When I grow up

This day marks the first anniversary of my solo viewing of Matilda the Musical, the last live performance I saw before Covid-19 came into the picture, right into the fucking foreground.

The show is still with me, meaning I still listen to When I grow up on loop.

Composer and lyricist Tim Minchin said in an interview that people would come to him, saying that something in the song made them feel something they didn't expect and couldn't quite explain. Tim seems to prefer keeping the mystery, because "to dissect the frog is to kill the frog".

I am not that kind of person. To me the magic lies in the clockwork. So let me explain what went on inside me as I listened to the song.

Children, including my once-upon-a-time self, know that adults are invincible. (My niece would prosaically ask me to untagle her slinky as if I could never fail.) Therefore they foresee an adult life where they eat sweets every day on the way to work, go to bed late every night and wake up when the sun comes up. And they can't wait for it.

As an adult it's easy to feel pity for the child whose dreams will be shattered, and we mourn their forthcoming loss of innocence.

Then Miss Honey enters the stage singing the same phrase, When I grow up. What she does is sing to me and the child inside who is still there, still afraid, and still believing in her fantasies. For this grown-up, things like peace and justice are just right around the corner. Despite the real world teaching me that unicorns don't exist, I go on with life quietly pursuing their trail.

Homey

Delaney, JP. The Girl Before. Ballantine Books, 2017.

One Folgate Street isn't my vibe. Houses that look like museums are not it. Neither are those Pinterest interior vignettes. Too perfect. Dust is its own cozy filter.

Like the would-be tenants, who at first are doubtful of this architectural milestone, I slowly see its arguments. We are continuous with our environment. Where we live becomes us in as much as we diffuse ourselves in the place we call home.

The book, of course — like its fantasy, if fantastic house — is exaggerating. At least for me it requires much more effort to suspend my disbelief, to imagine that there are actual people who could leave their normal messy homes and embrace a stark lifestyle.

Techno-architect Edward Monkford seems to subcribe to a minimalist philosophy. Frankly, I don't know what minimalism is. Based on the descriptions in the novel, however, I would phrase it as a philosophy of focus. In a romantic partnership, for example, he has developed an unwritten manifesto. The relationship shall carry on as long as the conditions are perfect. When it's no longer the case, that's a sign to move on. As such, his best relationships can last a weekend, some years. Length doesn't matter; quality does.

Edward also makes it a rule "to only ever look at one thing in a museum... Any more and you can't appreciate what you're seeing." (p 135)

Mulling over that sentence, maybe there is a minimalist in me. Again, I do not know what it means. Perhaps what I'm trying to say is I aspire for a life defined by neatness and clarity. If the universe gives me two can openers, a choice must be made: which of these will I discard? There are many things that I want to not only do but do well, yet my resources compel me to go through another process of elimination.

"This is hard-water area, Jane... If you're not careful you'll get limescale building up on the stone. It's really noticeable. Really, you should dry the shower off every time you use it."
...
"Isn't that a bit — well, obsessive?"
"No," he says. "It's whatever the opposite of lazy is." He considers, "meticulous, perhaps."
"Isn't life simply too short to dry showers after you use them?"
"Or perhaps," he says reasonably, "life is simply too short to live it less perfectly than it could be lived." (pp 140 – 141)

I am both Jane and Eward in that exchange. Lazy and obsessive. Somehow I have to accept that cleaning up and — to extend the idea — dull routines, even making mistakes and correcting them are joyful obsessions.

Always I go for the homey. As I think about it, I don't know what it means either. My pre-apartment self would say weathered couches, mismatched cups and saucers (which I can't stand now), knickknacks (also can't stand), and colors. Not imperfection brought on by neglect. Warmth is a huge ingredient and it's hard to manufacture. By this I know exactly what I mean. Human warth. All the fuss about building a house, buying the right furniture and dinnerware aren't for show, but for living alongside and building a life with others.

What I speak of is the house as a limb by which you can express love.

*

To those who saw the photo of the book (coincidentally taken at a restaurant known for its homey ambience and ridiculous prices — can't help but take the opportunity to critique) and expected a review, I apologize. I honestly didn't know (how many times have I said this already?) what to write; but it's been my habit to respond to what I've read with a blog. Quickly, yes I enjoyed The Girl Before very much. It made me feel scared, which is a compliment. It made me read hundreds of pages and push through to the end despite my eyes wanting to sleep. It made me want to read author JP Delaney's next thriller, Believe Me.

Evil and art

Fitzgerald, Penelope. The Bookshop. Mariner Books, 2015.

David Nicholls warned me, in his introduction to The Bookshop, about the devastation awaiting at the end. I seek sad stories because of the catharsis they can bring; because, as many before me have noted, in fiction your pain is manageable. Therefore Nicholls, in his eloquence, convinced me, even made me excited to read on.

I felt none of the emotions above after finishing the book. Rather, I was angry. The villains weren't villains, yet neither were they ambiguous characters. No, they were normal. With no deep motivations for their cruelty, no mental illness or an abusive family. They were just being themselves.

Florence Green was "simply a woman, no longer young, who [wanted] to keep a bookshop". She found the Old House that no one seemed to care about and thought that that was a good enough place to do business. Then there was Mrs Gamart, who, after learning about Florence's plans, was suddenly keen on creating an arts center in that very spot.

Mrs Gamart reminds me of billionaires who love charity not because they are generous but because of what they gain out of it. She is also a reminder that art and nobleness have no logical connection.

It's not like you can accuse Florence of not fighting because she did fight. But alas, what chance did she have against the most influential of the influentials.

Well, she did have a powerful ally in Mr Brundish. Unfortunately, he died.

What is truly hair-raising for me is that author Penelope Fitzgerald didn't write Mrs Gamart as this malicious manipulator. She rarely made an appearance. That's the face of evil itself: invisible. We didn't see her mastermind the demise of Florence's bookshop. The biggest blow she dealt to Florence, we learned about in another character's passing statement.

Adding salt to the wound, Florence would never know the truth about her champion, Mr Brundish, no thanks to a lie by Mrs Gamart. Aside from losing her bookshop, she will spend the rest of her days belieiving that even Mr Brundish finally accepted the idea of an arts center.

Some underlined bits

Between themselves they could arrange many matters, though what they arranged was quite often a matter of chance. (p 29)

Her courage, after all, was only a determination to survive. (p 109)

It was defeat, but defeat is less unwelcome if you are tired. (p 151)

If you're not strong, I do not recommend that you read this book.

The orderly mind

Why am I so bad at taking photos?

Except for The Under Dog and The Sittaford Mystery, which came into my possession earlier, these were at 29-peso each at a book sale, so I bought them all — back in 2011. As with any book haul, these Agatha Christie mysteries were mostly left unread. I eagerly devoured And then there were none, being one of her most famous works, then Curtain, since it's Hercule Poirot's last case.

We re-engage with forgotten objects of intrigue during the quarantine and Agatha Christie has been keeping me company since March. There's a relaxing quality about her storytelling rhythm. It's an easy read, in a way that knots are being untangled for you by careful and caring hands.

Maybe that's why I gravitate towards these books in this pandemic. Locked at home, I feel like I have more time in my hands yet I am also bothered by how this phenomenon is affecting the years ahead, already re-arranging what I have yet to plan.

Am now on my fifth title, Poirot loses a client. The swift flow of logic in these pages calms me down. Am like Hastings who do not understand anything at all, finding so many side issues. To whom Poirot would say, "Naturally there are side issues. To separate the main issue from the side issues is the first task of the orderly mind."

The birthday of the infanta

One of my favorite stories to read, or at least remember during Christmas is The Birthday of the Infanta by Oscar Wilde. In this post I noted how the Dwarf's first gaze at the mirror is one dramatic image I won't forget.

Last week I reread it and, as they say, you know it's a good story when it feels like you're reading it for the first time even if you already know what's going to happen.

This week on my podcast, I further explained why I associate this rather sad story with Christmas. I also tucked in my little holiday wish for those who are thoughtful enough to read and listen to me. Let me share some modified excerpts.

***

I wouldn't exactly call it a "children's" story, but the main characters are children.

Which is one reason that I think about it during Christmas. You know, they say this season if for children or the child at heart. So definitely there's an element of innocence, and also the cruelty of that innocence. Because when you're a child you don’t have yet that sense of justice and politeness, civility.

So it was the birthday of the Infanta. There were lots of activities to please her. Lots of entertainment. One of the entertainers was a dwarf. The Infanta and her friends loved the dwarf, in a sense that they loved laughing at him.

Why do I go back to this story during Christmas? Because (unlike the dwarf) we are aware that this season is a fantasy.

***

Listen to the minicast, then tell me what your favorite Christmas story is.

The D-Word

Art is continuous with life, and choreographer PJ Rebullida's mind weaved through the many facets of life as he talked about dance on the latest episode of The Stunner. With the world under a pandemic, he touched on death, as well. The detailed portion of his account didn't make it to the final cut. Though he allowed it to be on-record, I made an editorial decision to let the persons named, along with their stories, remain hidden.

PJ was making a case for not only accepting but celebrating death. To which I concurred, "it's not defeat," referencing Dan Shcneider's poem, The Faggot and the line "Death is just death, not defeat."

Of course, it is hard to say that in these times, feeling like we've been defeated by our government and long-established systems. Death, when it's truly ours, can't be warmed by wise words. I am aware of that and so is PJ.

Hear more of the lessons he has learned about dance and life, in the past and in the terrifying present. He also answered a question I asked National Artist for Dance Alice Reyes: How is dance, especially choreography preserved for posterity?

Memories and games

My first memories of playing games were with my cousins. They were older than me and everything they did was new and cool. Whether it was pigeon racing or betting on basketball. We would go to their house on weekends and spend entire days enjoying card games, board games, and video games — all of which were given to them by their father, my uncle, who was working abroad.

Their house was small, tiny, they're far from rich. Close to poor was how I had always thought of them. But their home was crammed with imported branded toys.

Sometimes I play with them and sometimes I watch them play, because the game's either too complicated or, when it comes to video games, too scary for me. Yes I get scared during boss fights with all those evil-looking characters and haunting background music.

We rarely see each other now and my interest in games has tempered. At times I must admit to suppressing it. I'm well aware that games, especially video games are designed to be addictive. And I have actually deleted all the gaming apps on my phone because once I open them, there's no closing it. 2048 kept me awake for weeks.

Recently I discovered Random Levels, a gaming podcast that brings back all the things I loved about, well, games — problem solving, making friends, forgetting about the world while learning about it at the same time.

It's created by one of my friends, Ren Alcantara in the month that I started my own podcast. He's hosting the show with his wife (who's also a gamer) and two other friends. In each episode they select a topic and discuss how it's represented in video and board games. At first I thought I'd feel alienated because of my level of gaming knowledge, but instead it felt like I was eavesdropping on a really fun and informative conversation. I felt like I was back to watching my older cousins beat the boss, while I sit back, relax and learn.

*

Of course I grabbed the chance to interview my fellow-podcaster friend. Here's how our conversation went.

Stevens and banter

There's one important theme that I didn't talk about in my post on The Remains of the Day: Banter. On my podcast, I reflected briefly about it, and below are some slightly modified excerpts.

***

A quick check on my English-Tagalog dictionary confirms my knowledge. Banter translates as biro, tukso, and kantiyaw in Tagalog. There is an aspect of playfulness to it, nothing malicious or damaging.

The Tagalog word is sort of one-way, though. One person teases another, as in, My friend is teasing me about putting on too much makeup and wearing my best dress because my crush will be at the party.

Whereas banter seems to be a two-way game. In both cases, however, there is an intimacy involved. Because you talk about or banter about personal things, perhaps a hidden sentiment, like the example about my crush.

So if you engage in banter, depending on which side you are on, you are either allowing a piece of yourself to be exposed, or you are poking in a sensitive part of a person. And so if you're not careful, it could end in hurt feelings; but if all goes well, there's a tenderness that forms between you and whoever your are bantering with.

In my experience, I hated it most of the time because I'm super sensitive and people aren't always charming and good with words and reading other people. Or maybe I’m just really super sensitive.

And so, I've always thought of bantering as something you do when you've already created a friendship with another person. Once there's a certain comfort level, then you can banter, you can tease.

[...]

What is happening with Stevens and Mr Farraday in the novel is the opposite of what I've grown to believe as the purpose of playful teasing. For me, it is somewhere on top of the hierarchy of the things you do when you’re close to someone. A measure of intimacy. But for Stevens and Mr Farraday, and apparently the strangers around Stevens, banter can be the beginning of a close relationship.

***

Listen to the seven-minute minicast:

People, podcasting, promotion

On the pilot episode of The Stunner, I talked about the similarities between podcast and free verse. To extend the analogy, like writing a poem, you never really finish a podcast episode, you simply abandon it. I can record a spiel a million times and still find something wrong, whether it's my pronunciation, intonation, tone, word choice, background noises.

There's the trailer that sets expectations, the pilot with all the pleasant explanations, but here's the truth.

This podcast is my way of socializing in a controlled environment. And by that I mean I am in control. It's no secret that I get exhausted by people easily, which doesn't mean that I hate them completely; but, I need to be in the right mental space before I engage with anyone. Being caught off-guard stresses me out. Worse, it can make me resent others or beat myself up — for saying the wrong thing, for reacting wrongly, for being anything other than perfect.

Podcasting is exhausting, too, and not without unpredictability, but here I have a greater degree of control.

And like writing, I crave the pleasure of an audience. Today I've created a Twitter, Instagram and Facebook accounts to promote the show and connect with kindred souls. If by some measure you enjoy my blog, please do give my podcast a chance.

On forgetting (the deliberate kind)

Let's forget about it. Forgive and forget. Kalimutan mo na iyon. Kalimutan mo na siya.

Always a prescription, to forget. I find it especially curious, the expression, I can forgive but I won't forget. As if forgiveness isn't total. One bestows pardon but the crime is recorded somewhere for reference; for purposes we've yet to predict.

Is it nobler to accept a person with full awareness of their wrongdoings, because in this regard you are merciful and pragmatic, headstrong despite the ways of the world, that is, everyone will sooner or later disappoint you.

Or must we prefer true oblivion, because even the smallest resentment can shake a good night's sleep and, if we're not careful, create a tear in future relationships. A tear that can grow bigger and bigger, no matter how careful we may be.

*

Ishiguro, Kazuo. The Buried Giant. Vintage Books, 2015.

"Who knows what will come when quick-tongued men make ancient grievances rhyme with fresh desire for land and conquest?" (Ishiguro, 348)

*

A Japanese trainee noted that we must remember our history, except for the wars and tragedies. The latter, according to him, we should forget. He's far from articulate when speaking in English, so he may mean other things when he said forget.

In The Buried Giant by Kashuo Ishiguro, an entire land is swept by a literal forgetfulness. Histories, personal and communal are incomplete. Bits and pieces of a hazy past nag them from time to time, but nothing to rob them of their peace.

If there is a magic potion for forgetting, I'd take it. Is it weakness? A betrayal of Justice? Maybe.

I'd take it.

*

Who are we if not our memories? Even what we do now becomes history the next second. There is our (individual) history, and there is someone else's history of us. Who's to say which of these we should live by.

Forgive and forget. Is our love greater if we choose to bury memories of a cheating partner? Do we become less of a human being if we hold on to a hurt?

Pilot episode

1) I'm so spoiled with blogs, how it gives you the luxury to change your mind every second. A comma now, semicolon later, then back to comma whenever you please. When I was working for a newspaper, I always dread reading the actual print, because of all the typos and grammatical errors that I might see. My first experience in producing a podcast is recreating that dread, even tops it. At least with print media, you will just have to accept the blunder. That you can reproduce a podcast, meaning re-record, makes it so tempting to actually do it. In other words, it's so tempting to subject yourself to torment.

2) The Stunner podcast is now available on six podcast streaming services, including Spotify.

3) Here is the transcript of the pilot episode, where I explain the whole motivation behind this endeavor:

***

Who/What is The Stunner?

A podcast is like free verse poetry. There's a lot of freedom in it. If it sounds like a nice thing, it's not. In both cases, freedom is the burden of creating your own form. What I'm trying to say is I don't exactly know what I'm doing, but I'm very excited.

*

I've worked for five years for a national newspaper and before and after that, I've been writing freelance for magazines, websites — publication in its many forms, really. I've done advertorials, lots of it, SEO, feature stories.

When people ask me, especially my previous colleagues if I'd be willing to work again in that kind of environment, I give a quick no. It's wonderful, yes, but it's also extremely fast-paced, and I'm a very chill person.

What I miss most however, and what I think made me enjoy and endure those years, is doing profiles. Interviewing people.

I'm an introvert. Like I said in the trailer of this podcast, I'm one of those who would say, "I hate people". And maybe I do, maybe a little. But I am also very intrigued by people. And working in the media, it gave me a chance to entertain that curiosity.

When I think about it, recalling all those times, it's either I meet interesting people, or I have done a good enough job, to dig deep enough to find what's interesting about them.

That's an experience that I want to replicate again and again. And that is the whole motivation for this podcast. When I attend events and do interviews, I become sociable and, to my surprise, fall in love with people! Of course we were in carefully organized events, putting our best food forward; but, yes, that’s what I like. An environment designed to keep you on your toes but eventually let your guard down.

*

The Stunner — noun — is everyone, who is given the time of day to show who they really are. It's me building on that notion that we all have something interesting to say. The Stunner is also that moment or idea that stops us in our tracks. That thing which stuns.

*

It's mostly a lie when writers say, "I'm writing this person or that person's story". Most likely the writer is not telling anyone's story but their own. The subject is exactly that: subject for a desired narrative.

When you go to an interview as an interviewer for a publication, you carry with you a frame. Which can be both a good and bad thing. Good because you'll have focus, direction. And bad because — and I think this is a mistake all writers make — we force a story into a shape that doesn't serve either the subject or the reader.

Like I said earlier, the podcast is like free verse. Because there's no structure to guide you, you can either be happy about it or be lost. We understand how important structure is in communication. But we have to admit that having lots of room to play is a welcome advantage of the podcast.

If all goes well, I'd be talking to different people about the things that stir their mind. The idea is really less on what people do, and more on what they think. And again if I do it right, I'd let them tell their stories in their own voice. Yet be responsible, still, for the listener. That each episode will be crafted with purpose and clarity in mind.

*

My background is literature, I write poetry. I maintain a personal blog with a literary and artistic bent. In a way, The Stunner is an extension of that practice, as a space for the unforgettable characters that I've read in books, or seen onscreen. I would like to chronicle here my impressions of people, real or imagined.

The concept for this programme's been brewing in my head for a couple of years now and it's funny — well I'm laughing at myself — because it takes being quarantined to push me to finally do it. Being forced to stay away from each other made me realize how crucial human interaction is.

So, in short, The Stunner is my way of connecting with people.

The Stunner

It's around 2018 when I declared an interest in running a podcast. But I declare lots of things. Here's also where I'll admit that internal motivation rarely works for me, or works too slowly even by my standards. So it's thanks to friends who've started their own podcasts (spoiler alert) while stuck in quarantine that I find the motivation to start mine.

"Don't wait till the conditions are perfect, otherwise you'll get nothing done." Perhaps it's my perfect excuse for all the flaws in this podcast in its initial stage. If I wait till all the dogs and roosters in the neighbor fall asleep, then there's no way I'd be able to record anything. Neither am I going out, spending cash to acquire high-end gears.

This is a new medium for me (does practice in TikTok count?), though already a dear one. Ladies and gentlemen, The Stunner is now live. I ask you to check it out and listen with a forgiving ear.

Triggered

Glück, Louise. Vita Nova. Harper Collins, 1999.

Things that came to my mind after learning that Louise Glück was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature:

1. Wow, they gave it to a poet everyone I know loves. It must be an encouragement, a sign that I should carry on writing poetry.

2. Awards are BS. It has a resume purpose. Determining who or what is good, better, and best is a task for consumers. Indeed I would pay attention to the award-winning section of the book store. One way of narrowing down choices on a lazy day. For every book standing there, I am missing out on undiscovered gems.

3. I don't like her. She is great at giving her words the effect of weight rather than actual weight. "It's evening, time for lying." Come on.

4. I haven't completely moved on from my destroyed books. My muscle reflexes had me walking towards my book shelf to browse through Glück's collections, to confirm Statement 3's validity. Except these collections along with works of other writers are now gone. Eaten by termites. What's left is Vita Nova. Another sign, perhaps. I would stare at the shelf and feel poor for all I've lost; but I would just have to believe that the universe has made space for even more glorious readings.

Wanting more and wanting less

I don't talk a lot about myself and if I do, it probably has something to do with my apartment. I've dedicated an entire label to it.

A recent epiphany had me loving what I have made mine. Cooped up in my old bedroom, I would pine for magazine cover-worthy houses — dog and enviable lifestyle included. Things happen fast in my head, my reality can't catch up with my desires. What I fail to see is that slowly I accumulate the pretty little things I dream of.

My fantasies, upon re-examination, aren't perfect either. Even in that imagined space, something is missing or the elements don't add up. This chrome electric fan is glorious, but it clashes with the wooden shelf.

These thoughts flood my head after reading this Rebecca Watts poem.

The Studio

little lady little man
little pot little pan
little table little chair
little cupboard little stair
little plant little leaves
little rooftop little eaves
little cake little pie
little naptime lullaby
little blanket little book
little corner little nook
little cushion little frame
little thing without a name
little statue little bell
little bauble little shell
little lamp little pin
little box to put it in
little apron little jug
little window little rug
little postcard little rock
little candle little clock
little broom little door
little greedy wanting more

—Rebecca Watts

And immediately I am reminded of this Kay Ryan poem, which I featured earlier in this blog. It's worth reposting here as seeing the two poems side-by-side makes me smile; I can relate to both in equal measure.

That Will to Divest

Action creates
a taste for itself.
Meaning: once
you've swept
the shelves
of spoons
and plates
you kept
for guests,
it gets harder
not to also
simplify the larder,
not to dismiss
rooms, not to
divest yourself
of all the chairs
but one, not
to test what
singleness can bear,
once you've begun.

—Kay Ryan

Am I living in my dream house now? Which is to ask, Am I now living the life that I want? Can we ever answer yes? Maybe in brief moments.

Muscle memory

Telling the Sky III

Sun-streaks. Music in solid state.

*

Afternoon above. Draped sheets
of blue and Afghan red.

*

Walking home and towards the moon.
Arriving at neither.

—Razel Estrella

At some point in my adult life I've realized how numb we can be. We laugh at the fast-food crew member who, in sticking to their script, asks questions we have just answered; but we are no less guilty of the same mechanical existence.

Consider the evening I clocked out of my Manila office then found myself, as if magically, at home. I wasn't exactly tired. It was simply another day at work. Retracing my steps, I figured that I hopped on an FX shuttle service, hopped off, crossed the street, walked towards my village, took several left and right turns, reached for my keys, opened the gate to the townhouse, climbed up three flights of stairs, unlocked the door to my apartment. All this done unconsciously, a single extended muscle reflex.

Home, however, is in constant state of defamiliarization. While there's nothing more I look forward to than going home after a forgettable shift, I fear it as well. Elswehwere I've talked about my bad feelings about my family and they often resurface once the house gets closer. My body weakens. I rush, if I could I would fly to my bed, so I'd get the anger over with.

When I pay attention, meaning if I slow down, I'm rewarded by clarity of thought and a clear view of the night sky.

Thoughts on 'Sining Sigla'

Those of us going through this pandemic in the comforts of our homes can easily forget how difficult living day-to-day must be for those who didn't have our good fortune. My four-year-old niece, for example, started taking online classes this month, an event that reminded me that not every child has access to a stable internet connection, let alone the gadgets and environment to make e-learning a possibility.

It is in this temperament that I regard Cultural Center of the Philippines' efforts to bring the arts to the masses during these times. Pre-COVID19, the company brought art to cities like Antique, Bulacan, and Iloilo through its Office the President Outreach Program.

Now, CCP–OP has launched its virtual counterpart, called Sining Sigla. High-quality, educational, Philippine culture-focused art content is promised free of charge to the public — at least to those who have the right technology.

This isn't a criticism of the program but rather an expression of sadness for the state we're in. Looking on the bright side, artists are soldiering on, and here's an opportunity for us to (safely) engage with art. Spread the word, especially to families with kids. There's something great for them here.

Sining Sigla Schedule (From the CCP–OP presser)

MALA (Movies Adapted from Literary Arts): A series of fun short videos that aim to educate, inculcate good values, and make the young appreciate the arts further. The first two installments are adaptations of Ibong Adarna (October 2020) and Florante at Laura (November 2020). Director: Xian Lim; scriptwriter: Ony Carcamo; production designer: Aina Ramolete.

Jazz Stay At Home (September – October 2020): A jazz festival featuring Baihana (vocal trio), Nicole Asensio, Lorna and Pipo Cifra, Simon Tan Trio, and Michael Guevarra.

Jose Corazon De Jesus retrospective (November 2020): "Pagbabalik-tanaw sa Unang Hari Ng Balagtasan." The show stars John Arcilla, Lara Maigue, and Ony Carcamo. Director: Ricky Davao; scriptwriter, assistant director, and production designer: Ohm David.

Pamaskong Handog ng PPO: A Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra Christmas concert.

Catch these specials via the Cultural Center of the Philippines Office of the President Facebook Page.

Flying like children

Our summer in September

Here's a wonderful story told within this story, and that which heightens my awareness of my growing fondness for my niece:

When I was a girl I lived in a little city on the side of a mountain. There was snow on top and a green river at the bottom... Strangers who came there called it a city of birds. How true. Of an evening, when it was almost dark, they flew in clouds, and sometimes it was not possible to see the moon rise: never have there been so many birds. But in winter it was bad, mornings so cold we could not break the ice to wash our faces. And on those mornings you would see a sad thing: sheets of feathers where the birds had fallen frozen: believe me. It was my father's job to sweep them up, like old leaves; then they were put into a fire. But a few he would bring home. Mama, all of us, we nursed them until they were strong and could fly away. They would fly away just when we loved them most. Oh, like children! (Capote, Truman. Summer Crossing. Penguin Classis, 2006, pp 87 – 88.)

It was never dark there: Notes on 'Summer Crossing'

Capote, Truman. Summer Crossing. Penguin Classis, 2006.

Summer Crossing is said to be "the lost novel that inspired Breakfast at Tiffany's." I'm only at the book's beginning and already I've noted a conspicuous prose-poetry style — enjoyable in small doses, chafing when too much — which is later on refined to simply poetic (to perfection in my opinion) in BAT and In Cold Blood.

It is also making me pine for city chaos and, especially in Chapter 2, the theatre:

Broadway is a street; it is also a neighborhood, an atmosphere. From the time she was thirteen, and during all those winters at Miss Risdale's classes, Grady had made, even if it meant skipping school, as it often did, secret and weekly expeditions into this atmosphere, the attraction at first being band-shows at the Paramount, the Strand, curious movies that never played the theaters east of Fifth or in Stamford and Greenwich. In the last year, however, she had liked only to walk around or stand on street-corners with crowds moving about her. She would stay all afternoon and sometimes until it was dark. But it was never dark there (emphasis mine): the lights that had been running all day grew yellow at dusk, white at night, and the faces, those dream-trapped faces, revealed their most to her then. Anonymity was part of the pleasure, but while she was no longer Grady McNeil, she did not know who it was that replaced her, and the tallest fires of her excitement burned with a fuel she could not name. (pp 24 – 25)

It was never dark there. I bet none of us imagined places like Broadway would ever be dark or mute, but here we are.

Let's be friends

HELLO! I've been checking my stats and I notice that I have some regular readers from different parts of the world. You have no idea how happy that makes me.

If it's okay with you, I'd very much like to know you. Please leave a comment, maybe with your name and social media account, so I coult stalk you hahaha. (All my socials are in the side bar, if you're interested.)

Anyway, I wish you a good day ahead and I'll do my best to be a better writer and person.

Telling the Sky – II

Telling the Sky II

Cloudsunk sun.

*

What becomes of coal after burning
becomes this sky.

*

Wind flirts, a whistle. My feet
shuffle.

—Razel Estrella

Here is the second installment of my Telling the Sky series. The lines were originally drafted in 2009, and I tried to bring more energy, a certain luminescence about them in my current revisions.