I will say that VCB ranks up there due to its novelty. After Matchpoint, we are now accustomed to a Woody Allen film without a Woody Allen character. But somehow VCB goes beyond that in its exploration of the various ways a woman searches for and responds to love and the idiosyncracies of the romantic relationship. Not since Hannah & Her Sisters has Allen delved so thoroughly into the feminine heart and the mysteries therein, and to such comic effect. Once again, casting director Juliet Taylor triumphed with Spanish actors Javier Bardem as Juan Antonio and Penelope Cruz as Maria Elena, characters that could have deteriorated on the page as mere cliches, but were so thoroughly developed by these artists into complex, flesh and blood beings who actually risk eclipsing the heroines completely. My only quibble, and it is a small one, is the use of the isolated narrator. Voice over is a tool Allen has used for decades, but it is frequently the voice-over of one of the characters of the movie. To my mind, this particular voice over tended to be disruptive and it would have been possible to let the film play out without some of the editorialising exposition, as well-written as it was - (..."and Christina...certain only of what she did not want". As a cheat, I would have made the narrative voice-over either Vicky as one of the more grounded characters or perhaps even the hostess ably portrayed by Patricia Clarkson.

Burn after Reading is not the triumph that Fargo was, in terms of writing, though of course, it has its own delightful ingenuity. But seeing the likes of Pitt and Clooney and McDormand and Malkovich play those pathetic characters was tremendously entertaining - even if the overall darkness of the plot in the end was a bit disturbing and didn't have the affectation of a moral centre that Fargo did. Yet the richness of the characters,their various mishaps and the mayhem that resulted all worked together so beautifully to express a most frightening message of random human stupidity and meaningless cruel chaos in a tragic world in which it is humorously and insistently clear, there is quite simply no justice.

A basketball game

Chalk it up to free tickets from C's basketball coach and to the fact that T and I were sorry to miss the two games that brought Ateneo their recent championship against La Salle. And because C has been such an enthusiastic junior player, we thought it would be good for him to see an exciting live game - the Singapore Slingers against the Purefoods Tender Juicy Giants seemed like the perfect opportunity. Even K was open to the new experience of driving to the stadium to cheer for the Philippine team against the Singapore team.

When we finally arrived, after having grabbed a tide-us-over snacks from Toast Box and Breadtalk, we noticed the masses of Filipinos in queues outside the stadium. For a second, it occured to me that this could have been Araneta or Loyola, for the crowd that had gathered.

"Everyone is Filipino," K observed.
"Filipinos love basketball." T said.
"When the Singapore Slingers fight against another country, then I'll cheer for them. But if they fight against the Philippines, I'll cheer for the Philippines." C said.

But I looked around and thought, with this crowd there would be no one cheering for the Singapore team.

By happenstance, T was able to score tickets from CLSA Asia Pacific Markets - so instead of the run-of-the-mill free tickets we had, we were going to sit in a box with a great view. Naturally, we were all very excited. When we got to our seats,
there was a Singaporean family sitting in our seats, but we showed them our tickets, which were numbered, and then they moved.

As we settled in, it was clear that the Philippine team had it's work cut out for them. This year's batch of Singapore Slingers all averaged six feet compared to the rather puny, ironically named Tender Juicy Giants. Even in the first few minutes, the Slingers took a quick and early lead, making a number of shots from the outside, while the Giants were playing a very physical, inside game. Let it be said now, that there was one Singaporean on the Slinger team and he was tall, and the rest were imports, mostly from Australia and a couple from the US. According to our pamphlet, there was also a Filipino on the Slingers team ("Traitor!" said C).

So there we were, sitting in our CLSA boxed sheets, when it soon became evident to those in the neighboring boxes that our family of four rather vocal fans were cheering for Purefoods. I began to notice that they were all cheering for the Slingers. In truth, about 90 percent of the spectators on all sides were cheering for the Philippines...with the exception of smatterings of Caucasian fans here and there.

One Caucasian lady in the next box looks up as I am shouting my head off, and says, "Excuse me, but does CLSA know you're sitting in their box and cheering for the Philippines?"

"I don't know." I said, shrugging. "Is it a problem."

"Not for me," She said, "But CLSA might have..." She said with a very definite tone.

The nerve, I thought.

But that's when I noticed while my children cheered and clapped and whistled conspicuously in our rather silent box every time Purefoods made a hard earned basket, that on the Slingers jerseys was the CLSA Pacific Markets logo. CLSA was the Singapore Slingers main sponsor! Sound of embarrassed music: Wenk wenk wenk wenk wenk...

In seconds, we hastily evacuated the box and left it for Singapore star Gurmit Singh to occupy, and we're happy to cheer our team in the comfort of the Pinoy crowds, who at the end of the day, took up the entire stadium, reacting to every referee ruling againt Purefoods with hoots and howls and boos. There were even a number of heated moments between the spectators and the officials resulting in items thrown in the air. The announcer had to warn the audience that people would be arrested, if caught.

But in the end, though Purefoods fought long and hard, they couldn't make a permanent dent in the Slingers lead. After all, they were not giants at all, not by a long shot.

Still it was a good game. And a good experience for the kids, who discovered that they were ardent basketball fans, even K who cheered herself hoarse. And though the Slngers did win, it was sad that they had so few supporters to cheer them on.

And at the end of the game, the announcer congratulated the team, and then he congratulated the fans, saying,

"By fans, I mean, the Filipino fans!"

A Tale Of C

A creature like no other, C is the by turns sweet and obliging, and yet also tooth-pullingly stubborn and unyielding. There is many a point when all reasoning is futile. He wants what he wants when he wants it. I think sometimes of how much he is like me, but even then, there are many forces at play in his personality that are simply alien to me.

Take yesterday. After a long, squirmy conversation with his homeroom teacher last week, I vow to stop nagging him, to stop picking up for him, to stop attempting to shepherd him and simply allow him to take responsibility, fend for himself and let the chips fall where they may, at whatever cost.

"Only then," says Mrs. B, "will her realise that his actions have consequences and that his situation is a result of his own choices."

So I pick them up from school, and C looks cleaner than he usually does. He washed his hands at school today, he told me. I praise him for his hygienic practices, knowing that my son thrives on positive affirmation, particularly in the few times that he is not shrewdly able to see through a fake ploy.

When we get home, he announces that he has a bit of homework, but that he also has to sell 10 cancer research tickets. He gets dressed and ready to do that instantly. Meanwhile his sister retires to her room to complete her homework.

"Let's go," he says.
"Where we going?"
"I have to go sell tickets for the Run for Hope."
"OK, let me call around and ask who might be interested."
"No, I don't want to do that. I want to sell them myself."
"How?" I asked.
"Door to door..."

And he proceeds to do exactly that. He rings doorbells and knocks on every door from our house to two streets down, and by dint of sheer bravado, manages to sell all his 10 tickets. Some people bought. Some people turned him down. Nothing fazed him. He just went on and on. I was amazed. I myself was never a shy child, but I am quite sure I wouldn't have been able to what he did with as much grace and game.

When he had finished, we walked home together.

"Wow, C, you did a phenomenal job. I'm truly amazed."
"At my courage?"
"Yes, at your courage..."

Of course, when we get home, he plops himself in front of the television, quite forgetting that he still has math homework. I remind him once and as non-naggingly as I can. He ignores me.

With great reluctance, I allow him to suffer the consequences of his own choices.
He does his homework at 10:30.

What is one to do. So be it.

In the last twelve days

I finished the book.
I moved house.
I got and gave up on the iPhone (this probably merits a separate blog entry, but I don't really feel like it).
I am learning to curb my natural parental nagging tendencies.
Oh and I resumed running, the object being first a 4K with the kiddies, and then another 10K earlier next month. The running has been causing a number of twinges in the knee and ankle area, which I'm told by veteran runners is all just part of the process.

All of a sudden, we're three months away from Christmas.
2008 is in a major rush.

The way things go

It wasn't easy writing this book, so unlike any book I ever dreamt of writing. In fact, it's a book I never thought I would ever write. But once I was done with it, and ready to move on to the next one, I didn't think I would ever have to go back to it. Of course, I did have to go back to it.

Not only go back to it but actually rewrite major parts of it.

That's just the way things go.

At Church

As we were walking out of the church after mass last Sunday, we were greeted by some students from one of the local schools, selling handicrafts for charity. We walked past them...and C says to me, "I thought Jesus didn't want his church to be a marketplace?"

It took a few seconds for me to answer, because Andrew Lloyd Webber's music from Norman Jewison's 1973 film was playing in my head via Ted Neeley screeching in rock and roll, "My temple should be a house of prayer! But you have made it a den of thieves. Get out! Get out!" I knew it was playing in C's head, too.

He went to ask his Dad, who quickly said that the people are selling things for the Church and for charity.

T says to me, "We may have to balance out our theology with less Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

The Power of Running

John Irving compared running to writing, and now that I've started running, I'm really starting to see that, and it's amazing and powerful.

Like running, with writing, when you do more, you want to do more. You want to do it everyday. While you're running, you get ideas. While you're writing, you get ideas. You are literally overflowing with ideas, and you feel like you can keep on going. At first, when you start running, it takes you awhile to build stamina. But running is the same.And you can just keep on pushing it and pushing it.

Back in graduate school, my friend Janette ran. She ran every single day - even in the rain and in the snow. As I think about that time which was very fruitful and rewarding, I think I should have been running as well.

It was a great time. It could have been even more so. No matter, it can be that again now.

A Rainy Weekend

For a time, there were all these questions that we didn't have answers to, problems with no solutions. And then, all of a sudden, like rsvp slips to invitations sent out in little envelopes, there were the answers. To be sure, the precise nature of those answers is surprising, satisfying but surprising, and not exactly in the shape or form that was hoped for or requested, but there is no mistaking they are good answers. Ultimately, good answers are of course, no matter how unexpected, are better than no answers.

And now we're at that point when we have to act upon those answers. Preparations need to be made. More plans drawn up based on an entirely new set of circumstances. And for us, specifically, this means another move - and only nine months from the last one.

But before that there were more pressing things. K and C's first piano recital - C played a simple single note variation of "It's a Small World" and "Camptown Races". K did a duet wtih her teacher - "Edelweiss" and "Home on the Range". They both did quite well, especially considering they only had a little more than a week to prepare for the performance.

And then we had lots and lots of rain - so we took a break and enjoyed it. Rain is a great thing - it is cooling and relaxing and easy and wonderful. After the rain, we can start getting things done.

New favourite thing

My breakfast today was scrumptious. Two heaping tablespoons of plain, low-fat yogurt into which I mixed 3 tablespoons raw oats, a handful of blueberries, 1 tablespoon walnuts, 1 tablespoon wheat germ and a teaspoon of honey. Yummy!

On the right reading material

For a few months now, I've been concerned about C's reading material. Not that he doesn't read, he does. But his choice of reading matter, to my mind, leaves much to be desired. It's either these deathly tedious Bionicle novelisations or he re-reads various books in the Harry Potter series.

But I finally weaned him away with a good "boy" book - one I had read myself at roughly that age. I led him to Judy Blume's Tales of A Fourth Grade Nothing, and quicker than even I expected, C was chuckling away at the antics of Fudge and Peter. Needless to say, I was triumphant.

"Judy Blume is 300 percent better than MAD Magazine," I told T. Although C has said he laughs louder at the MAD. Oh well.

Happiness is an empty house in the mornings...

School started last week. The children bounded into our room at 7am, yelling with excitement that this day, so fervently awaited at finally arrived. "School is starting! Hurrah!" They woke us gleefully. They leaped into their school uniforms. To say that they were eager to go back to school was an understatement. And then they had their breakfast.

"Did you hear them? Were you ever like that?" I said to T, my eyes still shut. He muttered under the covers, "They're wierd."

And it continues this week. Even C is docile and obliging about homework. His teacher is pleased. He has had two friends invite themselves over. K's friend has invited her. Both are fairly easy to wake for they don't want to be late ever.

And in the mornings, there is a blessed silence which has allowed me to work.
It's all good.

Jetlag

Sometime in the middle of last night, unable to sleep, I went to get a glass of water and noticed the light under the door of my son's room.

ME: What are you doing up?
C: I think I'm a nocturnal beast...

Once New Yorkers

I like New York in June...how about you? I like a Gershwin tune...how about you?

There was that temping summer, the summer of 1991. We were two students of life (and love) on a break to find work and make some money for the school year - playing house in the cramped quarters of a studio basement apartment on the Upper Westside with a garden view (and sometimes, the legs of the gardener landlord!). I made do with three "work" oufits and took the subway to various points in the city - at one point, the HBO building by Bryant Park, at one point SAKS Fifth Avenue, and for a good month and a half, the ANA office at Rockerfeller Centre. And in between, I wrote stories on a laptop computer and diskettes that we shared and sometimes quarrelled over. There we tasted prociutto for the first time and cherry cheese streudel from Zabar's and mostly window-shopped at Fairway and saw Shakespeare in the Park, and browsed at the now non-existent Shakespeare & Company bookstore. We had slices and hotdogs, dimsum in Chinatown, coffee in Greenwich village after movies at the Angelica, and three-berry pie whereever we could. And we borrowed books from the public library...

The summer ended when we packed our belongings into a U-Haul and made the drive, first to Ohio, then to Michigan. We left in the wee hours of the morning because the landlady said if we left our stuff in the truck overnight, there was a chance it would disappear by morning. And we stole away from the city we had grown to adore, driving in the dark. An hour or so into the journey, somehere in Pennsylvania, we were mystified by massive, towering dark shapes on either side of us. We stopped at a Howard Johnson's for what remained of the night, and in the morning, discovered that the frightening shapes were the Poconos mountains.

And then, there were the years of 1993-1995. We were husband and wife and chose again to make the Upper Westside our home, and found a studio apartment with a loft bed and an eat-in-kitchen two blocks from Central Park. We moved there with the proceeds of a bright red Nissan Sentra, and a whole lot of hope in a very tough job market. I followed the advice of a personnel agency to strike the graduate writing degree off my resume and step up my typing speed so as to be able to for an executive assistant job, instead of a true career-path publishing job which would have paid me very much less. We kept house and saw friends and found a great many not-so-expensive places to eat. I worked at 1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza and the iconic Flatiron building, and in between, I tried to write.

Here we are, more than 13 years later, about to bring K and C back to the greatest city in the world. We will take them to all the old haunts. We will walk the streets and savour the flavors. And we will happily watch them fall in love with the city - how on earth can they not?

Kiddie recreation

With K and C lying under foot this summer, it is starting to be difficult to get any work done. Apart from their general clatter and clamour, I am also faced with the pressures of other super moms with no freelancing work who hie their spawn off to entertainment spots on the island - Wild, Wild Wet; West Coast Park and the go-carts, the Singapore Science Centre. It's true, there have been piano lessons and basketball, we did a jaunt to the National Museum for the Mozart Exhibit and the Singapore History Show, and managed two playdates, but apart from swimming and scootering, it's been pretty quiet. This is mostly to do with C's minor but still troublesome surgical procedure, which has kept us home. Still, I can't say that I have had that many complaints, perhaps because they are voracious readers. Another testimony to their resourcefulness is they are planning a garage sale for "Kids and Yayas" on Sunday at the function room...

But just as hard as it is to find good reading material for aged 8-11 in this day and age, it is perhaps even tougher to find great viewing material. In this over-aware, hyper-stimulated and still politically correct decade, the flicks of my own childhood do not easily translate. The situation is further complicated by the fact that both K and C have imaginations that work on overdrive - [they're nightly prayer is that they have 'no bad dreams'] - and are highly attuned to even the slightest possibility of being frightened. As such, we moved with success but not without struggle, mind you, through the Jurassic Park series, cushioned with comments like, "Spielberg doesn't allow children to die in his movies." We also went through a few James Bond movies which T and I both found to have slightly too much disturbing erotic imagery for our highly impressionables.

Last night, we went through our DVD collection and after dismissing too many films as being too "bastos for kids, we settled on either Men in Black or Mel Brook's Blazing Saddles - talk about bastos. Unfortunately, K balked at the scary alien faces in MIB, and despite some misgivings, we went in for Blazing Saddles, but not before explaining that some of the language they were going to hear was definitely not for school or their friends.

The verdict? Fart jokes transcend the decades. We are now looking for Silent Movie and Young Frankenstein.

Wisdom from Kung Fu Panda

"The past is history. The future is a mystery. Today is a gift - that's why it's called the present."
-Wu Gui

Conversation

Wife: My highschool classmate's father died. In his sleep.
Husband: How does one die in one's sleep.
Wife: I imagine it's very peaceful.It's like a dream or a nightmare, maybe.
Husband: And you can't wake up. That doesn't sound very peaceful.
Wife: Still, you're dead. No pain.
Husband: It's not good for the people at home, either. It would be kind of a shock.
Wife: It's like a heart attack in your sleep.
Husband: A heart attack in your sleep doesn't sound peaceful at all.

Beat.

Wife: You want to go running right now, don't you?

Odd realisation

Great writers are a dime a dozen. It's great storytellers that are rare. One isn't necessarily the other. A great storyteller who is a mediocre writer is just slightly better than a brilliant writer who tells a poor story.