A flicker, or the opposite of an afterthought

Last Sunday I returned the favor and accompanied a friend to a pop concert.

The rainy season had begun. When I woke up from my afternoon nap, it was wet and my notifications ticker was red. Nicole messaged me an hour earlier: "So completely random, but you want to watch Niall Horan's show tonight." That's a direct quote. Notice the punctuation?

Well, the ticket was for free and the venue was near. Only problem was the damnable rain.

But you've got to live a little, don't you.

*

Musicians tour to promote their work. They're the perfect examples of being out there. I enjoy One Direction as a group but feel lukewarm towards the individual members. When they went their separate ways, I'd naturally hear their popular singles and think they were all right.

But that's the magic of live shows. When Katy Perry came here, I was fortunate enough to see her. The result — I discovered Prism and the dance golds in the album (International Smile is my life theme). This time around, I'm introduced to Niall's beautiful folk ballads. Been playing him on loop since.

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Listening recommended

Once I briefly talked about Cabin Pressure and how I thought it was the best thing to happen on radio since— music, maybe. Other than a place to discover new songs and artists, the radio has served no other purpose for me. A few talk shows helped pass the time, but I can't remember being hooked on one.

Anyway, Cabin Pressure became famous for Benedict Cumberbatch, I believe. But those who got into the program because of him would arguably, unanimously agree that BC is neither the single nor the brightest star in the flying machine. All four leads and guest actors have made their characters memorable. And each story — whether as a standalone or an instalment in a cohesive series — is well-conceived and beautifully written.

Speaking of, the real superstar for me is its writer, John Finnemore. Since their last season aired, I followed and tremendously enjoyed his other creation, Souvenir Programme, a sketch show also broadcasted on BBC Radio 4 —the thrill of setting the alarm at a weird hour so as to catch it live, even though it'll be made available in their site for a period of time.

Now I haven't been diligent for a while. In 2015 he premiered another radio program, which is currently, thankfully enjoying a re-run, otherwise I would've remained oblivious about it.

It's called Double Acts and is called so for various reasons, some of which are obvious, some of which I'd maybe figure out in future re-listens. The series is composed of non-connected two-handers, featuring characters who'd reveal two sides of themselves in the span of 30 minutes.

Double Acts and Cabin Pressure writer, John Finnemore. (Photo via BBC Radio 4 website)

Finnemore has to be one of the best storytellers out there and I'm glad that he chooses this lovely medium. I think in an interview (pardon my lack of citation, you're welcome to correct me at your leisure), he said that he likes the radio because it's cheap. He doesn't need to pay for an aircraft or a studio to set a story inside a plane. As someone on the receiving end, I get to take pleasure in his work for free, and at my convenience.

Double Acts tugs at my heartstrings while making me grin. After finishing Season 1 I'd say that Hot Desk ranks high in the charm department. We find a security guard and a receptionist sharing the same office desk — and not. The former clocks in at 1900 and clocks out at 0700, while the latter takes the inverse shift.  Meaning they have but a few seconds twice a day to interact. They are flirting — and not. Chapters in their story are squeezed in between hi-s and byes, and tension builds and builds with every encounter, through different inflections of the same old greetings and the little stupid things the one tries to do for the other.

I thought Hot Desk would be my favorite episode but English for Pony-Lovers hits closer to home. Here a young Englishwoman named Lorna gives an older German lady named Elke an English lesson. What's special about their meeting is how attuned they are to each other — the way a teacher and a student are in a meaningful class — even though their motives aren't exactly as noble as those we may associate with learning.

Like Lorna, I also earn a living by teaching English to foreigners; and like Elke, I also study another language. Guess I've just made matters uninteresting by fussing about myself, so allow me to fuss about actor Beth Mullen instead: She is hilarious as a lost teenager losing her shit while pretending to be an adult. The woman had me in stitches in a climactic monologue, or tantrum of sorts.

In English for Pony-Lovers, Finnemore gets to practice, no showcase his knack for wordplay. Except the games aren't only for laughs; they're woven into the narrative. Among his shows, all thoughtful about plot and character, Double Acts might have the highest regard for affect.

As I mentioned two paragraphs ago, I've been studying another language. French to be precise. If you're disciplined, you'll be able to construct your first long sentence soon enough. Yet I'm still anticipating for myself that moment that Elke had — when she was able to triumphantly exclaim, "I made my first joke in English!" Because then I had gone beyond the practical use of language.

To make someone feel something through words is intoxicating. That's what Finnemore does so well and I wish I had his superpower.

Moving on

"I love Flavia but I hate how I've gotten different editions of the titles each time!" says friend and former editor Chris. My own collection agrees.

The eighth instalment of the Flavia de Luce mystery series felt like a transitional volume more than anything. Neither did it have the structural ambition nor the urgency of the past books, especially when it came to discovering whodunnit. And once you had, the revelation wasn't as rewarding.

Rather, author Alan Bradley seemed to focus on shaking up Flavia's life. As if he wanted the young sleuth to graduate from the usual squabble with her sisters, and the narrative to move past the cold, claustrophobic de Luce household. (We can say the new direction started in Book 7th, when the setting went from Buckshaw to Miss Bodycote's Boarding School in Canada.)

But oh how Bradley toyed with my emotions in this one! I saw the big ending coming, but like any good narration, the effect was heart-breaking and unforgettable all the same. If it's an indication, Flavia will be in her teens, and she'll be visited by stranger feelings.

Some highlighted bits:

I have always found there to be a certain sadness about mirrors, since they double the space in a house which needs to be filled with love.

*

What was he really like?

A walking mirror: a piece of cold glass that reflects all that it sees without ever giving of itself.

Days left

I had the unfortunate chance of sitting through a career goal seminar of sorts for Literature Majors sometime in March. For a panel composed of professionals who had been exposed to great literary works during their undergrad years, you would expect to hear something original from them. Instead they maintained the shaky connection between humaneness and the humanities. As if one needs to earn a Liberal Arts degree to unlock the virtue of empathy. As if becoming an artist means becoming a paragon of goodness.

Now I've just set myself up to say something original. This isn't, but here it goes. What I've learned from studying Literature is death. Christmas season is such a wonderful reminder that we are all fellow passengers to the grave. The power of storytelling is the power to postpone a beheading for a thousand and one nights. Chronicle of a death foretold. Death of a salesman. The death of Ivan Ilyich. As I lay dying. God is dead. The author is dead. Oedipus: complex and dead. Juliet is pseudo-dead, but will die, and so will her beloved Romeo, before the story ends. Richard Cory puts a bullet in his head. We jazz June. We die soon.

Even my most vivid memory of poet and past professor, Marjorie Evasco is her asking us in class to put Death on our shoulder. Like a bird perched on its home.

Maybe my world-class equanimity has been shaped by those poetry, fiction, and theory classes. There are two ways to live life: As though nothing is a disaster, and as though everything is.

The art of losing isn't hard to master. Lose life every day.

*

Last Friday I got a missed call followed by a direct message from two friends. Our professor for god knows how many terms, Cirilo Bautista was at the Heart Center. "It's critical. He maybe has two days na lang." I neither felt panic nor — to be completely honest — sadness. I knew it was coming, not in that general sense that we'll all die someday, but that someone already has a foot across the line. A knowledge and feeling that I realize I have documented here as well:

In all honesty, when my classmates-turned-friends mentioned that there's a lunch invitation by Doc Bau, I was eager to join because I thought time was running out for him. 'The neighborhood knows me, and why wouldn't they, the ambulance always comes for me,' he said.

The same goes for me. After I publish this I might be hit by lightning or a speeding bus.

He has two days left. The math was rather accurate. On May 6, Sunday, Dr Bautista was reported dead.

*

Cirilo Bautista was the first editor to ever publish my poetry. As I recall this, I must add that he also published works from fellow creative writing students and other writers whose creative output failed to excite me. But that didn't diminish my joy when I heard the news. He texted me personally and I jumped up and down and might have let out a big squee.

He edited three words. And me reading how he had read my work was magic. I share the nostalgia with his former students, the jokes and the anecdotes. But I would say that I deeply connected with him in that early attempt at poetry. And good luck with time trying to erase that from my memory.

Naturally I revisited the said poem. You won't see this coming — it's about evanescence. I remember being so proud of these lines: The falling of the lone leaf / in a gyre is Grief's calligraphy / on air.

No grief today. Just the most comforting thought that words are messy and true happiness is a silence. That silence — that peace — is death.

Class picture. 2004, I think.

Kindness

I'd been re-reading Don Paterson in the past weeks for a paper I was writing. I love him so much. He and Alice Fulton are my favorite living poets — edit: the only living poets I whole-heartedly admire. The poem below, the first time I read it, I literally gasped. It's been a long while since I've had that reaction to a text. I wish we could all know this kindness he speaks of.

Correctives

The shudder in my son's left hand
he cures with one touch from his right,
two fingertips laid feather-light
to still his pen. He understands

the whole man must be his own brother
for no man is himself alone;
though some of us have never known
the one hand's kindness to the other.

Source: Paterson, Don. Selected Poems (Kindle Locations 1603-1608). Faber & Faber. Kindle Edition.

Notes on 'Arsenic and old lace' and the insane

Contemporary fictionists will tell you that there are no heroes and villains, only men and women doing what they think is right (subconsciously motivated by a traumatic experience during their formative years, which they, now in their supposedly mature, conscious state, will re-enact and manoeuvre into their desired end — your friendly psychoanalyst might add).

Take elderly sisters Abby and Martha Brewster, who live together with their mentally challenged nephew, Teddy in a huge Brooklyn house. Inspiration hit them when not long ago, a Mr Midgely knocked on their door, asking for a place to stay. The man — old and without a family to call his own — found a refuge and incidentally his final resting place in the Brewster household, where he died of a heart attack. Teddy (convinced that he is President Teddy Roosevelt) concluded that Mr Midgely fell victim to Yellow Fever and immediately dug a grave for him in the lot.

Abby and Martha Brewster, played by Joy Virata and Jay Valencia-Glorioso, respectively.

"He sat dead in that chair looking so peaceful... [Martha and I] made up our minds then and there that if we could help other lonely men to that same peace — we would!" recalls Abby wistfully. With too many empty rooms and a cellar to boot, not to mention some skills in chemistry, Abby and Martha took it upon themselves to take these poor men out of their misery by giving them lodging, poison, and a burial complete with prayer services.

All this, of course, comes as a shock to their other nephew, Mortimer, who discovers a cadaver by the window seat the day he visits his aunts: "You can't do things like that... it's not only against the law. It's wrong!" he pleads, enraged and flustered. "Mortimer, we don't try to stop you from doing things you like to do. I don't see why you should interfere with us," Abby snaps back.

*

Repertory Philippines calls Arsenic and old lace by Joseph Kesselring a "legacy play", having been produced thrice in the theater company’s lifetime. The latest run (happening until the 29th at Onstage, Makati) is directed by Jamie Wilson and features Joy Virata (Abby Brewster), Jay Valencia-Glorioso (Martha Brewster) Nelsito Gomez (Mortimer Brewster), Jeremy Domingo (Teddy Brewster), and Apollo Abraham (Jonathan Brewster).

It's easy to see its charm. The comedy has an un-clever quality about it. In contrast to modern shows, where the writing is too aware of its ingenuity, winking at the audience every chance it gets, Arsenic unfolds slowly to develop the plot as it extends a comic situation, thus allowing the audience to marinate in absurdity.

Gomez is solid as Mortimer, who is at the center of the mayhem. Within a night, he proposes to his girlfriend, calls off the engagement, protects his aunts from being caught by authorities, and fights for his life, threatened to be taken away by his criminal brother, Jonathan (played with great command by Abraham).

Repertory Philippines re-stages Arsenic and old lace by Joseph Kesselring.

On the flip-side, spectators used to biting humor, quick-fire exchanges, and a sinister, cynical tone might find the play wanting. But it's not what it lacks story-wise that Rep's current staging of Arsenic suffers from. It's the disconnect among actors, from their roles and from each other. They can't quite bring us fully into their make-believe world. For a fairly large cast, they manage to make the stage feel cold.

The playwright's well-orchestrated narrative (in three acts) registers as flat because of the tentative acting and because the direction is glad to settle with "cute and fun". Mortimer's questionable dedication to his family after learning he's not a Brewster after all, for example, has been lost in the interpretation.

"Insanity runs in the family. It practically gallops," he tells his fiancé, Elaine, afraid that maybe it's not yet time to get married. But who's really insane — the ones who terminate another's pain, the one who's born out-of-touch with reality, the one who does bad and knows it, or the one who's happy to disown the people who have raised and loved him whenever it's convenient?

Two books

Alison Hawthorne Deming. Zoologies. Minnesota: Milkweed Editions, 2014.

I received two books for my birthday (yay!): Zoologies by Alison Hawthorne Deming (above) and For the tempus-fugivites by Christopher Norris (below). The former was given to me by a vegan friend, so I couldn't help but ask him, "Are you trying to convert me?" The latter was given to me by my professor, and I was kind of flattered when he said it was something he could only give to a few people, since theory is hardly accessible, more so when argued in verse.

Dove right away into Norris's world of verse-essays. He offered a lucid introduction to his project and also reminded me that poetry is not just lyric poetry.

Christopher Norris. For the tempus-fugitives. Manila: De La Salle University Publishing House, 2017.

Some underlined bits from the preface:

As hardly needs saying there has to be a constant interplay or tension between meter and natural speech-rhythms such that the two never perfectly coincide but set up an asynchronous counterpoint that again helps to stimulate ear and mind. (p viii)

*
[Norris paraphrasing Giorgio Agamben] Poetry just is, or is most essentially, language of the kind where syntax and meter fail to coincide. (p ix)

*

[This time referencing to William Empson] The language of poetry is continuous with — and not in some prescriptive way cut off from — the language of our various non-poetic speech-acts and thought-processes. (p xvi)

At the mental gymnasium.

Woman Worldwide indeed

Happy birthday still to me! Collected my 'Woman' sand t-shirt today.

I was so ready to order this shirt the moment I found it on Club 75 last year and to my great dismay, the online store wouldn't ship to the Philippines (wrote them a heartfelt letter questioning this unfortunateness).

See, I'm charmed by the understated design, the neutral color and the heavy word printed across the chest. It doesn't scream fangirl; instead it can be construed as a feminist performative — kidding, we're not going there. Thank heavens Justice has decided to sell their merch in their own website, but the better news is that they realize that they have fans even this side of the world.

Am really happy with the purchase and with Sandbag UK, the merchandise company handling the band's e-commerce campaign. They deliver fast and respond to queries with a personal touch. Five stars, two thumbs up.

A post shared by JUSTICE (@etjusticepourtous) on Feb 14, 2018 at 9:14am PST

Although, also — I was a little sad and a little relieved that the exclusive Justice x Levi's limited edition trucker jacket had sold out 24 hours since its release. Sad because I wanted it so bad, relieved because the universe helped me save money. But of course, when they re-stock, and they said they will, I have a feeling that I'd hit 'check out' in no time.

Heart's desire

My 35th birthday falls on a Saturday falls on a school day. I didn't want to simply attend my classes then go home — as much as I wanted to sleep after cramming an essay — so I invited Mich and Alts to dinner right after.

By some strange chance, or simply my skills in finding connections where there should be none, we briefly talked about Lacan's "Desire is the the desire of the Other" in Theory class. Now that I think about it, the discussion was born out of a question I raised. A proper signpost for what was about to happen:

On the car ride going to the restaurant, Althea asked me what my birthday wish was. The answer was delayed until we had dessert, where the ladies brought me a chocolate cake with a candle that doesn't blow out.

I know what I want, but when you're an adult, a wish is a promise. A declaration of desire is a pledge. I wish for cash; I must put in some work. I wish for love; I must forgive. I must forego pride. I must wake up early and finish what I started.

The answer is still delayed.

Staging the skies

Lauren Gunderson is a rather demanding playwright. To put it another way, her imagination demands an equally creative team of artists to translate her decades-spanning, locations-shifting story — that centers on astronomer, Henrietta Leavitt — from the page onto the stage.

Silent sky moves between 1900 to 1920, and back and forth the Harvard Observatory, Wisconsin, Cambridge, an ocean liner on the Atlantic, and a star field. Bridging the gaps in time and space are Gunderson's cinematic directions: "Margaret fades away;" "Peter and the Harvard Observatory are swept away from her as the Leavitt home takes its place;" "The room falls away as they run off;" "Time is passing as the sky fills up in swatches." A curious heroine and compelling script aside, how the set will transition from scene to scene is something to look forward to in any staging of this drama.

Joy Virata takes on the mantle of re-building Silent sky's dream-like world as she directs Repertory Philippines' production of the play. The show, which runs from March 2 to 25 at Onstage, Greenbelt, features Cathy Azanza-Dy as Henrietta Leavitt, with Caisa Borromeo, Naths Everett, Shiela Francisco, and Topper Fabregas completing the small cast.

Joy Virata (middle) directs Repertory Philippines' Silent sky by Lauren Gunderson. In photo with her are (from left) Naths Everett, Cathy Azanza, Shiela Francisco, and Caisa Borromeo.

"It's about a woman doing [what she's passionate about] despite the fact that no one's giving her a chance. When I read it, [I liked the] cleverness of the lines. And my mind could already see the way it could be staged to make it interesting," shares Virata. "I though it was artistically beautiful."

Like Leavitt, Virata has to stretch herself to bring the vision to fruition. "You're working 'without a set,'" she explains. "It is a challenge to figure out how to do it so that the audience understands what's going on."

Set designer Joey Mendoza further pushes the artistic limits, according to her: "I had the script early last year. I sent it to Joey and asked him if he would be interested in doing it. He loved it so much that he did the design [for Silent sky] even before he did Hair's (Rep's 2017 year-ender). He doesn't want anything moved out or in." As such, the stage is almost bare, while transitions will rely heavily on lighting and sound.

"Of course the lights will be very important. We have a very good light designer — John Batalla. I asked him about the possibilities and he was also excited. And Jethro Joaquin is doing the music, and it will signify the change of time," she continues. "When it comes to casting, you can tell that I really need good actors — experienced actors for this play. And as you can tell, I have them."

At the open rehearsals of Rep's Silent sky. Topper Fabregas plays the lone male character in the female-dominated drama.

Leavitt is credited for discovering a means to measure the distance between the stars, and consequently to measure the universe. Without her, we would know of no other galaxies than our own. It's going to be quite a journey — a slice of Leavitt's life, filtered through Gunderson's Silent sky, interpreted by Virata and Rep, and received by hopefully an equally thoughtful audience.

Beneath the covers: Notes on 'A comedy of tenors'

Opera superstar Tito Merelli pauses midway through opening the bedroom door to eavesdrop on a hushed, rushed conversation between his wife, Maria and another man (who, unbeknownst to him, is Carlo Nucci — newest opera darling and boyfriend of his daughter, Mimi). Tito tarries till he confirms his great fear: Maria is having an affair.

This is not true, however. What Tito has witnessed are passionate gestures, words and escape stratagems taken out of their proper context and into his own unassailable betrayal narrative.

Lorenz Martinez and Issa Litton lead the cast of Repertory Philippines' A comedy of tenors by Ken Ludwig. The show, directed by Miguel Faustmann, runs until February 18 at OnStage Theater, Makati City.

Ken Ludwig enjoys this game of hide-and-seek in A comedy of tenors, currently staged by Repertory Philippines under the direction of Miguel Faustmann. A Paris concert featuring the world's leading tenors — Merelli, Nucci, and Jussi Björling — is about to start in three hours. As farce would have it, Björling has to withdraw from the performance due to his mother’s sudden death, forcing producer Henry Saunders to hire his assistant-slash-son-in-law, Max (whom he has little fondness for) as a last-minute replacement tenor. One problem solved. A million others are waiting to unfold.

Here, truth is concealed in the most direct, even sincere dialogue. That what the characters say are true in their reality and false in the audience's — while remaining intelligible to both — is a triumph of Ludwig's writing, and provides much of the play's hilarity. When Tito confronts Maria, for example, the exchange sounds like the latter's detailed account of her affair, when in fact she's referring to the love between Carlo and Mimi.

Speaking of which, the young couple enriches the story's theme of hiding. When we meet them for the first time, they reveal themselves from underneath the sheets draping the hotel sofa. All along hearing Tito speak to Maria about killing whichever man touches his daughter. Mimi and Carlo, hidden as they may be, are not in the dark.

But the most impressive cover-up is pulled off by bellhop, Beppo (interpreted masterfully by Lorenz Martinez), who's hiding in plain sight. A splitting image of Tito, with a golden voice to boot, he saves the day when the enraged tenor quits the show. Beppo's face becomes the mask that allows him to live out a fantasy he's always had.

Joining Martinez and Litton are Shiela Valderrama-Martinez (Tatiana Racón), Noel Rayos (Max), Mica Pineda (Mimi), Arman Ferrer (Carlo Nucci), and Jeremy Domingo (Henry Saunders).

It's one dramatic irony after another, and while the audience revel in the string of misunderstandings, they are also privy to the unchronicled lives of the celebrity and the producer. Exposed are Tito's insecurities (about old age and a dimming career) beneath his fierce front; the wild ambitions of Beppo beneath his calm, almost meek demeanour; and the heart of Henry, who appears willing to do anything regardless of consequences because the show must go on.

Almost all characters are portrayed as caricatures (shoutout to Issa Litton for her explosive Maria), except for Max (Noel Rayos), making him the humanizing force in the bizarre ensemble. He's simply happy to perform, aware of his talent's limits — or maybe of a dream far more worthy of pursuing. But he, too, has a personal chaos to attend to. Back in the US, his wife is about to give birth.

The story that begins with a death winds down with a birth. Max's newborn and Mimi's pregnancy bring the warring heads into peace. As if Ludwig is saying, What's the point of youth and fame without anyone to call family? Riot aside, A comedy of tenors has a tone of resignation. Tito accepts that Mimi is not a baby anymore and that he is past his prime; while Henry has warmed up to Max.

In the finale, both audience and characters find themselves in the same place: behind the curtain, as the concert of the century is seconds away from starting. Tito, Beppo, Carlo, Max, and soprano, Tatiana Racón have their backs against us. We hear the cheers they hear. Both them and us, for once, agree on the same reality happening when words are no longer spoken.

To rebel, to never rush

"Eating freely without being held back." Well that's the dream.

Thing is, I've learned how to do that—and have been doing that—since I landed my first job. The freedom that money and singlehood afford, I spend on gourmandizing. That quote, by the way, comes from the Japanese mini-series, Samurai gourmet, where newly retired Takeshi Kasumi embarks on a new adventure: figuring out what to do with all the free time in his hands.

"Why am I in a hurry to go home? I don't have to go to work tomorrow," is an example of Kasumi's many internal dialogues; and the focus on introspection while keeping a lighthearted tone is the show's unique charm. Its opening credits go, "This story is about an ordinary 60-year-old man"—and they mean it.

Other everyday struggles he faces are: mustering the courage to speak up to a rude store owner, asking loud diners on the next table to be quiet, and being himself, that is, eating pasta with chopsticks—and pairing it with beer—in an elegant Italian restaurant. He gets through these bouts of awkwardness (imagine that at his age) with the help of his no-nonsense Samurai alter-ego.

Samurai gourmet episode 8: Pasta the Samurai way

Since my interview with actress Cherie Gil and seeing Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike, and web series High road way, way earlier, I became interested in stories with middle-aged protagonists. I wish to reach my 90s—my centenary, even. So it tickled me when Kasumi blurted (in his head), "I'll never age as gracefully as him" after witnessing an older, more confident man tackle a problem. Kasumi's future is a given. He, at sixty, has a huge room for dreams.

He's living an enviable ordinariness, the price of which is loyalty to a company, or more than half of his life committed to working hard for an employer. Me, I belong to a generation that switch jobs at least three times in their career. I've had five. I'm of the "burnt out" lot. So I play Samurai Gourmet over the weekends, and over month-long stretches of freelancing-slash-vacationing in between strings of years holding a full-time job.

My point is I'm stressed out about my retirement strategy. I need to be smarter with my finances if I were to live to a hundred. Yet strangely, I've never been this excited about tomorrow.

Each year I honestly feel younger. Maybe because I know more and knowledge is a sort of liberation. Maybe because I know the way around my mind better. A couple of hours ago a push notification led me to reread a friend's letter to her 32 year old self, which I thought was eloquent. She said, "Manage time. While you are and always will be late for anything, never rush life." Thirty-four-year-old me can use the reminder.

*

(PS: I wrote a little sketch inspired by the beautiful setting of Samurai gourmet – Pasta the Samurai way. That image of Kasumi beside the window, his table bathed in afternoon light, is stuck in my head.)

Christmas reading

The birthday of the Infanta by Oscar Wilde, from A house of pomegranates

This might be my earliest memory of being sucked into a story, especially an image—the Dwarf's first gaze at the mirror, discovering that the Princess' love for him is only a mockery of his ugliness.

"But why will he not dance again?"

"Because his heart is broken."

"For the future let those who come to play with me have no hearts."

Dolphin love and limits — A companion sketch

From where I sit there's a garden. My eyes on greens and skyward. "Thank you for waiting," says the woman laying down my lunch.

"No, no. I enjoyed the wait."

*

Inside I'm dancing. If it's any good, a dance song will make you move, and move you while you're sat on a chair, waiting.

*

Except for flights, classes, meetings and meet-ups, I always arrive late.

*

Taking my meals this way is the only luxury I can afford. I see to it that I arrive early. To think, to read, to gaze out the window if I were lucky to have that seat. Sometimes I write. Sometimes nothing. If I were truly lucky, I was waiting for you.

Dinner isn't food on plate, it's the only real thing that's also an escape.

*

(Inspired by Connan Mockasin's Forever dolphin love and the sleeve art Connan made himself for the Erol Alkan rework of the song. Samurai gourmet has also greatly influenced the opening fragment.)

Dolphin love and limits

I never understood remixes. My literary background had me believing in ultimate, untouchable forms. Any rework or editing is a step toward that final draft. Not to say that I don't enjoy a good remix when I hear one. But now that I think about it, I am fascinated by this open and pliant nature of the song—something counter to literature, in particular the tyrannical art of poetry.

*

Erol Alkan is making me think about it. Sometime in 2012, six years since its release, I don't feel like dancin' found its way to my player, looped for weeks. Five more years passed till I discovered Alkan's Carnival of light rework. What I heard was something subdued but exciting. How he stretched a pleasant moment, toyed with it, built on it. And when I thought it would simply go on for ever—which I didn't mind—he brought the best bit of lyrics out, leaving me with nostalgic aftertaste.

This month he shared a playlist containing songs in his "Reworks Volume 1" compilation. While The bay (Metronomy), Golden Skans (Klaxons), Congratulations (MGMT), and Why won't you make up your mind (Tame Impala) were instant favorites, Gee up (Kindness) captured my heart completely.

It was my first time to hear it. Naturally I looked up the original, which turned out to be a two-minute ditty. Alkan didn't make it longer, he made it habitable—for me a deliberate and, more importantly, considerate act. I was smiling for seven minutes straight.



The two-and-a-half hour playlist contains many unfamiliar songs (to me). As is my habit, I slept with music I was getting acquainted with. In the middle of the night, a turbulent bass-line, deep and seductive woke me up.

*

Forever dolphin love makes me think of houses. Outside it's a box. Inside it's a universe. Outside it's plain, inside it's forking. There are rooms and bodies; there are dreams, lives lived and memories.

That's how rich it sounds, and how deceptively linear it seems. Until today the track plays. Sometimes I listen to it the way I re-read a book: simultaneously taking pleasure in what's in front of me and what's to come. Sometimes I keep it in the background, and when I get back to it, I know exactly where the song is, or where I am in the song. In the bar where notes slide off a manic percussion.

*

Ann Lauterbach has said it before and she couldn't say it any better: "Form, after all, is chosen limits. Limit, as a formal characteristic, is the expression of choice in the service of the possible. The possible is the indeterminate futurity of meaning. Form posits the optimum conditions for meaning to occur." (The night sky: Writings on the poetics of experience. 2005.)

My suspicion is that artists daunted by the freedom they so crave, fearful of the blank space, forget that their job is to create limits.

*

The best works of art teach you how to regard them. My early dives into electronic music had me baffled over minute-long intros on ten-minute tracks—that or verses that rush to the chorus, or drop or whatever trick's in store for the listener.

I realized that the radio has its own set of limitations as well. Thus the extended versions and radio-edits, terms that once did not make sense to my poetry-worshipping brain.

Listening to Alkan's rework of Connan Mockasin's Forever dolphin love, I learn to appreciate the beauty of a remix done right. When the artist is at liberty to choose his own limits, and chooses well. Then it's not just about giving the song a different flavor or making it danceable; but rather creating out of it another song that stands on its own.

Then you don't notice that ten minutes have gone by because you're offered a full home. If anything, you'll be surprised that you actually want more.

*

(Read a companion sketch here.)

Disjointed

Repertory Philippines stages Hair, directed by Chris Millado. The show runs until December 17 at Onstage, Makati.

That was a long first act. When Berger (Michael Schulze) introduced himself—his version of a handshake: asking a kind lady to hold the trousers he just took off—I thought we were off to a good start. Schulze's frenetic ways were captivating, and his openness, infectious. There's a hippie, I said to myself.

Excitement, however, dissolved into dizzying confusion. Tribe leader, Claude (Markki Stroem) entered with faux—not to mention annoying but maybe that was the point—Manchester accent, and Sheila (Caisa Borromeo) convinced everyone that she believes in love. Tried to. More tribe members walked onto and away from center-stage, dropping a thought or two about life, sex, war, race, pills, grass, hair... They rambled on and on until the curtains closed for intermission.

*

Repertory Philippines culminates its 50th anniversary celebrations with 1960's musical, Hair, directed by Chris Millado. For someone who hasn't seen any of the show's previous incarnations, Hair appears to be emblematic of its milieu and its corresponding idealisms. A re-staging in the here-and-now is tricky: how do you make viewers care about what characters care about in a story deeply entrenched in its social setting?

During its run in the '60s, Hair (understandably) aroused controversy because of its nude scene and high dose of profanity. I could imagine the musical shaking—by way of shocking—people up out of their inhibitions. We are in no age of utopia, and some may argue that we're far worse than we'd like to admit; but boys today can grow their hair long and sex is discussed openly, if frequently. Unconventional is the new normal. What will Hair mean to a shock-proof audience with short attention span?

*

The book by Gerome Ragni and James Rado suffers from incoherence, and it's further aggravated by the production's weak tone. I wasn't sure what it wanted from me as an audience. From where I sat, it was all freewheeling fun. The joyful, peaceful hippie spirit was there—but it failed to rub off. Even the famous nude scene was rather underwhelming. It arrived with no sense of a journey nor clarity of intention.

Act II was more enjoyable. We got to go inside Claude's drug-addled war-dreaming mind as the tribe went under the influence of hallucinogens. Presented to us were visually attractive, often compelling scenes anchored in the Vietnam War. Ironic how, for a brief moment, the musical gained some sort of narrative structure just when the characters' brains were completely messed up.

*

Hair's language can be alienating, but its music speaks across generations. Galt MacDermot's score showcases a spectrum of rock, flirts with R&B, and hypnotizes with incantatory hymns. Still, the chance to connect musically was squandered. Whether it was the sound system or opening night jitters, or both, I couldn't tell. The actors' voices lacked the abandon and the urgency of the rebellious young, and were somehow too polished to be irreverent.

By the time they found their footing, the show was drawing to an end. Maronne Cruz powered through the last few numbers, energizing the entire chorus. Then the cast made an up-tempo song with lyrics, "Let the sunshine in" heavy and drab and oh-so satisfying. And till the final heart-breaking scene (that suggested death—of Claude and perhaps their aspirations), Schulze remained a bright spot. He started on a high note and left on a hair-raising one—as if on fire, part-dancing, part-burning.

*

Many of Hair's concerns resonate with the present, in a way that many problems are universal. When they cried, "What do we want? Peace!" I silently replied, Yes, I want that, too. But then what? Agreement doesn't equate to emotional and intellectual involvement—the reason we bother with theater anyway.

The bigger irony is that the show invited us to "be-in" without allowing us to penetrate the world of the tribe. At the very least I hoped for a deeper insight into the hippie culture, but instead was assaulted with stereotypes. Throughout the musical, I felt like a bystander at the cool kids' party, alone and befuddled by all the commotion, pooped, deprived of a joint.

To hunt for Paula's poems

My previous job at an online publication allowed me to interview, and that generally means discover fictionists from the US. One of them was Paula McLain. From the get-go (you know, her aura) I knew that I'd like her. The woman invited respect in me. At some point in our conversation I made a mental note to check out her books. It's her education. It showed. And I must've had this affinity with her because she started out as a poet.

I hadn't read YA in while, so I bought A ticket to ride, thinking here's a perfect chance to revisit the genre; plus, it's her debut novel. The story took forever to take off — and frankly it wasn't hinging on a good plot but rather on atmosphere and a sort of teenage mystique — but I hung on and enjoyed the ride anyway because of said mood and mystery. I finished it without that rewarding feeling, though I wasn't exactly disappointed as well. If anything it served as a charming sampler.

The adolescent narrator is also a protagonist. I can't quite place her in time, how far removed she is from the events she is unraveling. She sounds as if the story just happened in the last couple of years, though her voice is already too wise and detached. That said, Paula's strength is in her narration. She can draw you in with her language and commitment to build up tension despite little action from her characters.

But what I really want to talk about (what got me into opening this computer) is The Paris wife, Paula's blockbuster hit, which I enjoyed very much. You can tell the amount of work she's put into it. The thoughtfulness. Her rhythm is more engaging, each chapter brings a reward, either in terms of insight or plot movement, or both.

Paula McLain. The Paris wife. New York: Ballantine Books Trade Paperbacks, 2012.

It stars Hadley Richardson, Ernest Hemingway's first of four wives.

What made me smile in this book is Hadley's realization that she's not in Ernest's now-classic The sun also rises, despite it being an account of their Pamplona adventures; and that the woman she is jealous of is nothing but a muse — Duff and Ernest are not having an affair, the writer is only using her for his art.

That tickled me a bit because it reminded me of this artist I used to go out with in college. Somehow I made my way into one of his comic strips, one of our exchanges was slightly edited to terminate in a gooey punchline. A common friend alerted me to it and, while I giggled, I didn't take it seriously. I understood early on that we can use real people in our fantasies without us wanting that very fantasy to be real. The panel featuring moi was not an indirect love letter, it was a clever piece of juvenilia.

The Paris wife also heightens my desire to read Paula's poetry. So far I admire her control. She is tender even as she lets the dark in. Her surprise turns of phrase are hints that she must be a great poet ("Now that I knew what I could bear, I would have to bear losing him"). So are her dabs of imagery.

This passage is taken from a chapter on Hadley, Ernest, their child, and Pauline's trip to the beach. The adult triangle is trying to establish a set-up where the three of them can live as husband-and-wife-and-lover. Hadley just went into the water:

I ducked my head and then surfaced, and swam out several hundred yards, where things were still. I treaded water and let the swells buoy me. At the top of one, I could look back at the beach and see them small and perfect, my husband and child and the woman who was now more to us than we could manage. From that distance, they all looked equal and serene and I couldn't hear them or feel them. At the bottom, in the trough of the wave, I could see only the sky, that high white place that seemed not to change much for all of our suffering.

As a kind of  experiment, I stopped swimming and let my arms and legs fall, my whole weight fall as deep as it would. I kept my eyes open as I sank down and looked up at the surface. My lungs began to sting, first, and then burn, as if I'd swallowed some small piece of volcano.

I knew if I stayed there and let the water come into me, come through every door of me, some things would be easier. I wouldn't have to watch my life disappear, bead by bead, away from me and toward Pauline.

The little volcano in me burned, and then something popped, and I knew that even if I didn't want to live this way anymore, I also didn't want to die. I closed my eyes and kicked hard for the surface. (p 285)

Lullaby singer

Anna Nalick is one of those women whose talents inspire both admiration and jealousy in me. That she's insanely beautiful makes matters worse: do I hate or want to be her?

I've been rediscovering artists I first met in my youth through social media. Recently, I stumbled upon Nalick's Instagram, learning that the 2 AM crooner was about to release a new record. Here and there she'd post clips of her singing what would make up "At now". Then I'd remember how I used to love girls with guitars.

But Nalick has a distinct kind of magnetism, marked by something sexy and poetic and messy at the same time. Her voice is pained but never vulnerable, powerful when quiet yet cracks open an entire world when climbing high notes. She is one of the few lyricists whose words make me pay attention.

When Aura hit Soundcloud earlier, I got excited right away. I just knew that the album would be good. I trusted in the artist, and that time and age would do the trick.

(Photo taken from Anna Nalick's official Facebook page.)

Maybe listening to it at midnight, before sleep has enhanced my experience. She may as well call the LP Lullaby singer (the title of the second track). The songs, though haunting, have a soothing quality about them, like a friend — or your own self — telling you what you needed to hear after a dark day. Lullaby for adults.

My favorite track — and I will not forget the goose bumps I had on my legs during the a cappella humming at the end — is All through the night. It is as much a practice in myth-making as it is in song-writing. With the help of a piano and a metaphor, Nalick unravels her heart in slow waltz.

Gestes magnifiques

Alain Passard talks obsessively about gestures in Chef's table – France. It's the first time I've heard someone bring that up as a crucial element — if an element at all — in any discipline.

When I was a child, I would mimic adults in unglamorous professions: the cashier swiping a product under a scanner, then hitting a few keys from the till before punching the big one that opens a drawer of cash; or the bus conductor thumbing through a bundle of tickets (the working thumb covered in rubber), after-which reaching for his pouch for loose change.

I didn't know exactly what they were doing back then — how the tickets were counted or what the other buttons on the cash register were for; but seeing them so confident in their actions drew me in. It was their expert gestures that compelled me to imitate them.

"Slicing a shallot can be done 25 different ways. However there is that one gesture to which we can add that elegance, that love," says Passard. Apparently, he doesn't take gestures as mere embellishments in a performance; to him, it's an integral part of the art: "Either we like the gesture, either we like the hand, or we don't. Me, I love it. It might be the sense I like the most. Maybe even more than the sense of taste."

Something might've been lost in translation. The good Frenchman still sounds mystical to me, though I'd like to believe that I understand what he means. "And this hand, if we want it to be more beautiful, more elegant, we must work seven hours, eight hours, ten hours in the kitchen every day. This makes the hand more precise, more accurate and more elegant," he continues. "That's the trick."

Okay, chef.

*

Muriel Barbery. The gourmet. London: Gallic Books, 2009.

Last August I read The gourmet by Muriel Barbery. It's about Pierre Athens, France's most feared and revered food critic. He's on the brink of death, counting down the days with a painful struggle to recall that singular food that has brought him "raw, unequivocal pleasure".

'A dish? A dessert?' asked Anna, with a sob in her voice.

I cannot bear to see her like this. I love my wife, as I have always loved the beautiful objects in my life. That is the way it is. I have lived as a man of property, and I shall die as one, with neither qualms nor sentimental indulgence; nor do I regret having accumulated property or having conquered souls and beings as if I were acquiring an expensive painting. A work of art has a soul. It cannot be reduced to a simple mineral existence, to the lifeless elements of which it consists. Perhaps because I know this I have never felt the least bit ashamed of considering Anna the most beautiful work of all — this woman who for forty years has used her finely chiselled beauty and her dignified tenderness to enliven the chambers of my realm. (pp 16 – 17)

After reading The life of elves, I missed Barbery's comedy in The elegance of the hedgehog. Great news for me, the humor is present in The gourmet, and her flair for poetry (overdone in Elves) suits the passionately hyperbolic Pierre. And, consistent with the other two books, her characters' musings are a joy to follow.

No other contemporary novelist excites me more than Ms Barbery, who is also a philosophy teacher (it definitely shows in her works). There's the second installment of La vie des elfes to look forward to, and by the time it comes out, I'll hopefully be bold enough to buy a copy in the original French.

I'm hungry. No, hungrier — for new food, for knowledge, for travel. That's thanks to The gourmet and Chef's table. Soon I'll fly to Paris and get my hands on a bag of chouquettes.

Suffered plenty

Ernest Hemingway. The old man and the sea. New York: Scribner, 2003.

This slim book is a huge test of endurance for me. At a hundred and twenty seven pages, and what seems to be font size 13, double space, Ernest Hemingway's The old man and the sea has the promise of a breezy, melancholy Sunday afternoon read.

It's so boring. If anything I can relate to the old man in the middle of an endless sea, waiting and fighting for his life and pride. I'm the type who'd deliberately abandon a novel if it doesn't excite. But I choose to stick it out with Hem, thinking I can't be beaten by a novella, and at least I'd know for sure if I hated it or not.

At that point when I feel like completely giving up — page 80 or so — it picks up. I want to know, Okay, will old man Santiago catch his fish or will he die? What will he learn about life? What will I realize for myself? Because it's that kind of book that screams, There's a moral in here somewhere, find it. (Would love to hear the vegans' opinion on the story.)

What I like about it are the glimpses inside a mind going through a tedious task — the different voices in your head that argue when faced with the smallest decision; how we frame situations to ease our heart or uplift our spirit. What I don't like about it is the tedious writing.

Let's end with some nice bits:

Then he was sorry for the great fish that had nothing to eat and his detemination to kill him never relaxed in his sorrow for him. How many people will he feed, he thought. But are they worthy to eat him? No, of course not. There is no one worthy of eating him from the manner of his behaviour and his great dignity. (p 75)

A man can be destroyed but not defeated. (p 103)

It is easy when you are beaten, he thought. I never knew how easy it was. And what beat you, he thought.

"Nothing," he said aloud. "I went out too far." (p 120)

How much did you suffer?

"Plenty," the old man said. (p 166)