Admit loneliness: An exercise on enjambment

I thought about measuring the length of loneliness, how it stretches in every direction and connects every closed door (surely influenced by this specific kind of loneliness brought on by the pandemic). The image or any play on those words didn't make it to this poem.

Earlier drafts had three parts, each consisting of quatrains that begin and end in complete sentences. Visually I wanted the verses to look like a series of small blocks — a resolute, even predictable knock. But it came off too stiff for the idea of loneliness seeping through our lives, even in moments of genuine happiness.

Admit Loneliness

Someone's knocking on the door,
Spoils the rest between a kiss
In a dream and your first glimpse
Of sunlight. Its rapping reverberates,

Takes on the rhythm
Your hands make as you knead
The dough that would become bread.
So you knock harder 'til the noise yields

To your daughter's smart talk,
Your book's swooshing pages, ding
Of mobile phone — "We miss you" —
Tender smacks from real kisses.

Someone's knocking on the door.
Will you love me this way in this hour?
It asks with no preamble, then proceeds
To hail a memory:

The word on hold in fear
Of futures wrong. Sentences
Written with care
In shut notebooks. Happiness

Is the loyalty of routine and the surprise
Born because of it. Look at the sunset.
Now feel your heart
Throb with joy or sadness.

Someone's knocking on the door,
Hear a sound that you can tame
Into silence or wake into song
Once greeted by its name.

—Razel Estrella (June 2020)

Good morning

I've taken to sky-watching during the quarantine and I learned a couple of things.

First, that I'm lucky to have a roof above my head, more so privileged to have a roof deck that brings me closer to the heavens.

Then, that I should make a habit of watching the sun rise. Nothing is as calming as witnessing the sky turn from dark to light to blinding bright, until your eyes can't take the sun no more.

The sky looking like animal skin

Murmur: Relearning poetry and conversations

They say that all poetry is an ars poetica. Well, I've drafted my first poem in years this morning. And while I have several concepts, lines and verses in my notebook, I only got around to sitting down and following through one of them today. Guess what, it's a blatant ars poetica.

Murmur

I forgot what it was like to talk
Like we used to in school-day recess
The words intersecting endlessly
No beginnings in sight.

I forgot how to write a poem
Though surely this looks like one.
In its heart is fear of telling
You what it thinks it knows and wants.

I want to remember what we talked about
On the bench in between the ringing bells
The space filled with murmurs and giggles,
Our stomachs with juice, our heads, love.

How did we do it without knowing
The rules or making them?
What to say, when to pause,
Who must speak with whom?

How did I learn to write a poem
Without knowing what it meant?

—Razel Estrella (2020)

TikTok thoughts

Dropping by to share a couple of things:

1) I'm alive and coping rather well.

2) I miss going to the theater and concerts and then talking — BLOGGING — about it!

3) I downloaded TikTok start of March because I love watching people dance; it's another way for me to discover music; and the memes are gold. But it's also a medium where I can easily create fun videos. (The user is called a 'creator', which is telling of the community it wants to build.)

My first post was a tacky collage of my photos from the Matilda opening night, set to When I grow up, thinking that the platform could be an extension of my literature and performing arts storytelling. But since the video was so bad and the rest of 2020 events are basically cancelled due to COVID-19, I deleted it and just went on exploring and experimenting with the app.

By the way, I learned that it's the app formerly known as musical.ly, which I also downloaded and enjoyed in the past — as a viewer. Now it makes sense why I'm addicted to TikTok. A criticism against it is repetition or lack of original content. For me, we learn through imitation anyway, and creativity is often sparked by seeing something we love and then seeing how we can make it better.

If you have a TikTok, please let me know! I'd like to see some familiar faces there.

Leaving you with a post that's a bit more creative and on brand, haha!

@r.a.z.e.l

##books ##bookclub ##lonelychair

♬ Here's Where the Story Ends - The Sundays

Compliment

There's a chapter in my life — maybe let's not call it a chapter as it's more of a swirl: brief, sudden, significant; or a fragment connected to other fragments of a similar hue, as you may have already figured out, life's like that: all over the place.

I'm talking about my enrollment at a music conservatory. Yes. In my early to mid-20s, when I started earning my own money, I intermittently took run-of-the-mill piano lessons near my work-place, during the course of which, a certain tutor encouraged me to go to the next level. And encouraged, I was.

Emboldened, in fact. I applied and, with the help of my tutor's glowing recommendation, got accepted at the conservatory.

Let's start from the end. I didn't graduate. Things came up, such as the opportunity to write for a national publication. Then I also realized that I was in the wrong program. Now I should be providing further explanation but it would sound — not just to you but to me — as if I'm making excuses. Better that we save this backstory for later, for coffee, after the quarantine. (If you're reading this from the far future, check the post date. We are in the midst of a pandemic. COVID-19 must ring a bell.)

Anyway, the hard part. Writing what I have to share. A vital information in this little story is my age at the time. Twenty six. Legit adult. I've held several jobs, as well as high positions. Yet I was reduced to a crying baby by my piano teacher. I had never cried ever in school!

For a clearer picture, this is the one-on-one practical lessons, where the instructor is seated beside you as you practice. The routine thus: I play; she insults my playing. No audience was present to witness the ordeal, but perhaps it would be better if there were. Because at least a single soul might've offered me some comfort.

The only person I confided in was my professor friend. I remember specifically asking him if my situation merited filing a grievance report. I didn't cry in front of her, by the way. I also didn't report her. She seemed to have that reputation, however. Though she was still there, thriving. Was I too sensitive? Was I a terrible pianist and couldn't just admit it? Ah, I was so angry and embarrassed.

You're probably drawing a terror teacher caricature in your head, and I will guess that you have it right. She is old, bespectacled, spinster-like, and dresses well. Fair-skinned, beautiful even. I won't be surprised if she's from a well-off conservative family.

Wow this story is longer than I imagined. Don't worry, we're nearing the point.

She has a sister. A nun who teaches sociology in the same college. I was in that class to fulfill a unit requirement.

The name has escaped me, and I can't recall what led us to that small talk, but the nun-professor told me that her evil-piano-teacher sister says that I'm good.

"Magaling ka raw."

Those words are clear enough in my memory.

WTF right? Part of me couldn't completely celebrate the second-hand compliment. Another part of me was suspicious, since Evil Piano Teacher's actions didn't match Nun Professor's message. Surely something big had been lost in translation.

I am all for discipline and rigor, values which, for me, aren't discordant with compassion. Have a heart, for chrissakes.

Though I hated that teacher, she didn't make me hate music. She made me hate the callous and fear that I might become one myself. Whenever I think of her, which is every time I play the piano, I try to be kind. There's a reason for her behavior. I also think of all the times I've heard nice things said about me by way of other people.

Why can't we look each other in the eye and tell the beautiful things that we see? It's a promise I want to keep. To let you know at once how you fascinate me.

*

Practising the theme from Love Affair by Ennio Morricone. Recorded on March 24th, a week into the Luzon Lockdown.

Matilda's profound, lingering magic

Dahl, Roald. Matilda. Puffin books, 2004.

She couldn't possibly keep a gigantic secret like that bottled up inside her. What she needed was just one person, one wise and sympathetic grown-up, who could help her to understand the meaning of this extraordinary happening.
. . .
Matilda decided that the one person she would like to confide in was Miss Honey. (p 164)

What has so far been a light, fun read turns into poignant literature after that passage. Like Matilda, I, too, have secrets I can't keep bottled up inside me. And though I need only one person to confide in, finding them is hard.

Maybe it's my age, but I reckon that Roald Dahl's Matilda is the story of Miss Honey. Granted, the two ladies fulfill each other's hunger for family; yet Miss Honey undergoes the bigger changes: first in her attitude (from docile to emboldened), then her lot (from poor to rich), all thanks to Matilda, who's pretty much a superhero, not once showing any signs of vulnerability.

The friendship between Miss Honey and Matilda — signifying equality between children and adults, the value of thoughtful listening, and the humility to seek and accept help — makes the book special to me.

In the Tim Minchin and Dennis Kelly musical adaptation, this friendship is almost a given; and the focus shifts to putting things right, more specifically, rewriting your pre-existing narrative.

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Oh my god this show. So many clever tricks, so much heart, and lots and lots of books! Matilda is a... ➡ (See next photo) #MatildaMusical #WorldBookDay

A post shared by Razel (@razelibrary) on Mar 5, 2020 at 8:00am PST

Despite the profusion of books ontsage (Matilda uses a stack of it as her constant chair), the musical isn't making an argument for reading. Rather, it reminds us that books are more than just treasured possessions of socially inept losers. Bookworms are neither goody-goodies nor pushovers.

Take the case of Matilda. She personifies a revolting spirit from the get-go, in her opening solo, Naughty, where she also displays her critical thinking skills by reviewing the stories she's read:

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water, so they say,
Their subsequent fall was inevitable.
They never stood a chance; they were written that way.
Innocent victims of their story.

Like Romeo and Juliet.
T'was written in the stars before they even met.
That love and fate, and a touch of stupidity
Would rob them of their hope of living happily.
The endings are often a little bit gory.
I wonder why they didn't just change their story?

Her age and height notwithstanding, Matilda stands up to adult bullies fixed in their unfair ways. What's great is that she doesn't come off as an annoying woke police (as even she endorses a bit of mischief).

For all its sleight of hand, drawing out myriad emotions from its audience must be the most clever trick the musical has pulled off. Matilda is written with youthful idealism tempered by a knowingness earned by those who have had a taste of life's bitter pill.

The show is able to duplicate the lightness and poignancy of the novel, and gets infinitely better in the second act. Here, children sing of things they'll do when they grow up, which they equate to being invincible. If you're an adult, the whole number becomes a mirror where your younger self looks back at you (different from nostalgia, a mere sentimentality). Watching kids ride a swing and fly paper airplanes has never been so heart-shattering.

Another noteworthy number is Quiet (a personal favorite), where a feeling we may associate with anger, confusion, or displacement is articulated using every possible theatrical tool — music, lyrics, choreography, lights. The result is a clear and resonant expression of an ineffable childhood experience.

This is a musical that refuses to coast on charm. Words are demanded to be heard. Structurally, I admire the decision to have Matilda tell Miss Honey's backstory in installments, as it reinforces the joys of storytelling, as well as the titular character's powerful imagination, while making us pay close attention.

When I replay it in my head, Matilda the Musical proceeds with a feel-good simplicity, though it's far from feel-good and simple. Its cries of courage ring with meaning because of a pointed awareness of reality. Happy ending aside, we all are Miss Honey still singing When I grow up…, still unsure of how to write our story.

Aiding a fantasy: Notes on 'Stage Kiss'

Playwright Sarah Ruhl sneaks a mini commentary on theater's superiority over film somewhere into her 2014 comedy, Stage Kiss. Lead male character, He posits that onstage kissing signifies "an idea of beauty completing itself". We watch the act as an aid towards a consummate image in our heads, all along conscious of the other minds around us. That's why, according to him, anything more than a kiss and anything less than good-looking people doing it is repulsive. Whereas in film we may relish watching the act itself in private. "Theater is less like masturbation," concludes He.

He is, of course, speaking of an ideal as well, of theater's potential to be a self-aware, because society-aware art form. There is no hiding in a play, no pauses. An audience's immediate response is checked against fellow audiences. Continuous with the show on hand is an implicit, quiet dialogue among viewers and performers.

Missy Maramara and Tarek El Tayech are She and He in Repertory Philippines' production of Stage Kiss. (Press photo)

In Stage Kiss — currently having its local run with Repertory Philippines under the direction of Carlos Siguion-Reyna — the dialogue homes in on the melding of fantasy and reality; while the entire production behaves like an experiment in how much we can tolerate in our lives, including our choice of entertainment.

At its center is rusty actor She (Missy Maramara), who finds herself reunited with ex-lover He (Tarek El Tayech) when the two are cast as the romantic pair in The Last Kiss, a cliché-ridden 1930's drama. Despite being married with a teenage daughter, She falls in love again with He, no thanks to the nature of her job.

Heavily pronounced in the beginning are the discomforts of the said job: having to kiss an ex, kiss another actor with gross mannerisms, kiss a stranger — in short kissing someone you'd rather not, or just too much fucking kissing. Meanwhile on the other side of the proscenium are the audience members who have to witness — and depending on their humor, endure or enjoy — all this.

As Stage Kiss progresses, She and He confuse their individual selves with their make-believe personas. So do the audience. In Act II, they get another gig as a couple in I Loved You Before I Killed You, or: Blurry. This time, She takes on the role of a whore and He, a brute. Somehow, She has also turned from charming to tacky, and He from charming to scary over intermission.

Stage Kiss by Sarah Ruhl runs until March 1 at Onstage – Greenbelt, Makati. (Press photo)

Getting caught up in these blurred lines appears intentional, but for us to appreciate the conundrum, we need a clear picture of the lines. Except for a brief, desperate monologue by She regarding her past with He, the play proceeds like fiction through and through. There isn't enough of She and He's reality; something that shows that they are human. Who are they when they aren't actors in rehearsal anymore?

Though richly layered in themes, Stage Kiss is emotionally thin. There is a tenderness that wants to but can't quite break through the gags. And while the bulk of the fun rests on the main characters' erratic, chameleon-like romance, the play privileges stability, symbolized by Harrison (Robbie Guevara), the banker husband of She.

During a twisted denouement we learn that the husband orchestrated his wife and her lover's break-up by financing I Loved You Before I Killed You and pulling strings to have She and He hired as leads. Knowing how highly impressionable the two are, they are bound to end up like their characters — mad. Well done to the banker for making his own fantasy a reality.

Stage Kiss doesn't exactly answer that often-asked question about kissing for a job: How does it feel? Rather it lays bare the dreariness of actions done out of duty instead of desire. The show also foregrounds the potency of imagination, the directions it might go into if left uncontrolled, and where it might take us with discipline. And in theater, imagination is a shared power. It is an ideal space to pose hard questions and tackle delicate subjects. Because here the act of creation is urgent and communal; we are forced to look at each other's face; we think with others even as we think for ourselves. You are not a voyeur here.

Je n'en sais rien

Es-tu brune ou blonde ?
Sont-ils noirs ou bleus,
Tes yeux ?
Je n'en sais rien, mais j'aime leur clarté profonde,
Mais j'adore le désordre de tes cheveux.

Es-tu douce ou dure ?
Est-il sensible ou moqueur,
Ton cœur ?
Je n'en sais rien, mais je rends grâce à la nature
D'avoir fait de ton cœur mon maître et mon vainqueur.

Fidèle, infidèle ?
Qu'est-ce que ça fait.
Au fait ?
Puisque, toujours disposé à couronner mon zèle
Ta beauté sert de gage à mon plus cher souhait.

—Paul Verlaine

I have an eight-hundred-fifty-seven-day streak on Duolingo and I guess it's paying off. While scrolling through Instagram, I came across this Paul Verlaine poem and was somewhere between kilig and amazed that I actually understood it — eighty percent of, more or less.

Three beautiful phrases I've picked up from the post:

Mais j'adore le désordre de tes cheveux. "But I love the disorder of your hair." (My translation, hah!) Has to be my favorite line.

Que l'on se dise sincèrement les choses, sans les retenir... "That we say things to each other sincerely, without holding back." (Still my translation, double hah!) Part of the commentary from the French journalist who posted the poem. She's reminding me of my lifelong desire to gift people with words that are kind and true.

Je n'en sais rien. I would read this as "I know nothing of that". But taken in context, the refrain comes after a series of related questions. For example: "Are you brunette or blonde? / Are they black or blue, / Your eyes?" To which the poet answers, Je n'en sais rien, and "I know nothing of that" doesn't quite fit. As the sentiment is more of "I have no idea" or "I can't tell" or a resigned yet forceful, "I don't know".

Somewhere in the past I've accused Stephen Mitchell of ruining Rilke for me. While everyone was celebrating his poems — mostly Mitchell's translations — I was underwhelmed. Until I found this Randall Jarrell translation — then woah, Rilke is a master! (Search for Mitchell's version and be the judge.)

Still way back in the past, I thought of learning Japanese to make sense of haikus, because surely the English translations we study in school aren't doing the form justice. Or at least that's my impression. But I've given up on my Japanese — I need to learn a whole new writing system! Anyway, I'm happy with my progress in French. The rest of the day shall be spent close-reading Verlaine.

All the world's a stadium

How does a sport look?

It looks and looks
and looking finds its way
to one of many scores
its weary truth.

. . . .

Is a sport a record?

Always the body needs
to muscle limits
as predators learn
to outrun for food.

. . . .

Is a sport an art?

Perfecting a difficult pattern
is nothing but an exciting
repetition.

—Excerpts from What Is a Sport? by Alex Gregorio ("The Rosegun", 2004)

Tears, mine, flow as I read reports on the death of Kobe Bryant. I have to wonder why as I don't care about the guy, and these news — celebrity deaths, tragedies and its casualties — rarely affect me. At most I respond with short-lived shock, which mellows into empathy before fading back into indifference.

Perhaps the reason is he's become real to me through the people I know. And being a sportsman, I find him a symbol of vitality.

This event has also made me realize the stronger kinship I feel towards athletes more than artists. When I think of the Olympic motto, Faster, Higher, Stronger, I think, What meaningless pursuit! Yet I practice the same straightforward principle. All this fixation on records, difficulty, and repetitions that aim at but never reach mastery.

Reading and writing, what else?

The last book I read in 2019. As in finished it on New Year's Eve.

Tokarczuk, Olga. Flights. Translated by Jennifer Croft, Riverhead Books, 2018.

1. Places

The internet is a fraud. It promises so much — that it will execute your every command, that it will find you what you're looking for; execution, fulfillment, reward. But in essence that promise is a kind of bait, because you immediately fall into a trance into hypnosis. The paths quickly diverge, double and multiply, and you go down them, still chasing an aim that will now get blurry and undergo some transformations. You lose the ground beneath your feet, the place where you started from just gets forgotten, and your aim finally vanishes from sight, disappears in the passage of more and more pages... You feel like spreading out your arms and plunging into it, into that abyss, but there is nothing more deceptive: the landscape turns out to be a wallpaper, you can't go any farther. (pp 343 – 344)

We've moved our photo albums online and mine, collected as with others on Instagram, shows adventures at concert halls, the theater, and various dining tables. The occasional trips outside the city and, rarer, outside the country. And then the profusion of books; because, as corny as it sounds, it's an easy way to travel with higher rewards.

Somehow the public nature of social media has allowed, better yet nudged us to visit strangers' homes, pluck their photo albums from the lowest shelves of their libraries, and imagine perfect lives from the images before our eyes. Lives that neither we nor these strangers own.

It's cruel that the internet provides a universe of information every minute yet I don't expand with it. Rather the exact opposite happens. I shrink.

With books and its resolve to have a beginning and an end, literally and conceptually; a sense of integrity no matter how amorphous its parts, I gain a satisfaction akin to eating a full course meal. Within me is nourishment I needed, at least for the time being.

2. Faces

Don't be shy, I think to the rest, all waiting for our gate to open — take your notbebooks out, too, and write. For in fact there are lots of us who write things down. We don't let on we're looking at each other; we don't take our eyes off our shoes. We simply write each other down, which is the safest form of communication and of transit; we will reciprocally transform each other into letters and initial, immortalize each other, plastinate each other, submerge each other in formaldehyde phrases and pages. (p 401)

People will charm me, then leave — not me, though me being left behind is a side effect of their having to go. This is painful to accept. Seeing your friends already prove to be a challenge, but the acquaintances whom you crave to know deeper — how to keep them close?

Some of my saddest days are right after talking to a stranger who has to be on a different part of the world. Their beauty is like an aftertaste, revealing itself as soon as you say good-bye, when you take another look at their calling card, or replay the party in your head before sleep.

We admit to a fear of missing out. I don't care about climbing K2 or diving the Great Barrier Reef. How many wonderful human beings have I not met whenever I choose to stay locked in my apartment?

Christmas wish

On the car ride home, my niece asked her mom, "Can I sit behind (she meant 'beside') Aunt Razel?" The answer was no, as I was in the passenger seat and the vehicle was already deep in the highway.

At that moment I felt between us a distance, widening as we cruised. I thought I loved her, yet I never imagined that we could still be so much closer.

*

Wishing you all a merry Christmas with your nearest and dearest, and, if practicable, the candor to ask, "Can I sit with you?"

Notes on 'Lam-Ang'

Why do we tell stories? Perhaps because reality happens only when witnessed. And it's never enough to speak once; repetition matters — over and over, louder and clearer — otherwise the story ends for good. Either it dies in silence or is silenced by another narrative.

There's no hiding Tanghalang Pilipino's drive to educate and foster nationalism by re-presenting Philippine history and literature in its productions. What they've done well in Lam-Ang is champion the local epic tradition while resisting any temptation to please an impatient audience. It exudes gravitas even as it infuses humor and playfulness here and there. The musical is careful not to succumb to gimmickry or oversimplification, challenging theatergoers to listen from start to finish.

At face value, the show seems to be geared towards students fulfilling a course requirement, that any hope of reaching a wider market rests on its lead star, JC Santos. But anyone who appreciates a thoughtful production is in for a surprise.

Lam-Ang: An ethno-epic musical. Tanghalang Pilipino; book: Eljay Castro Deldoc; music and lyrics: Jen Darlene Torres; direction: Fitz Edward Torres Bitana and Marco Viaña. (CCP Little Theater, 6 December 2019)

Lam-Ang is visually stunning. There's something worthwhile to behold wherever your eyes land. Each detail (in costume, prop, dance and movement) has a purpose. Musically, Lam-Ang offers hair-raising chants and tribal beats as a welcome trade-off for pop-inspired tunes that dominate modern musicals. (You may not have an ear-worm when you get home, but you'll remember how moved you were by the sounds.)

While Santos's singing voice leaves a lot to be desired, there's no doubt that he can command the stage and elicit sympathy. Opposite him as Kannoyan is Anna Luna, who, like her character, is a force to be reckoned with, proving that she's more than her reputation. She comes out and we're enchanted. Another powerful female character is Tex Ordoñez-De Leon's Baglan (shaman), who serves as a sort of omniscient narrator and rightfully, with Ordoñez-De Leon's rich vocal tone, the entire musical's anchor.

In Lam-Ang, one bears witness to an ancient narrative, so far in time that it's almost foreign. Yet it's told in a way that feels fresh and familiar. The word "brave" is nowadays appended to anything with a bit of an edge, but I would say that this production deserves the tag. From where I sit I see a creative team that has taken liberty in crafting a Lam-Ang that Filipinos can rally behind; and has so much faith in his story to believe that it will find its audience. After all, how many would go out of their way to watch a play, let alone an adaptation of an ethno-epic poem?

Serious play: Notes on 'Cats'

Cats. Music: Andrew Lloyd Webber; poetry: TS Eliot; choreography: Gillian Lynne. (The Theatre at Solaire, 28 November 2019)

I would say I'm eleven again but no, I'm a functioning adult having the time of her life watching humans pretend to be cats pretend to be mice pretend to do human things.

When people talk about Cats being a spectacle, they talk about the body as an instrument of speech; and the mind and its capacity for play — to rhyme and (un)reason, build a world so distinct yet continuous with the one we inhabit.

The musical is older than, and perhaps will outlive me. Since I saw it in 2010 (after seeing it a million times on DVD), nothing much has changed, because nothing really should. My only complaint is the absence of Growltiger's Last Stand. What makes me book a seat is the chance to hear the live orchestra. Last night, however, I was moved by the dance (my brother was the first to point out its brilliance to me) and found a new appreciation for make-up artists and costume designers.

Though touted as a mega-musical — and I'd wager that musicians, poets, and choreographers would attest to the level of its craftsmanship — Cats doesn't act big or clever. It doesn't think that it's better than you. The show starts and you're part of the Jellicle universe.

It's as serious as serious play goes. It's that feeling of losing yourself, free of any sense of meaning or utility, and other such things that weigh us down.

Jellicle Cats messing up with the audience during intermission.

Side-notes:

1) Joanna Ampil's Grizabella gave me something I rarely experience: goose bumps.

2) Speaking of Grizabella, I realize that she's chosen to cross the Heaviside Layer because among the Jellicle Cats, who all performed superbly, she's the one who produced a commercial hit. I kid.

3) Skimbleshanks untied my shoelace and I got to caress another kitten's paw (Jemima, I believe).

4) If I had the resources, I'd be there every night.

5) This is beautiful: "After (the naming of cats where) we explained to the audience what we feel about being a cat, we then let the audience see something that they shouldn't be seeing, which is a beautiful young cat dancing sensuously for herself." —Gillian Lynne during a rehearsal with Finola Hughes (Victoria)

Kindle

I have never made bread before but I know how it tastes. A little research and willingness to fail go a long way. So I follow a simple recipe. Everything's going well until it isn't. Until I'm not sure if dough should be this sticky. Yet I knead on.

Then by accident or instinct, I smell my hands. It smells of bread. From hereon I know that I'm in the right direction. At this point the journey and the destination are one and the same.

Thing I made

A year ago I felt a desire to cook with a freedom akin to swimming (I would often tell friends how learning to swim changed my life). It's still a mystery what pushes me to finally act. I always wanted to bake but keep thinking about my lack of space and tools. Apparently, I have more than enough. My 10 X 14 chopping board is the perfect surface. My tiny oven toaster holds the heat. My hands.

I have everything I ever needed. This I learn soon after deciding to begin.

Since July I've made popovers, copied Gennaro Contaldo's Tuscan chicken, wielded a spurtle, proved my perfect sunny-side up is no fluke, owned my first cast iron.

My newest ambition is to be an awesome cook.

— Razel 🍷 (@razelibrary) July 1, 2018

The year's theme is 'kindle', because I am missing a hunger for poetry and I am hungrier for company. Well I can say that I read more and better now. As for friends, old and new ones have entered my world soon after I decided to open the door wide.

Cooking, however, that's a surprise. Like I said, I can compare it to swimming, reading, writing, and playing the piano. It fills me.

What's next, it seems, is to cook for. I love working with my hands and I would love to be a source of fullness.

(Dreaming is) As good as it gets: Notes on 'Katsuri'

It takes a single exchange of words between George (Marco Viaña) and Toto (Jonathan Tadioan) for us to care deeply about the two laborers, who, after a hitch in their last job in Tarlac, have come back home to Negros Occidental to re-try their luck. Right off the bat, they create chemistry and a warmth among everyone in the freezing studio theater. In the same scene, we know that things won't end well for them.

We know because we've read the John Steinbeck novella, or because we're diligent readers of the playbill. Either way, it doesn't matter. Either way, we pay attention.

Even those with little knowledge of the story (like me) will see the darkness coming from afar. Katsuri (loosely "shrew") behaves like an expert guide, providing the necessary signposts to prepare its audience for danger. No action by any character is befuddling.

This by no means imply that the local adaptation of Of Mice and Men is a spoon-feeding drama. Rather, it is a story told with clarity and a sense of symmetry, that spectators can appreciate references within and outside the play.

One of the most poignant examples is Tatang (Nanding Josef) and his beloved dog, which is, with his permission, killed due to the inconveniences it brings to the barn. A similar fate meets George and Toto, where the former's kindest gesture towards the latter is also the most violent.

In the beginning we find Toto flat on his belly, happily drinking water by the river, animated by a thirst for a better life with his best friend. In the end we find him once again lying face down — dead, yet still happy in his final breath, glimpsing a bit of heaven.

The mirroring events form part of a greater loop. From a cynical perspective (mine), it's as if there is no getting out of this hellhole. What happens in the past happens in the present happens in this country and that country and so on.

As abject as that may sound, such a feeling is exactly what I hope for in theater. Because when you're made numb, art should punch you in the gut.

Marco Viaña and Jonathan Tadioan are George and Toto, respectively in Katsuri, a Bibeth Orteza adaptation of John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. The show, directed by Carlos Siguion-Reyna runs until 27th October at the Tanghalang Huseng Batute in CCP, Pasay City.

While operating under a farm workers clinging onto their dreams narrative, Katsuri touches on various themes sans the heavy hand. Loneliness and isolation stand out. I'd go as far as saying that each of the characters is an outcast in their own way. No one seems to bother to understand the person next to them. There is also the bittersweet thought that though we may not live our dreams, at least the dreaming sustains our spirit.

That's the play's big achievement: it is complex without being complicated.

Katsuri wants you to actively engage in reality and be entertained. What I love most about the play is its respect for storytelling, for plot and character. Like any good story, we crave hearing it over and over. It shows that art is not so much about having a point as it is about having a clear point-of-view from where the audience may experience their truth anew.

Thankful for translations: On 'Drive your plow over the bones of the dead'

Tokarczuk, Olga. Drive your plow over the bones of the dead. Translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones, Riverhead Books, 2018.

My relationship with books — even now that I've embraced digital technology — has always been physical. Paper texture, typography, width and weight, marginalia. Walking library aisles, visiting bookshops taking my sweet time looking at each spine until I find the tome that makes my heart skip a beat.

The hunts and hauls have recently diminished as my personal library is filled with enough paperback to last years of reading. And I've grown to be practical and decisive. Nowadays, when I enter a bookshop, I know exactly which title I would want to leave with.

Not on my last trip, though. With the titles I was seeking unavailable, I combed the shelves hoping for a surprise. The result, long story short: Drive your plow over the bones of the dead by Polish writer Olga Tokarczuk.

I was examining this and her other novel, Flights, both of which I couldn't resist; but my budget wouldn't allow such indulgence. So I settled with the one that involves death and astrology. So right up my alley.

How wonderful—to translate from one language to another, and by so doing to bring people closer to one another—what a beautiful idea. (p 229)

The publication notes on my copy indicates translation copyright in 2018. Only a year ago. But the novel was originally published (in Polish) in 2009. I am grateful. It's not a case anymore of too little time too much to read for me; but of too little literature with too few of intrigue. We need more translated works.

If you're wondering whether or not I liked Drive your plow... Let me say that the next time I enter a book store, I'll be sure to leave with a copy of Flights in my bag. Olga rocks. Enjoy this passage:

"You know what, sometimes it seems to me we're living in a world that we fabricate for ourselves. We decide what's good and what isn't, we draw maps of meaning for ourselves...And then we spend our whole lives struggling with what we have invented for  ourselves. The problem is that each of us has our own version of it, so people find it hard to understand each other."

. . . .

I spent ages pondering what the Gray Lady had said. And I think it tallies with one of my Theories—my belief that the human psyche evolved in order to defend us against seeing the truth. To prevent us from catching sight of the mechanism. The psyche is our defense system—it makes sure we'll never undrestand what's going on around us. Its main task is to filter information, even though the capabilities of our brains are enormous. For it would be impossible to carry the weight of this knowledge. Because every tiny particle of the world is made of suffering. (pp 224 – 225)

Highlights from 'What Belongs to You'

Greenwell, Garth. What Belongs to You. Picador, 2016.

A personal background

Garth Greenwell slipped into my radar fairly recently. My excitement rose when I read this interview where he talks about his upcoming second book, Cleanness, which is connected to his debut novel, What Belongs to You by way of having the same narrator.

He had me at, "I had the goal of writing a scene that was, at once, one hundred percent pornographic and one hundred percent high art." I've been wanting to consume something like this in literature and film. If the interview is any indication, maybe Greenwell will deliver.

The book will be out in January 2020. In the interim, I sought What Belongs to You, got myself acquainted and updated, and properly hyped.

Some underlined bits

...when I looked at his face, which was twisted in disgust, it was as if I saw his true face, his authentic face, not the learned face of fatherhood. He covered himself quickly and left the room, saying nothing, but his look entered me and settled there and has never left, it rooted beneath memory and became my understanding of myself, my understanding and expectation. (p 72)

I introduced him to my solitude and he deepened it without disturbance. (p 77)

That's all care is, I thought, it's just looking at a thing long enough, why should it be a question of scale? This seemed like a hopeful thought at first, but then it's hard to look at things, or to look at them truly, and we can't look at many at once, and it's so easy to look away. ( 139)

Making poems was a way of loving things, I had always thought, of preserving them, of living moments twice; or more than that, it was a way of living more fully, of bestowing on experience a richer meaning. But that wasn't what it felt like when I looked back at the boy, wanting a last glimpse of him; it felt like a loss. Whatever I could make of him would diminish him, and I wondered whether I wasn't really turning my back on things in making them into poems, whether instead of preserving the world I was taking refuge from it. (p 170 – 171)

And sometimes it's perfect

Thing I made

I've always cooked for myself since I moved to my flat. Bought a non-stick fry pan, a sauce pan, then, came Christmas Season of that year, asked my Office Secret Santa for a rice cooker. Pretty much every home-made meal were made with those plus an induction cooktop and toaster oven, which I took from our old house.

Anyone who knows me knows that I take my time at the table. A friend once remarked that in our group I eat the slowest but consume the most.

For more than three years, however, cooking has turned into another chore. But something's changed this year. Maybe it's discovering Judy Ann's Kitchen, seeing someone who makes a lot of mistakes in front of the stove — and who speaks my language; maybe it's finally getting to that one Gordon Ramsay dish, which ingredients are ridiculously easy to find and is unbelievably easy to do that you have no excuse not to try it; maybe it's having to replace your silicone turner after manhandling it and then figuring might as well get rid of your knackered cheap pan.

So I bought a new turner, skimmer, and fry pan — all stainless steel. And for some reason I'm inspired. For the first time since I started cooking, I actively search for recipes. And experiment.

They say the more you do something, the more you become confident. When it comes to playing the piano and learning a language, you get a high from understanding patterns and how they combine to make a meaningful whole. Like what goes on in a sentence structure or a musical phrase.

When it comes to cooking, the pleasure comes in knowing that you've made small good decisions along the way. Like when to put the protein at what temperature, which seasoning goes better with what, lid on or lid off.

This week I'm very happy because I made the perfect egg, sunny-side up. This is only the beginning.

Notes on 'Mabining Mandirigma'

Mabining Mandirigma adopts the most superficial element of steampunk, that is Victorian-futurism aesthetic, as seen in the costumes, set design and props. I have to point this out, considering the show is billed as "a steampunk musical".

It shouldn't be unreasonable then to expect science fiction onstage. Specifically, a speculative universe where Apolinario Mabini, Emilio Aguinaldo, the congress and their cohorts have access to new technology. How will they, for example, take advantage of social media to advance their causes, both collectively and as individuals? In a hilarious dinner party scene, Aguinaldo whips out a selfie stick for a souvenir snap, but that's about it. Overall, Mabining Mandirigma remains very much a faithful historical narrative — a crowd-pleasing history lesson at best.

And its hero, in my opinion, is composer Joed Balsamo, whose music is a mix of modern and traditional sounds, succeeding whether it intends to be playful or profound.

Mabini (Monique Wilson) and Aguinaldo (Arman Ferrer) have long, lyrical exchanges, where they tiptoe the line between singing and speaking. Lacking in any conspicuous rhythm or melodic pattern, their words are surprisingly clear and pleasurable to listen to. This is a testament to the score's complexity, not to mention ambition. Of course, credits are also due to librettist Nicanor Tiongson and the two leads (Ferrer's voice will probably soar the highest in any stage he'll grace).

Monique Wilson is Apolinario Mabini in Mabining Mandirigma: A Steampunk Musical. The show runs until 1st September at the CCP Little Theater. (Press photo)

One of the problems of our political discourse is an impatience to make oneself understood. There is a tendency to dismiss anyone who fails to grasp our message as mere (foolish) dissenters. The theater isn't any less guilty of this.

Putting the matter of genre aside, Mabining Mandirigma sings to an audience that already agrees with it. We hear the same platitudes all over again, especially towards the end, when we're repeatedly told, "Love your country". Yes, sure, but every plundering, mass-murdering leader professes a love for country. Is there a single way, a righter way to love?

So let me go back to that speculative universe. Before curtain call, the cast talks about what Mabini might think of present-day national issues. That's a story I would like to watch unfold. Under a climate of hopelessness, I would like to hear true revolutionary ideas.

Maybe it's not a question anymore of how we can drive people to the theater, but of how we can engage theatergoers — those who are ready to participate — in a meaningful, if uncomfortable dialogue. The theater cannot be just another echo chamber.

Highlights from 'All That Is'

Salter, James. All That Is. Vintage International, 2014.

A personal background

There are novels I call atmospheric. Where instead of following a story from motivation to motivation, I am enwrapped in a feeling that grows in intensity, fluctuates, becomes unidentifiable. This definition may be different from how others use the word to describe their reading experience. And in my case, authors of such books are, more often than not, one-offs.

After reading Norwegian Wood, I haven't touched another Haruki Murakami. Same goes with Anne Michaels and her Fugitive Pieces, as well as John Knowles with the lovely A Separate Peace. I thoroughly enjoyed them, but finishing their last pages didn't cause any lingering excitement.

James Salter belongs in the pool of exceptions. All That Is, along with its resigned mood, has provided enough plot and intriguing characters for me to bite into, and therefore a craving for a bit more.

Some underlined bits

His mother so liked talking to him, she could have talked to him every day. It was only with difficulty she resisted the impulse to hug and kiss him. She had brought him up from the day he was born and now, when he was the most beautiful, she could only smooth his hair. Even that could be awkward. The love she had given he would pass on to someone else.
[...]
...the many nights that now seemed a single night... (p 30)

"What has your life been like?"
"Mine?"
"What are the things that have mattered?" (p 176)

It fit his character, the daring lover, something he knew he was not. (p 217)

He was in the middle of life and just beginning.
[...]
His cock was hard, smooth as a scar. (p 225)

If you know how to dance you can be happy. (p 321)

Wells had married again sure of even less. He had seen a woman's leg and talked to her in the neighboring yard. They had run off together and his wife had formed her life around his. Perhaps it was a question of that, arranging a life. (p 346)

Incidentally,

it's my blog's anniversary month and as coincidence would have it, here's a fitting epigraph from James Salter's All That Is: