confidante

Peter Pan is a Grown Up

2011-10-04T21:30:00.000+08:00

I've never really understood why Peter Pan is such a classic. This forever-boy character refuses to grow up, but in reality, boys and girls hurry up to become men and women. Or maybe, I have become jaded and can't just see the point of remaining a boy [or a girl]. Unless of course I imagine myself in Peter Pan's shoes - and then I become in control of my own adventures and who knows what else.

But maybe, Peter Pan's story is not for me. It is for the adventurous, for the risk taker, for the throw-all-caution-to-the-wind types - definitely not for the clock-ish, one-step-at-a-time ponderers.

So I get it.

What if, just for a moment, I leave my comfort zone and fly?

Once upon a time, when I was a little girl, I had dreams of flying. This was decades before I saw those Hollywood films directed by an Asian where the characters, who were all probably of Chinese origin, did their sword fights among the swaying trees, and thrust their swords at each other - "flying". The film was called "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon". I can't even recall the story now, but I recall the flying, or it seemed to me that that was flying, because that was also how I "flew" in my dreams. I remember that I dreamt my dreams during many consecutive nights, like a series. And I remember the power, the freedom, the bliss.

In the play "Peter Pan" by Repertory Philippines starring Sam Concepcion, Peter Pan's flying is a visible display of super kid-power. As soon as this boy is hoisted up on air, everybody cheers him on: he, the peer group leader, the boy-schemer, the reckless rule-breaker. His goal for every adventure is to be a true friend, and he flies as he wins everybody's heart and affection. He is really much like the kiddo whose cute smile will make you forgive all his misdemeanors.

Peter Pan refuses to grow up because in growing up, pain and failure sets in. He remains in Never-land, where adventure happens for adventure's sake because his youth is his power. As he is constantly in touch with the child within, hardly any tragedy can destabilize him. He refuses the chaos of a settled existence because he is happily here or there, and it doesn't matter where.

The only way to pursue an unsettled, happy life is to live in the realm of fantasy. Yet even within one's imagination, where space and situation can be manipulated, a Captain Jack can still lurk in the corners and cause suffering. The only way to beat him is to be in a higher dimension, literally up in the air, and have the advantage of an air view, much like an applied insight - that is, of a fully grown man.

So this is the problem with Peter Pan: He is a boy and yet he is not. His stubborn decision to remain a boy is a man's decision. He flies and he is a picture of victory. He fights greed and vanity by his freedom from both. He leans not on the promise of the future but on the many possibilities of the present. He meets Wendy at her old age and does not recognize her because he has flown even over the ages, and has completely mastered time.

Puck, Is Oberon In Love?

2011-04-07T01:51:00.000+08:00

My introduction to puck was a high school classmate who played that role in our class presentation of the Midsummer Night's Dream back in 1978. N, my classmate who played Puck was a riot in the library where we presented the play. But I don't remember Oberon, King of the faeries. It was only when I saw the film with Rupert Everett as Oberon(1999) that I gained complete acquaintance with Shakespeare's comedy A Midsummer Night's Dream. The movie version logged in my memory, which meant that I liked that movie very much.In order to share my enjoyment with my nieces, I bought a Children's book edition of the play and gave it to them as a gift. That was back when they still donned their elementary uniforms.

Kristine and Pauline, my nieces, are into their last years of college today. They were with me when I watched "Shakespeare in London" last March 31 live on stage, at the Greenbelt Theater. As the play progressed I was happy that the two young ladies recalled Oberon and Puck, and knew exactly where these comic characters were coming from. They kept going back to their book, recalling the clowns and piecing the story. As a result, all three of us gleefully ventured with Puck and Oberon on stage, as if we had also gotten lost and realized that we're far removed from the Magical eden of Shakespeare's fictional forest. We found ourselves thrust into the hazy, futuristic milieu of the stars. Incidentally, there was some similar magic operating in the setting where we materialized. But we were as puzzled as Puck and Oberon when they landed in the magical world of Hollywood in one wrong turn.

This layering in the play - characters from a Shakespeare play playing themselves in a play by Shakespeare starring Hollywood stars who play Shakespeare's characters in a play about Hollywood-movie-in-the-making (pause), left an impression on my nieces. How magical! Indeed, magic was the motif and illusion that kept the two rooted on their seats - they, who are used to speaking in acronyms on their cell phones via email, facebook and twitter. They were quite taken with the play, laughing and mimicking the characters a long time after we've left the theater. They especially adored Chris Villongco's character, that of sexy star who went out of her way to get the part of Helena when she got hold of the Shakespeare script. She was tired of her 'sexy' packaging and was determined to play more demanding roles such as that of "Madame Curie".

Memorable is how in one scene, Chris, in wishing the director to modify her scene, spoke Helena's lines "back to front" in a stilted, high-pitched, Southern American Accent. She did this to convince her director that forwards or backwards Shakespeare's lines "don't make no sense!" Another punchline was when she declared near the end of the play after successfully playing Helena, that she would like to do another Shakespeare character in a movie. Seductively, she paused and pouted and said, "I'd like to do another movie by Shakespeare, and it is called - "War and Peace". At this, the audience burst into laughter.

However much the Shakespeare lines made no sense, my two young companions enjoyed "Shakespeare in London" very much and wildly applauded the actors. (One has begun to nurture a crush on one of the handsome players.) The long musical verses from Shakespeare's immortal creations (some lines came from The Tempest, some, from Romeo and Juliet) did not at all sound greek. In fact, the other side to this serious comedy is its sarcasm towards Hollywood and all that it represents. While most of the stars of Hollywood fade as soon as they lose media attention, Shakespeare's characters have endured up to the post-modernist literary times and on to this era of text messaging.

Pauline and Kristine enjoyed the English poet's lines even if "they didn't make any sense". They laughed at the antics of the moving caricatures on stage whose fictional fates took one wrong turn after another, because Puck, Oberon's mischievous yet loveable side-kick, "ran loose with a flower which caused people to fall in love with the first thing they saw upon waking."

Another plus is that the play was basically a love story. Where there was love, there was magic. Where there was Oberon, king of the fairies, there should be that instant magical connection between desperate lovers. But flippant Puck, turned all these blessed magic into curse. And this time, Oberon was the victim, since this King of the faeries had fallen in love with a struggling mortal actress playing Hermia.

Among our favorite scenes, the entry of the censor played by Miguel Faustman tops them all. Clearly the thespian that he is, he had us as soon as he entered the stage in an effeminate manner. His delivery was completely in character, and you will not mistake that delivery for any other, but that of that censor's. That is, if we had closed our eyes and heard only his voice, we still would have felt his unhappy, myopic view of life turned more acutely myopic by his desperate desire for control in a world where all credits go to the stars. He was so effective that we were sort of sad for him when Oberon turned him into a donkey, which, actually, he deserved.

When we left the theater, the three of us were an inch taller at knowing some things that account for great feats. Repertory did it again, made us smile and believe entertainment can always go a knot higher. Kristine and Pauline and myself - we will not forget this shared experience.

The 39 Steps, Hats Off to the Laughter

2011-03-09T11:14:00.003+08:00

What impressed me in Repertory's presentation of the 39 steps is the illusion of seeing a crowd of people on stage, when there are only four people playing all 150 characters. Lisa Infante-Robinson, Michael Williams, Juliene Mendoza, and Rem Zamora - all veterans of the legitimate stage - showcase their versatility as they switch from one character to another, sometimes, with only an exchange of hats. The "hats" they wear on this play range from the stock (policemen) to the queer (husband-and-wife hotel owners). At one point, there was a confusion of who wears what hat, and that was a riot.

After doing a "Hitchcock viewing marathon" Ana Abad Santos, play director, meticulously put together a tableau of sets that moved along with the characters. (My favorites are the doors going inside the mad professor's house - one door "acted out" three entrances, and a car which isn't there but there). While watching the play, I forgot that everything was happening on the proscenium stage, and my disbelief was so suspended that I could see and feel smoke rising out of a 30's steam train. I had the feeling of being transported right smack at Central Europe, at the dawning of the industrial age.

The dynamic stage design, never boring, is difficult to ignore since it captures some set frames straight from a Hitchcock film. [One of the challenges of this play is for the audience to spot and share (for a prize) any Hitchcock inspired set-up.] The improvisation goes as far as using the sets and the lack of them to arouse laughter. The blocking is hilarious, and one hardly notices a shift from one location to the next as Michael Williams, playing the role of Richard Hanney, the fugitive, takes the audience, once, inside an unhappy wife's shelter as a snow storm rages; once, under water when he jumped off a helicopter; once, inside a mad-scientist's gothic abode (complete with a gate you often see in vampire soaps); and out there in the black, dry, dusty road as he takes off in a crowded train. It's amazing how one could live-out the scenes in the vast outdoors while seated inside Greenbelt Theater in Makati.

The play goes around, beginning with a vaudeville show starring Mr. Memory, and ending with the same gig, starring Mr. Memory. Indeed "memory" plays a huge part in the core of this play, although the audience will see the memory-clowns only as part of the introductory entertainment. In fact, the success of 39 Steps lies in its unpredictability - unpredictable because the audience ends up taking the story-arc for granted while they are so busy laughing. The humor, however, is aroused not by any slapstick take, but from Repertory team's superb handling of all the technical elements of this piece: exaggerated props, caricature-costumes, fast-paced blocking, funny tableaus, animate sets, ambient lighting, nostalgic music, creative transformation, delightful accents, character voices, dynamic direction and passionate acting.

The 39 steps by Repertory Philippines, on stage until the end of March 2011 at the Greenbelt Theater, will infuse your senses with escapist laughter. Hats off to the players and the backstage geniuses who delivered this entertainment out of their sheer love of theater.

RENT, the Musical is Showing at RCBC until March 2011

2011-02-21T23:35:00.002+08:00

Most artists refuse to compromise their individuality. Bohemian is a word applied to those whose lifestyles don’t fit the status quo, and artists are well-known to live bohemian lives, until life itself catches up with them. The operating words in bohemian living are “creative freedom,” “live and let go,” “La vie Boheme!”

Written by Jonathan Larson (1960-1996) and narrated from the point of view of the character of a struggling filmmaker (MARK), RENT, the stage musical that runs February and until March at the RCBC theatre, captures the essence of La vie Boheme in the lives of three lovers. The love relationships are between a pole dancer and a rock artist (ROGER and MIMI), a stage actress and her gay manager (MAUREEN and JOANNE), a transvestite and a straight-guy computer geek (ANGEL AND COLLINS). The play also often looks sideways and gives a glimpse of a mother’s endless concern - however suffocating - for her child - and a friend’s loyalty to his peers that goes beyond the point of exhaustion. Lives in RENT are not exactly ideal, but the essence of how to measure our days is amply illustrated by the chorus – Seasons of Love, which says that really, we have to make every minute count, live our days, not in fear, not in hopelessness, not in hate but in courage, in faith, and in love:

525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear.
525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?
How about love? How about love? How
about love? Measure in love.
Seasons of love.

A long running Broadway musical in the early and up to the late 90s, RENT captures the struggles of artists whose basic necessities include a space to be creative and intellectual stimulation from other artists. RENT tackles a common problem – an artist’s survival in a pragmatic world. This is complicated by the cost of a carefree, impassioned life – in this play, AIDS, and that other curse, extreme poverty.

To understand AIDS, one actor went out of his way observing AIDS patients in hospitals, and talking with them for a time to empathize with their situation. The lead actress, meanwhile, says that after doing this musical, she now looks at the beggars on the streets of Manila with wisdom, realizing that they may be victims of their own choices.

RENT itself is a title that leads to deeper introspection. While it tells mainly on artists who are unable to pay rent and are in danger of losing their space and freedom, RENT also symbolizes how much our lives is simply a stewardship, that we have been rented out space and time, and however we use them will define our triumphs and failures. As a musical, RENT captures the pathos of its characters, via the predominantly rock music belted out with passionate energy by the ensemble cast. One favourite scene is that of Collins reprising the song that Angel, his lover sang to him. This song captures RENT's essence:

COLLINS
Live in my house
I'll be your shelter
Just pay me back
With one thousand kisses
Be my lover
And I'll cover you
Open your door -- I'll be your tenant
Don't got much baggage to lay at your feet
But sweet kisses I've got to spare
I'll be there -- I'll cover you
I think they meant it
When they said you can't buy love
Now I know you can rent it
A new lease you were, my love, on life
All my life
I've longed to discover
Something as true
As this is.

How to Be a Disciplined Freelance Writer

2010-11-24T22:59:00.000+08:00

To be a more disciplined freelance writer, I promise to do the following:

1 Plan my writing - I call this "mapping". On the Google calendar, I shall fill out each day with a writing task. Then I will send all of these to my cell phone via SMS so I won't forget them even if I am not in front of my PC. Mapping the articles requires a goal. For the sake of the exercise, I shall target my website. Providing online content is always a rush job. I shall give myself a target output by the end of the week and meet that target.

Mapping also includes a day for research. Since I can't always rely on the internet for Filipiniana materials, I shall allocate one day in a library. Research will help me to stay factual and objective, and spur more ideas for the next topics.

2 Write for publication - Gone are the days when I wrote just to express. These days, all my writing shall be aimed at publication. As I write, I shall automatically think of a target reader. I have never actively sought out the local magazines, but it is good to inquire if some publishers out there are looking for contributors. As for providing and selling online content, I shall not be motivated by the pay per click scheme rather, I shall concentrate on establishing a content niche, also via research and writing on the topics that interest me most.

3 Read and finish a book each week. For starters, I can reread the books already on my shelves and buy new books later.

4 Make sure I take a nap every afternoon.

5 Exercise, exercise, exercise.

6 Watch the time - I shall write every morning, from 9:00 AM to 12:00 AM. This means waking up early to fulfill other regular domestic tasks. I shall do a regular brainstorming for the next morning's article in the late afternoon after some reading. As for my regular bread-and-butter jobs, I shall block the night from 8:00 to 12:00 PM.

I have successfully fulfilled my promise in the past two weeks, resulting in eight articles for my website and a book review for Triond.com.

Hopefully I can keep this up, because, knowing me, I am good only at starting things. And at times I can be lazy or simply tired. So help me God.

Got to sit down and write

2010-11-07T00:50:00.000+08:00

Time is on my side; solitude, my friend; writing is foremost in my agenda. But first, I had to be primed. So I've gone back to reading. The last book I read was Going on Faith - Writing as a Spiritual Quest, before Inay died. My adviser, Ma'am Marge Evasco lent this book to me before I defended my masteral thesis in April. In this book edited by William Zinsser, he says,

"As a writer, I try to operate within a framework of Christian principles, and the words that are important to me are religious words: witness, pilgrimage, intention. I think of intention as the writer's soul. Writers can write to affirm and to celebrate, or they can write to debunk and to destroy, the choice is ours. Editors may ask us to do destructive work for some purpose of their own, but nobody can make use write what we don't want to write. We get to keep intention."
I have 24 hours each day. Home alone, I promised to lessen the hours I spend in not writing, and add hours to any writing that will yield something concrete. But after mapping my writing goals, I am overwhelmed. I wish I could match my intentions with discipline. I had some success today, having entered something on my journal, finally, after months of neglect.

My entire morning was spent reading the December 2002 issue of The New Yorker (I bought this on sale because there is a long essay on writing by Norman Mailer.) Norman Mailer says,

Birds and Lions - writing from the inside out.

Yesterday I finished reading "Blessings" by Anna Quindlen. Although I didn't find it engrossing, I am re-reading it as a writer. I try to trace plotting and characterization and how Quindlen seamlessly wove past and present. Quindlen says,

— Anna Quindlen (Object Lessons)

How to spend your first income, a basic guide to the new graduate working IN THE PROVINCES

2010-04-09T19:23:00.004+08:00

Young graduates just landing their first jobs are going to find out early on how fast money could be spent. Needless to say, the earlier one learns some basic financial management, the better. For a single person who does not hail from the City and finds a job in the province with an entry salary of 380 pesos per day, (approximately eight USD at the present exchange rate of 45), the following is a fairly doable budget:

Boarding House: Pesos 1000 (a room is shared with more or less six others)
Meals: Pesos 4200 (no cooking, only 50 peso meals three times a day for seven days)
Deductions: Pesos 800 (approximate salary deductions to pay SSS, Philhealth, Pag-ibig etc; this assumes that the law which has been approved, about minimum wage earner's exemption from tax is applied.)
Transportation: (none - prefer to live at a boarding place near your place of work and walk to your work every morning - this will also keep you healthy)
Representation: Pesos 500 (Buy at ukay and bargain prices, but if you are provided a uniform, you may not buy a single office blouse and skirt for a year. For casual wear, use and reuse the denims and buy the cheapest, most comfortable blouses).
Medical Insurance: Pesos 1000 (depending on the company, this is a wise investment because you are assured of a yearly medical check-up and preferably with dental care and hospitalization benefits)
Savings: Pesos 500 (Simply just put this away in a bank or vault as if you bought an expensive blouse or as if you binged on fries, spaghetti, chicken mcdo, large coke and slurpy at Mcdonald's. By the end of the year, you will have 6000 to add to your thirteenth month pay, assuming you are not a contractual employee)
Gifts and giveaways: Pesos 500 (You will always want to give away something for your closest loved ones at one point, and it is wise to budget for it early on)

After this wise use of your money, you will have more or less: Pesos 660 left in your pocket. Maybe, you can call this reserve or emergency money.

Say no to

Credit card companies offering their cards sans the membership fees.
Malling after the 15th or the 30th during midnight sales and madnesses; instead, go to church and thank God with your earnings.
Gimmicks just right after you receive your salary. Put into separate envelopes all the money you can't spend and if there's something left, go out with your friends - the sooner they know you, the lesser they will influence you to do something beyond your financial capacity.

Some early sacrifices

If you can always walk to your place of work, you may be sacrificing only your "sleeping-in" time, since obviously, you need to wake up early.
If you can avoid the expensive fast-foods and look for that best "turo-turo" in the neighborhood, you may be sacrificing only your comfort since unless it is December, you will be sweating while you eat.
If you can say no to office mates on regular drinking binges, you may be sacrificing only their camaraderie and friendships, which you can earn by some other means.
If you can think of a project (probably something concrete to buy, which you can use for a long time) and have "only" it in mind as you save some of your money, you may only be sacrificing the rest of the things you also want to buy, but only in the meantime.

Don't worry, you're young and you have a long way to go. Right now, it's important not to look at your salary, but to know how to manage it while making your life count where you are. As you develop the skill for good financial management, you will be found trustworthy to be given more. This is natural in the economy of God. With some self discipline, in no time at all, you will prosper.

Congratulations on your new job.

"Missing Appointments"

2010-02-09T13:45:00.003+08:00

Just two nights ago, I had a dream. Since I often have dreamless nights, I always jot down whatever dreams I have and I would always want to know what it could possibly mean.

I was in some place where a seminar is going on. I was supposed to be a participant in that seminar. But I realized that there were at least three events happening in that place. I wasn't really sure which particular seminar I was attending or if indeed I was a participant in any one of those three, or in all of them. Since I went to at least two rooms, one occupied by the valedictorian in my high school batch and the other by the translation secretary of the Philippine Bible society, I think that I was in some kind of hotel. One of my issues was where to sleep so in the dream, I was hoping that my former high school classmate would offer to share her room, but it was the PBS secretary who eventually hinted that I could sleep in her room.

I'm not sure what the seminar was all about but outside, waiting and maybe it was break time, I saw sitting, some of my other high school classmates. Most of these classmates were the organizers of our just concluded reunion, and they were just there.

In the meantime, my sister in law was also in the premises. She was playing something recreational in another room, and in order for me to go to where she was, I stepped out of the hotel and crossed a street.

My basic puzzle in my dream was that I was aware that the year was 2010, but that seminar happened in 2009, and I was attending or was present in the premises where a 2009 seminar was being held while the date was definitely 2010.

The high school classmate who wasn't willing to share her room told me that it was 2009. But I know it was 2010. The PBS secretary laughed and told me something I already forgot.

I walked around that hotel, looking for people to ask what the date was. I found somebody who said that indeed, it was 2010.

I forgot the other details of these dreams but the ones which stood out are the faces of my high-school classmates (all women), the face of the salutatorian, the face of the PBS translation secretary, the face of my sister-in-law, and at least a vision of some room in some hotel.

Interestingly, my sister-in-law, who, in real life, is a carefree, fun-loving woman, is outside the hotel and playing some games. Another detail is that when I followed her to where she was, I had to bring the foam or sofa I was sleeping in, and then left that thing on the side of the street before I crossed to the other side. I remember also that the person who answered that it was indeed 2010 was a totally nameless insignificant person, some cleaner in the lobby of the hotel.

I found in a dream dictionary, the following:
Many people live and die by their desk calendar these days. Ours is a time-conscious, time-driven culture. Most of us have more things to do on our schedules than we can comfortably manage. These pressures have created an environment where missing appointments and scheduled events is a constant threat.

I thought about whether I had missed something in the past and whether this lingers in my psyche. But I can think of nothing.

Dreams to this effect are common. One of the trigger events for these dreams is the nagging fear that we may not get everything done in the time given. Our anxiety about appearing competent to others is fragile and often assaulted in dreams.

True enough, I have been so busy. But not to the point that I fear that I won't get everything done in the time given. I think about my thesis but my thesis is finished by the time I had this dream.

Another interpretation of this dream is missing an opportunity. Life throws up so many possibilities that it's impossible to try everything. Each invitation comes with the promise that this event could change your life. The changes may include relationship or career rewards.

I think maybe that this is something closer to my present situation. There really are many possibilities and I pray that God will give me direction, vision, and goal. I wouldn't want to go ahead without the "pillar of cloud by day" and the "pillar of fire" by night. Right at this moment, I am thinking of a career shift, but this will depend entirely on whether God will open doors for me. In fact there are at least three doors: one that I'm already in but am not sure if I want to enter more deeply into it, another that offers itself very obviously, and it will alter my circumstances one hundred percent, and another, the ideal one - a career that only God can give and sustain.

A final scenario revolves around fulfilling the relationship obligations that already exist in your life. In this case, dreams of missed appointments may be reminding you of personal obligations that already exist. You may be missing appointments as a sign that you are not fulfilling the needs of your spouse, family, or employer.

My struggle in following either one of those doors I mentioned was that I want to be fully in the center of God's will, and I may miss the center if I just let the wind lead me to where it blows. But I am also thinking about my obligations as a daughter to my ageing mother. I am not sure how I may be missing the needs of the people I live with at home, but admittedly, there are many moments when I am with people I am supposed to love, but I am also isolated in the sense that I don't always let them touch me, nor do I really make a huge effort to become fully a part of their lives.

I am sure that in these final two senses, my dream is really symbolic. But later, I hope that there would be other dreams, more concretely symbolic of the actual things I should be pursuing during my midlife seasons.
February 8, 2010

Love in the Time of Cholera

2010-01-10T10:35:00.004+08:00

Just finished reading "Love in the Time of Cholera" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. (Actually, it has been sitting on my shelf for a very very very long time now- from Dudut). Although I liked "One Hundred Years of Solitude" very much, I didn't really enjoy this one. Maybe I've 'outgrown' (if there is such a thing) reading novels of this style. It took me so long to finish this novel, (I finished reading "The Kite Runner", by Khaled Hosseini, "Slumdog Millionaire" by Vikas Swarup, "Soul Mountain" by Gao Xingjian, White Tiger, and Banyaga by Charlson Ong while I was forcing myself to finish Marquez.

Soul Mountain alone is 504 pages but I was never bored reading it. [I bought this book because the cover says it is "Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature." Because of so many novels out there, I have no idea what to read so I rely on these claims and awards to point me to the best. Sometimes, I am disappointed, but with this one, I thought I made a right choice]. Perhaps i can identify with the solitary sojourn of the character, or maybe because I was fascinated that this was translated from Chinese (Mabel Lee). I read it slowly, also studying the English, as if I knew Chinese and guessed some "Chineseness" in the renditions. It seemed, as I read this novel, that I was also walking with the man, through the forests and through exotic bridges and passing by rivers and mountainsides, and even his loves are echoes of my own yearnings. But in this novel, he is "you,she,he", and expecting it would turn out to have the usual plotted structure was a struggle at first. I was looking for a central character, but the central character was a narrator experiencing other character's lives. Later, I appreciated the style, the atmosphere - reading it was like watching a cinematic film, visually enchanting to say the least, since it expertly visualizes the surroundings . It is also a collection of tales, short stories, anecdotes about interesting characters. Literature calls this style 'picaresque' (novel in miniature stories).

I read Slumdog Millionaire because I did not see the film. And even without the film, the human interest level alone was enough to hold my attention. I finished this novel in one sitting. The style was journalistic, so it was easy to read. I was quite impressed with the plotting and character development, but I was most impressed with the realistic approach, just-as-it-is realism. I favor novels like this, and I feel "antique" in a sense, because everybody now seems to be reading science fiction and are all gaga at fantasy. [I allowed myself to be coerced, by my 16 year old niece, to read "New Moon". But when I watched the film (also because my niece wanted to watch it so much,) I realized that well, indeed, the wolf was handsome, but the vampire was not. So that was all this novel was all about, handsome vampires and wolves and impressionable teenagers on a mysterious love affair. I'm not afraid of vampires at all, but I'm afraid of my niece getting into somethings which could be a subtle deception from the devil himself. So Help us God.]

I know nothing about India so I was quite curious and bought another novel about India called "White Tiger," a very depressing book which also told everything that it knows about India, but minus the 'glint' of hope present in "slumdog..." This one simply says, this is India, "It's filthy, it's corrupt, it deserves it's hoodlum characters." I wanted to balance my reading so I borrowed an Autobiography - Lindy Hope said this one was a classic and it gave a picture of India before the India that is today's India - "The Sun in the Morning" by M.M. Kaye. Set at the time when India was still under British occupation, and there was ample spaces and stretches of exotic land for the sun to glare at, The Sun in the Morning romanticized India so I saw the other side. I enjoyed reading all these books.

The "Kite Runner" was so sad, but in the end it was also a poignant story of true and deep friendship, and what it means to put your life on the line for your friend. [I should have read "Kite Runner" earlier, but at the time that I was looking for this book, powerbooks said it was sold out, so I was happy to have finally borrowed it from a friend] I really really cried. Well, my friend from SK Yna also lent me the film together with the book so my experience was complete. Sometimes, it takes novels like this to jolt me out of my complacency. I could sense all the feelings in this film, it is like a poem. Since I'm no critic, I don't know how to fully express my appreciation of this story. But this is one story that affirms what it means to be "human" in an extremely inhuman condition. Now I became curious about Afghanistan so I read a book about an American, married to an Afghan, who had a parlor in Afghanistan. I still have to buy that book and read it again. But it was so expensive, so I browsed it as fast as I could in Fully Booked at Bonifacio Old Street (my favorite bookstore). It told about women who could only allow themselves to be themselves when they were among themselves in a most natural place where they could let their hair down - a parlor. Once they got out of it, they become once more subject to the limitations of their traditions. It was an affirmation of what women can do in an extremely 'limiting' society, where a woman's role is confined to marriage and bearing kids.

Afghanistan, India, China - it seems to me that these glorious civilizations of thousands and thousands of years are slowly succumbing to each nation's inevitable deterioration. Degradation of the environment (China), Davastations brought by war (Afghanistan), imprisonment by false gods and beliefs (India). But I'm sure, the salt of Christ are ever present in those areas too. Back home, I read Charlson Ong's novel "Banyaga, A Song of War". The blurb says- ("...portrait of three immigrants and their familial, business, romantic, political and social entanglements over eight decades effectively demystifies the lingering myth-understandings surrounding the 'Chinese.' Caroline S. Hau, Writer and literary critic.") Since the 'tycoons' seem to Lord it over businesses and are the richest in the Philippine Islands, I recommend this book to all of us who wish to understand where these Chinese merchants and citizens of the Philippines are coming from. They have a most interesting story to tell. I could only wish that for Filipinos who are migrants abroad, that they too could become successful and reach a position of influence and success that would make a difference in the country where they are now in, even if they would have to start at the lowliest positions or jobs. The Chinese could do it, why couldn't we?

"Love in the Time of Cholera" is a love story. I won't forget it's title and it's author, but I will forget what it's all about. Meanwhile, I have already forgotten the name of the author of "The KiteRunner", but I will never forget its story.

Fiction Writing

2009-10-10T21:50:00.003+08:00

Today I read a short story from the Philippine Free Press, by a prolific writer of short stories who has won many times in the Free Press' Fiction writing contest. After reading the short story, I googled the author and looked for other stories posted somewhere in the net. Lately, I've been doing this, reading short stories by Filipino authors and then googling to find other short stories, trying to study how those stories were written and what they were about.

I have also been re-reading old and new short stories by foreign authors. Some of the old books which remain in my collection were assigned to us for study when I was taking up AB English - a long, long time ago (includes the general classic collections: A Pocket Book of Short Stories; Great Modern European Short Stories; 75 short masterpieces etc.). My professors then, all of them were not writers, taught us that a short story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Of course there should be conflict, action should rise to a climax and then there should be a falling action, a denoument. Then short stories, they said, are categorized into "plot driven" and "character driven". In those college years, we were required to evaluate these ancient classics into these categories, using the simplest definition.

But if anything, I realized that If I were to write a short story, I would like to aim for that element of surprise - that one inevitable feeling which comes right after reading a story, and that rising interest that goes up and up and up as one reads. This is something I see in many short stories by Butch Dalisay. Incidentally, this is also something I see in some of my favorite classic films, a good story that has a single effect, AND a definite "Yes!" ending. "Yes," because there could be no other ending except that ending and "Yes," because It ends.

The short story I read today was something that did something else - it aroused empathy. This other effect could be another area of study - how to make readers feel for the characters. If there is anything at all that needs commitment in a short story, it is probably the creation of a reason and motivation for a character's behavior, the drama that could be merely implied but underlines the whole, and this, without getting sentimental. My professors in fiction workshop, (part of the creative writing course) were dogmatic on this - don't be sentimental, they said, and this is quite a task when writing fiction since you're dealing, with, what else but emotions. What they do in 'unsentimental' fiction is that they draw the emotions, a task that can only be achieved if one is fluent in the language used and has a complete grasp of the idioms and metaphors required.

In other short stories I read, the characters were simply presented, without an unveiling of past or present drives. I didn't like many stories by Checov because they left me with a frown and always, a question - so? Those stories left me wanting, and while reading, I kept thinking about when things would finally happen.

Writing fiction is quite a challenge. But well, I had time to write today, and so I drafted something which begins with : When she left the town, Sinang Canisales, five feet four inches tall, weighed one hundred and ten pounds...

(I remember Ricky Lee's book about writing; he says that there are many ways by which you can reach Qiapo....)

What happens next to my beginning is up to whether I am learning anything at all in reading short fiction.

Back to Writing

2009-09-10T19:11:00.003+08:00

From 2000 to 2003, I wrote and kept on file three one act plays, one English poetry collection (15 poems), three short stories (one English, two Filipino), one full length Romance novel in Filipino, a collection of journalistic essays, and one short story for children. This happened because they were requirements for my creative writing classes and they were actually graded. In 2003, I also began a short biography which I finally finished this year! (Finished in the sense that finally I was able to submit it for review to my adviser, but of course, my work has actually just begun because I need to revise it, as per my adviser's "advice":)

In the interim years (2003-2008) my writing seemed to have taken a back seat, because I got busy in translation and editing (they pay my bills). But now, I don't have much time left, especially for the thesis. Going back to my thesis has again spurned a lot of writing. But I realized that I needed to go back to the basic writing exercises (I got my old notebook and resumed the ordinary journal entries since I could not write everything in a blog), get some inspiration and sit down and write regularly no matter what. This is a most difficult thing to do because at the end of the day, I am too exhausted working with words. After all, editing and translation is a "wordy" job, and if you've been on online translation, you'll realize how demanding the deadlines are.

I came to a point when I truly asked, what do I need an MA for. And the answer is simply that since I began it, I should finish it. However, going back to the thesis truly exposes me once more to the challenges of crafting with words, and I take this as one benefit of pursuing this MA, not for the degree itself but for the sheer pressure to write.

So as I go through my thesis one more time, I also go back to the manuscripts on file. It inspires me that I actually finished those pieces, and maybe, I should use them.

Meanwhile, I am slowly going back to the routine of writing, and hopefully, even as age is catching up with me, I would be able to somehow share some things to an audience. But this means that right now, I have to fight the sleepy sluggishness after a day's work, maybe learn some creative way of shifting gears then truly just sit down and write.

I don't know how I will fare in this renewed effort. They say that work should be fun. But writing as of now is not fun. It's work, work, work. But strangely, I can't abandon it. Maybe, I am cursed to write.

Madeline Llengle puts it this way, that simply, I have a gift, and I should serve the gift. I need to ponder more on this insight from her book Art and Faith, because right now, I desperately need affirmation, first from my innermost core, that this gift truly exists. So help me God.

Tomorrow August 5

2009-08-04T22:24:00.003+08:00

Tomorrow August 5 is the day of Cory Aquino's burial. Tomorrow has been declared a national holiday. But there really was no need to declare tomorrow a national holiday because people will leave houses, schools, work, and offices anyway to mourn with the Aquino family.

My prayer is for this nation's leaders to see through this event and meditate on Cory's legacy. It was not just democracy that she was trying to uphold, it was also decency, a moral uprightness most expected of leaders.

Her achievement overshadows all "economic gains" this present government claims it has achieved. The image of Cory's passing, both when she's alive and upon her death, is a reproof to those holding on to power right now. They should realize that because they ignore righteousness they are impotent in effecting change that will leave a mark on people's hearts and minds. Those in power now must understand that goodness triumphs even in death, and similar examples are countless, starting from Jesus Christ Himself. Leaders today should learn from the tears of the people - they also cry because of the demise of moral authority in this land.

People are tired of the corruption and the many injustices. We can't keep up with the high prices, however much we sweat at work. We are so deprived of extra time since all time is spent trouble shooting domestic difficulties in order to meet our basic needs. We can't always be faulted for preferring noontime shows that promises easy wealth over debates on issues unless they border on entertainment because, at the end of the day, we simply want to rest and sleep from the sheer exhaustion brought about by poverty. But these are nothing compared to the lies we have to endure, broken promises that drove our people away to foreign shores.

It took us twenty years before we burst onto the streets in spontaneous action against the Marcos dictatorship. In spite of many attempts at getting us all to EDSA again for another people power, everything just boiled down to numbers but there was not much impact and result. Now, more than another twenty years has passed. Cory summoned us back on the streets again. And we came, again, spontaneously.

Tomorrow, August 5, we will again speak -- collectively, loudly, profoundly. By our presence in the crowd, we will be both voicing dissent and applauding goodness. Silently, by being together in great numbers, we will be declaring: This is what leadership should be. We expect utmost moral authority from the leaders of this land. The higher the position, the higher the expectation. This is what we need, a leader who can command respect because she has a good soul. From our leaders, we are hoping for not merely a double digit growth in the GDP but for multiple acts of bravery that will consistently champion what is right.

Hopefully, our present leaders will get the message, loud and clear.

Some medical terms are in order

2009-07-28T12:58:00.002+08:00

I had Hyperthyroidism in 2002, but after total Thyroidectomy that year, I am now taking 50 mg of Lyvothyroxine drug to supplement my body's Iodine requirement, and 1200 mg of calcium with vitamin D, to address the Hypoparathyroidism, which was, unfortunately, caused by the Thyroidectomy. Every three months, I go to the endocrinologist using my Health Card for a blood, T3 , T4, sugar, calcium, potassium test. I complained of fast weight loss three months ago, so my doctor said that I should stop taking my Iodine supplement for at least three months and then I should go back for check up.

Blood extraction for T3, T4 assessment has become part of my life cycle - that is, my calendar includes a definite visit to the doctor. These visits would have been very costly since doctors now charge 1000 pesos a visit. A T3, T4 extraction costs about 3000 pesos. The Health Card costs me 740 a month, and the medicines would be about 700 pesos if I'm faithful to the dosage. The doctor advised me to buy vitamin D, but since Rocatrol is so expensive, I now walk at least three times a week between the hours of 8 and 10 to get some free, healthy vitamin D via my skin. Hopefully walking will help keep my bones intact, my sugar low, and my T3T4 in check.

Nothing will alarm me anymore when it comes to Hypothyroidism, since I've read extensively about it. I don't really dwell on my symptoms - that is - slow reflexes, sluggish mind function, aching muscles, and sometimes, locked jaw and clumsiness. But when my sister-in-law called to say that my 13 year old nephew is diagnosed with Hyperthyroidism because of Thyroiditis, I got so alarmed.

One bad effect of knowing you're sick with something is depression. My sister-in-law naturally worries for her son to the point of panic. But I told her to downplay the factual details of her son's illness to her son so he won't get depressed and be able to get on as a normal teen ager. Already, he is not able to join some of his PE activities because any strenuous physical activity will worsen his already fast heartbeat and high blood pressure. He needed to present a medical certificate to his teacher so he would be exempted from a recent marathon in school. The doctor gave him Inderal to control his palpitations, and of course, he was forbidden to take anything that will enhance the abnormal production of Iodine in his body. At thirteen, he is taking two types of medicines. Hopefully, he will get cured and not be told that he'd have to take the drugs for a lifetime, as most Thyroid patients are doing.

I looked up Thyroiditis because I wanted to know how my nephew got it. True, Thyroid disease is in the genes. Both my two sisters were "hyperthyroids" before they went through RAI or Radioactive Iodine. My youngest sister had RAI twice because hers was toxic. Now both of them are taking Lyvothyroxine like myself - everyday, before breakfast - for an indefinite period of time. But Thyroid diseases are more common in women.

Before his Thyroid gland ruptured, abnormally secreting huge amounts of iodine which accelerated his metabolism, my nephew was diagnosed with Tonsillitis. He had fever and sore throat and he was absent from school for about a week. His doctor prescribed 500 mg of antibiotic three times a day! If Thyroiditis is drug induced, this definitely caused my nephew's present illness. After a week of taking the antibiotics, he lost 10 pounds in a month's time. I was so alarmed at the rapid loss of weight. I fervently prayed that it was nothing serious, and I kept calling him, asking about his symptoms, and looked them up on the Internet.

When my sister-in-law called me, I told her to keep calm because Hyperthyroidism is treatable. Yes, she'll have to watch a lot of things, and a regular visit to the doctor is a must. I told her to record the symptoms, as this will also help her son understand his illness and make him worry less about it. He should be made to realize that his Hyperthyroidism and Thyroiditis can be cured in a matter, perhaps, of two years.

My main frustration is with the doctor who never even considered how those antibiotics he prescribed would affect his patient. How heavy was this dosage: 500 mg of strong antibiotics three times a day for a thirteen year old! I asked my mother how she dealt with our Tonsillitis when we were growing up. Surely, every child at one time had an inflamed tonsil. She said that she gave us warm water to gurgle and Paracetamol for the fever, but she rarely gave us antibiotics. Knowing that she doesn't even want to take pain relievers for her own pains, I am more inclined to believe that if we took antibiotics at all, it wasn't 500 mg three times a day for a week!

My brother took his son to two doctors so he could have a second opinion about the prognosis. One of the two doctors explained the illness to him in layman's terms. He was somewhat relieved that he knows what is causing the weight loss. But he is gritting his teeth because other doctors, simply get their pfs, and don't care a whit about their patients. In these uncaring times, it's no wonder that some Doctors can just pack their bags and fly abroad to become nurses. To some, the Hypocratic Oath has become no more than a hollow platitude.

25 Things

2009-02-08T21:54:00.003+08:00

1 Once, I was understudy in a play called “Daughter’s for Sale” (Carlos P. Romulo). I was required to master the lines of one of the daughters, ‘Amparo.’ Since I thought there was no chance I was going to act on stage (there was only one play date- in Intramuros), I learned some of the blocking, but was lazy memorizing the lines. I had resigned myself to the role of prompter. But on the day of the play, the lead actress was a no show. This was during Marcos’ time, when student activists were being ‘salvaged.’ I think the story was that the lead actress, who was also Editor in Chief of a publication openly opposing Marcos, received a life threat. So she did not come that day; I had to wear her costumes (they were too big for me) and got on stage to play the part. My co-actors helped me a lot, and since the play was slapstick comedy, the actors somehow found a funny way of pushing me here and there where I should be in the blocking, and they did a lot of adlibs and adjustments so the show could go on. The play ended, then there was the ‘curtain call,’ and they gave us roses. That was my only taste of the ‘limelight.’ (The following day, I got a short kudos from Crispina Belen in her column at Bulletin Today. She misspelled my surname however. She wrote ‘kudos to Josefine Baril...’)

2 In College, I was extremely bored with my course (AB ENGLISH) but what saved me from complete boredom was my four year active membership in our college’s theatre group called “Tanghalang Dalwa Singko.” Once, in one of the plays written by one of the members, I played a crazy woman who prophesied about the end of the World. The play was called ‘Tuldok.’ I realize later that most of my lines were taken from the book of Jude in the Bible.

3 In my entire life, I have not bought nor received as gift a single stuff toy. I owned only one toy when I was a child, a bald, crawling doll (turn the key on and it crawled). It wore a polka dot overalls and it was two times the size of my fist. Whenever I think about this, I regret losing my favourite baby picture, the one where I was in a similar posture of crawling in my fours- and I was bald too.)

4 I fell on a canal when I was a child, so I had seven stitches on my head.

5 I fell on a steep slope about ten meters down when I was in my second year high school. I remember feeling that I was running very fast (like flash Gordon). In fact, I was rolling down, down, down, until I bumped on a bush. Nobody could get me so I went up myself after I recovered. I remembered that the sky was very clear when I landed on my back, and I was shocked, but I did not cry. My right arm was wounded on that fall.

6 When I was in high school and up until I was in college, my huge chore every weekend (one whole day) is ironing all the laundry. I don’t remember washing my clothes from the time I could do it until I had my first job, but I used to iron two huge tin containers of clothes every Saturday or Sunday. For a time, my one pet peeve was not being able to iron my clothes before wearing them (even if they were wash-and -wear). But this has long changed. I can wear anything direct from the wash line today, of course, as long as it is dry.

7 I had only one uniform when I was a freshman in high school, so my mother would always be very angry if I spoiled it in a day. I think she washed and ironed it every two days.

8 During the gap between my first job (medical representative) and my second (high school teacher), I auditioned as a singer in an agency recruiting “cultural workers” to Japan. I passed the singing bit, but they said I should gain weight. I was so naive that I did not realize they were more concerned about ‘the looks’ rather than the ‘singing voice’.

9 When I was medical representative, our team, four med-reps plus the team supervisor in Quezon City Area, used to meet in what we called ‘contact point.’ That was my first job in Manila after spending my whole life in the province. So I was the promdi, wearing the wrong clothes, speaking in puntong ala-eh, and using Johnson’s baby powder on my face. My supervisor always wanted me to put some make up on and always castigated me when I came to that contact point sans make up. So he bought me this whole make up set – one container has it all – and took it upon himself to tutor me in the art of selling. I needed to meet my quota after all. I never got to use that makeup set because the next day, a pickpocket stole it from my bag. Perhaps he thought it was a wallet.

10 One time, in a bus, a pickpocket again stole what he thought was wallet. It was my slim, silver edged, leather bound, New American Standard Version Bible.

11 I became a Christian in 1983. My sister got born again, and she said she was attending this Baptist church. I was never religious, and I didn’t have any stand, nor opinion, nor any deep belief in the Divine, so I said, any church was as good as the rest. I suggested a Baptist church which was nearer our boarding place. Maybe, because she truly had a ‘burden’ for me as the jargon goes, she agreed. I chose the nearest Baptist church. The choir in that church was excellent. I came back the following Sunday, and the next, and the next, because of the choir. Then, I joined the choir, then I attended Sunday school, then I got born again.

12 My second cousin is a missionary in Morocco, sharing God’s message to the people there. Five of my friends are missionaries, too, and sometimes I wonder about what I am doing about the Great Commission as I sit in front of my computer and work with words. When I hear the stories of my missionary friends, I feel deeply humbled, and a bit envious, wondering whether God could play favourites.

13 I have collected quite a number of books on water-colour painting. I once enrolled in a watercolour class, I have been collecting brushes and have bought some paper and other materials– but I don’t know when to actually sit down and just do some watercolour painting!!!!

14 I am deeply honoured to be the one living with my mother in her old age.

15 I go to the wet market once a week to buy the very same things – chicken, fish (two kinds-one to fry or for daing and the other for pinangat or pinais in either sampaloc or kamyas), pork, potatoes, onions, garlic, green chilli, sampaloc –the skinned type (we call it kipil to cook fish in), saba, kamote, monggo, and fruits in season. It used to be difficult since I didn’t know what to buy. But now, I have sukis, and the whole marketing takes me less than an hour (including commuting time), if I see fresh fish at once. But I yet have to grow wiser in dealing with dishonest fish vendors.

16 I have a total of only six godchildren; because I think only two among my close friends are married and they each assigned one child to me. The rest are my nieces and nephews and one is a cousin.

17 I find it very difficult to write for children.

18 As I’ve already blogged, I lived in more than 8 houses in my thirteen years of working in Manila.

19 I took up almost all the accounting units relative to becoming a commerce graduate in college, while I was feeling insecure that I would not be able to find a job after my AB English course. So my transcript of records shows that Liberal Arts Commerce was my course in my last two years. I got only passing grades in accounting. Now that I’m in business, I realized that I should have taken all my accounting subjects seriously. Actually, I did not learn anything. Right now, all I can really do is basic bookkeeping. Somebody else has to balance the accounts and do the financial reports.

20 I can’t go out without applying Vitress on my hair. (If not, you will always ask me, “Mahangin ba sa labas?”) Otherwise, I wear something that covers my bulk of short hair entirely. So I have a little collection of ‘turbans’ or ‘tubao’s’ or ‘headbands’ or ‘headnets’ in my closet drawer.

21 There are only two directions my nephews and nieces are taking or planning to pursue – one in the medical field, either to become doctors or nurses, and the other in the arts and media field. I always sense a tension in these extremes within my family.

22 I share with my brother a love for old things to display inside the house, decorative pieces which seem antique and have been used in the past but not discarded.

23 I have slept over in all of my friend’s houses through the years of working in Manila and even today when I occasionally go to Manila for some freelance work. (Most of these friends are here on facebook). My very urgent prayer...’Lord, give me a place of my own in the city.’

24 I’m not up to date with ‘what’s up.’ I’m always the last to know.

25 I don’t cook most of the time (but I can do some basic dish). I don’t drive (I learned how to drive my brother’s old car, but it wasn’t even three months when he got a new car, and then he wouldn’t allow me to drive it, so now, I have lost all confidence in driving.) I don’t cross stitch ( I tried but the one piece I started in 2002 is not yet finished)

Amazing

2009-02-06T22:12:00.003+08:00

At four twenty nine PM today February 4, 2009, I’m writing near this cute waterfall here at the Lanai at Bread of Life. Imagine having WIFI connection here! Right outside Soul Shop, this whole place is my oasis here in Quezon City. I like the peace, the clean and green atmosphere, and the cozy ambiance. At Soul Shop Cafe,I had cafe Americano and oat cookie, cheap at P70, while I read the latest edition of TIME magazine (all sorts of magazines are on the restaurant’s magazine rack, for people who like to read them). After that and an hour of prayer, I sat in one of the round tables and scribbled these notes.

When I left PBS, after proofreading '100 ways to live the word,' I thought about how to spend the dead hours after proofreading and before the interview which I would conduct at 6:30 that night. Soul Shop at Crossings 77 easily won over the National Museum which also battled in my thoughts. So from UN Avenue I took the FX going to SM Fairview and got down at the last Street before Timog Avenue.

Soul Shop offers me rest and respite from my usual day to day scenarios. While my days are ordinary, being here is extraordinary because here I feel completely secure in my aloneness; extraordinary because the comfort it offers lasts long even after I’ve already left.

I have gone to the Touch of Glory Prayer Mountain in Antipolo, but I found it quite noisy for a prayer place. However, BOL prayer room adjacent to Soul Shop where I also had a glimpse of some ministers of Bread of Life having their quiet time with God, this is one of the best places for personal retreat.

Outside the “prayer room,” while I was taking my shoes off, an old man asked me. “Is this where you’re going?” I didn’t know how long he had been watching me, but I thought from his question that this was his first time here. He asked “What is this place?” And I said, “A place to pray.” And in my hurry to get inside to gather myself in this soothing quietness of prayer, I did not even notice if he too, took his shoes off and prayed.

Anyway, after an hour, I opened my eyes and realized that all the lights were turned on. At least four people were reading something devotional and perhaps they needed the light. This place, that is constantly showered with prayers and thoughts and meditations about God’s Word, has always made me "feel" the rush of Divine Power. Some Christians are wary of this “feeling” thing, but in other words, inside that prayer room, I always had this full awareness that God would definitely meet with me, there, at that exact hour of prayer.

On my way to Soul Shop, I remembered one Lakbay TV episode, where one Fil-Am who didn’t know how to speak Tagalog took the LRT and went down from station to station. The experience supposedly would expose him and viewers too, to the “local color” from Monumento to Baclaran. But at Central situation, he cut his trip already. At every stop, he did his best to say something "interesting" about the place. However, it’s really difficult to highlight any distinctive quality at each stop. He goes down the train, sees a tiange, tries out some delicacies at the nearest turo-turo, and as much as he tried to be cute and entertaining in those settings, his travel notes were forgettable. Maybe, because he has not lived in the Philippines long enough, he’s not yet immune to the lack of luster, the plainness, the poverty on the streets. Did he really find those places interesting?

I remembered this because as the FX negotiated TAFT, Espana, and finally Quezon Avenue, I searched for something interesting on the road, on the buildings, on the billboards, on the street corners, in the traffic of people walking or scrambling for a ride. I was disappointed at what I saw along the way. What did I expect to see?Actually, I just like to be amazed.

Here at Soul Shop, I was amazed – not with the place itself nor its ambiance – but with the presence of God.

A day in a TORU life

2009-01-29T18:57:00.002+08:00

Last year, TORU simply accepted what I declared as my gross income. This year, they required my tax receipts. I also noticed that the cubicles allowed for more professional ambiance in that division. I saw a high school acquaintance who is an employee there and she joked about my being single – she said that it’s a waste that I’m still single – and of course, I let that one pass, although I had difficulty controlling my sarcasm. But after all, she said that in jest and I liked it that she remembered my name even if we’re not classmates then. (But up to now, I couldn’t recall hers.) My stock answer to why I’m still single is “because not everybody will be married.” And that is the plain and simple truth. But I’m digressing.

After the TORU assessment, I proceeded to queue : to get my cedula, to pay my municipal tax, to have the legal office sign and notarize my papers, to get the yellow form at the City Health Department, to get the fireman’s signature, and finally to the ENRO registry. I finished TORU at about 11:30 AM (I was there after 10:00AM and was number 49 – a good chance I thought to finish all the lining up before 12:00). But I had to go back to get my tax permits at home, and that should have been quick, except that going back home, I had to pass by the market, buy mangoes, then at home, eat my lunch, and by the time I got back to TORU, I had to wait another fifteen minutes coz it was still lunch break. At 1:15, I resumed the processes and the whole thing lasted up to 4:00 PM. Today, I am supposed to finish proofreading the layout of 100 profiles (finally we're on layout) and I wasn’t able to do this (these profiles have been commissioned by the Philippine Bible Society, and the book is going to be launched probably, in April this year.)

So now, I’m getting my Mayor’s Permit on Tuesday.

While sitting or standing, I watched the people, both the harried and expectant, the bossy and the gracious, those who patiently wait for their names to be called and others like myself who picked on the system at every turn. I noticed how tolerant some of the volunteers and employees were, that those who complained got simple “call-center-like” response, and whatever you say, nobody behind each counter reacted adversely or snobbishly – rather, the opposite –polite, gentle answers interspersed with po and opo and kuya, ate, tita and in my case – God bless them – nanay! As in ‘Nanay upo po muna kayo. May pila po tayo.’ (Maybe I should have a whole new set of wardrobe and get rid of the glasses, hahaha!)

All the while at the queue, I was dreaming of a time when I could afford somebody to line up for me. I like writing, editing and translation (in this order), but I hope I can do merely those and let others do the errands, the bookkeeping, and the answering of calls. But who knows how long I’m going to be in this trade. One good thing about being single is that I can simply go in and out of a venture and I have plenty of choices. What if I enroll in that TESOL thing in Bangkok then teach English anywhere in the world? This has been a huge, tempting thought. Malapit ko nang patulan.

But for now, I need to prepare the modules for the translation seminar in April, I need to finish my thesis, I need to edit a book, I need to write a biography. And finally, and most importantly, I need to be home for my mother.

So let it be just this, in the meantime.

Permits and Licenses

2009-01-23T23:06:00.002+08:00

Yesterday, as the waters massaged me at the now-becoming-famous water spa at Del Monte (their promo lured us, my three other single friends, to a three hour babad with sauna etcetera ; go there and see for yourself; it's fun), I kept thinking about the permits I ought to accomplish before January 30. First, I ought to renew my Mayor's permit and this requires at least a whole day of my time, which I am unwilling to yield because the municipio is too crowded and I get dizzy on the queue.

The book I brought last time I lined up at TORU (Treasury Operations Review Unit) fell from my lap and got walked on and kicked and was torn when my head dropped because I probably got overwhelmed by all the carbon dioxide in the room since the air-conditioning was not enough to keep us-too many of us-I was number 345 in the TORU line alone- from yawning. When I woke up, I learned that number 222 had surrendered her number and that should have made me happy except that TORU officials were by that time still processing number 185.

The TORU people are supposed to assess how much I should pay based on my gross income. After that, I was to line up to get my cedula, and then line up again to have my papers signed by the Office of the City Veterinary and Agricultural Services [OCVAS], City Health Office, Bureau of Fire Protection, Environment and Natural Resources Office [City ENRO]. I'm not really sure why I should have my papers signed by the OCVAS since I don't even have a pet. And for three years now, ENRO has been conducting a seminar on trash segregation, using a now familiar brochure, before they sign my papers. Meanwhile, the people in the fire department just sign, but I'm always afraid that they would require me to install a fire extinguisher before they sign my papers.

All their signatures will then be examined by the City Legal Office and once I have the notary seal, then it will go up to the Mayor's office itself and I will have my Mayor's permit to operate.

Maybe this is one of those things I should not really do. Maybe, I should just go freelance minus the legalities, sans the permits and licenses and without the risk of ruining some of the things I value more- such as a book. But even as I murmur about this minor inconvenience (since this happens only in January), I'm sure that this week, I will have to go back and line up at the municipio again.

And maybe this time, I should not read a book but rather enjoy being with all those businessmen and women who continue to make money for this City. I should perhaps rejoice that I am somehow a part of a progressive community of the micro and macro movers of the economy, even if my contribution is a mere penny. Maybe I should stop reading these existential plays and instead focus on possibilities. Indeed, as the Nike slogan says, I should "Just Do It."

2009-01-08T19:47:00.008+08:00

My niece is turning 18 on January 19. I have never forgotten the fact that while this very cute baby was being born, Iraq was bombing Israel. During her birth date the Gulf War was raging in the deserts of Iraq. Operation Dessert Storm was expected to neutralize the enemy and subdue it. But Iraq was stubborn:

January 1991
“Iraq launches missile strikes”

"If Iraq was to be forced to obey UN resolutions, the Iraqi government made it no secret that it would respond by attacking Israel, who was allowed to ignore them without any action from the UN. Before the war started, Tariq Aziz, Iraqi Foreign Minister and Deputy Prime Minister, was asked, “if war starts...will you attack Israel?” His response was, “Yes, absolutely, yes.”[29] The Iraqis hoped that attacking Israel would draw them into the war. It was expected that this would then lead to the withdrawal of the U.S.' Arab allies, who would be reluctant to fight alongside the Jewish State. Israel did not join the coalition, and all Arab states stayed in the coalition. The Scud missiles generally caused fairly light damage, although their potency was felt on February 25 when 28 U.S. soldiers were killed when a Scud destroyed their barracks in Dhahran. The Scuds targeting Israel were ineffective due to the fact that increasing the range of the Scud resulted in the dramatic reduction in accuracy and payload. Nevertheless, the total of 39 missiles that landed on Israel caused extensive property damage and two direct deaths, and caused the United States to deploy two Patriot missile battalions in Israel, and the Netherlands to send one Patriot Squadron in an attempt to deflect the attacks. Allied air forces were also extensively exercised in "Scud hunts" in the Iraqi desert, trying to locate the camouflaged trucks before they fired their missiles at Israel or Saudi Arabia. Three Scud missiles, along with an Allied Patriot that malfunctioned, hit Ramat Gan in Israel on January 22, 1991, injuring 96 people, and indirectly causing the deaths of three elderly people who died of heart attacks. The Israeli policy for the previous forty years had been retaliation, but at the urging of the U.S. and theatre commanders, they decided that discretion was the better part of valour in this instance. After initial hits by Scud missiles, Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir hesitantly refused any retaliating measures against Saddam Hussein, due to increasing pressure from the United States to remain out of the conflict.[30] The U.S. was concerned that any Israeli action would escalate the conflict simply by its occurring, and an air strike by the IAF would have required overflying hostile Jordan or Syria, which could have provoked them to enter the war in Iraq or to attack Israel. Source WIKIPEDIA

Tuesday, January 06, 2009 Israel Today Staff

"Livni: Era of Israeli restraint is over"

“Israeli Foreign Minister Tzipi Livni on Monday said that the assault on Gaza's terrorist infrastructure should signal to Hamas and the world that the era of Israeli restraint has come to an end.

“Israel's offensive in response to years of Hamas rocket fire is intended to "change the equation" in the region, Livni told reporters after meeting with visiting European foreign ministers in Jerusalem.

“Livni indicated that from this point forward, Israel will respond with great force to any aggression against its citizens.

“The Europeans were in Israel to push for an immediate 48-hour ceasefire in Gaza. Livni and the rest of the Israeli leadership rejected the proposal, insisting that the only way forward is for Hamas to first stop firing rockets and to be relieved of its ability to threaten Israel. Source: www.israeltoday.co

I do not know how to pray for either Israel or Gaza, except to call on God to be merciful. But I continue to pray that God will continue to give this land and the surrounding areas Peace, and not let the children and the young people experience any world war. Just at the news today, Red Cross volunteers saw at least four children at the boarders of Gaza. These kids are standing or sitting beside the corpses of their parents or brothers or sisters. I can only imagine their pain, the horror in their faces, the tears in their eyes, their lost innocence. In another instance, a camera man did not think that the air strikes will affect their house, but, one attack from the Israeli war planes went through their roof and killed both his brothers instantly.

I watch Israel news vehemently, even if often times, I don’t understand what’s happening. I keep asking, "When will this end?" In the Bible, there is the "Parable of the fig tree". Some commentaries say that in many instances, the occurrence of the “fig” metaphor refers to Israel. So some commentaries interpret Lk 21:28-32. and Mt 24:32-34 as referring to the end times.

Constantly, we are being told in the Bible to watch the signs of the times. As my niece turns eighteen on January 19, my watching becomes more urgent and deliberate. The world is aging and my niece is young. Hopefully, God will allow her generation to enjoy a full life in a still relatively “peaceful” world.

Escape to Family

2009-01-05T15:24:00.001+08:00

My brother Bong came home last November to take a break from his job as nurse on a cruise ship. His place here in the city is a 600 square meter resort, that is, complete with huts and rooms and a swimming pool. So the family has a place where we can always gather together and bond.

My siblings and I grew up on a 27 square meter up-and-down apartment space. Today, my sister lives with her husband and 3 children in a condo unit that is 41 square meters small. I have a house in Cavite that has a lot area of 30 square meters. Space has become too precious and sought after since all of us began earning our own income.

So during my mother’s birthday last December 10, and this Christmas, all we did was bum around in my brother’s place. We swam in the pool, played cards, laughed together at the children’s antics and jokes, ate a lot, sang every song we knew, jogged up and down the hill and sometimes down to talipapa, and slept together like campers. The kids decided to own one hut and made it their private space—together with their teddy bears and psps. Inay and myself slept under a mosquito net “imported” from China (my youngest sister worked as a teacher there). First and second cousins came and belted new songs and kundimans. Inay enjoyed the little garden and happily endured the cold nights just to be with her “apos”.

Family bonding happened more regularly in 2008 since the resort became fully operational. I thank God for this wonderful blessing. Sometimes, we get carried away and forget that others don’t have even a cardboard to sleep on. But I can’t help but be happy about our escape to family, from the stress and hurry of everyday life.

Diaries

2008-11-11T22:12:00.006+08:00

For record keeping of my daily 'activities' I would rather use my journal. If people (I'm not sure who they are) would read it at all, they would have to read it after my burial. In a course in my Masteral studies called "creative non-fiction" I submitted a bunch of first person articles chronicling twenty-five days of my activities. That requirement wasn't at all easy because I had to think of other ways to write a diary entry, since my professor, or the course demanded it. Here is one attempt from that collection entitled Essays on My Moments (Our professor wanted us to title the collection). I wrote this after "deconstructing" some of Dickinson's poems.

Journal Entry 8 (January 15, 2000)

Emily Dickinson's life could be mine. Emily was too close, too staring at life to see the reality beyond her own realities. She had unrequited passions, very few friends, not too many interactions, a lonely, comfortable, well-provided home and a lot of time to stare.

In many ways, Emily and I are the same - at least, for a time. For two years I lived alone in Pag-asa Imus Cavite when that subdivision wasn't yet fully developed. My backyard was one-square mile of rice field. All the houses-left and right and front of me-were not occupied yet. There were only a few tricycles lined up at the talipapa. In my two bedroom, thirty square meter home, I had a bed, a gas stove, and pails of water. I woke up at five AM to cath a van to reach the office in time. From the office, I always arrived home late, after ten o'clock PM, after riding a bus, then a jeepney, and finally, a tricycle. When I got home, I was as the "Cat woman" in Batman II saying, "Hello, honey, I'm home," although I didn't have a honey.

I didn't have a television and during the time, my main entertainment was DZAS. Much of my time was spent staring at the mutha grass, the cat, the movement of the rice stalks, the changing color of the clouds, the sunflowers, and the grazing carabao. I talked to my journal, about everything and anything.

No wonder I thought about death often. My poems were about "white tomb like walls about me like a plague." Emily had also pondered on death. This one seems to be the oft quoted favorite:

Because I Could Not Stop For Death by Emily Dickinson.

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

But I believe in the absolutes. Absolute God- absolute sin- absolute forgiveness- absolute redemption- absolute free will- absolute damnation- absolute evil- and absolute eternal life. I believe that life doesn't stop in this hour's isolation and frustrations. Beyond this reality, there is color, spunk, variety, adventure, and expectancy. In Emily's poem, the persona could not stop for death. As for myself, I coveted it.

Memoirs

2008-11-04T18:21:00.003+08:00

I wrote the following long essays (there are more) for the sake of writing. Some of them have been published in some magazines. I kept them in my filing cabinet until Mrs. F told me they are publishable. Well, she's a very good friend.

WANTED PRIVACY

“If our friendship depends on things like space and time, then when we finally overcome space and time, we’ve destroyed our own brotherhood! But overcome space, and all we have left is Here. Overcome time, and all we have left is Now. And in the middle of Here and Now, don’t you think that we might see each other once or twice?”Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingstone Seagull

I lived in eight houses for my total of fifteen years of working in Manila. In each of those house my motto was, “A tenant you are, therefore, to the rules of the house, you shall submit.” This meant that I tried my best to relate harmoniously with the residents and I observed house regulations. Some 'landlord' implemented curfews and locked the gate at ten PM! Others did not allow 'tenants' to cook in the house. Strict landlords screened every visitor and did not allow relatives to stay overnight. Stringent ones set a specific quota for the number of clothes one can iron at one time. Others scheduled bathroom hours to conserve water. Yet in spite of the inevitable dos and don'ts, I never experienced any problem with the rules of each rented place. What I struggled with had always been the lack of private space.

1st House
When I had my two-month training in my first job, Acquaintances from my college days Rona and Gil (not their real names) allowed me to live in their spare room. The room didn't have windows so the lights were on even during the day. It was also already occupied by a male friend from college. This friend kindly transferred to the spare mattress so I could sleep on the only bed in that room. Since we were a man and a woman in one room, I kept the door slightly open at night, comforted by the ray of light coming from the window in the sala. Claustrophobia was my phony excuse whenever he asked me why I didn’t like to close the door. I remember sleeping always fully clothed in that room. My roommate was all right, but I remember that I always felt defensive, guarded and constricted whenever he was around. In that room I slept very little.

2nd House
After passing my probation on my first job, I rented a bed space in Mindanao Avenue. My sister and I decided to live together, she on the upper deck, and I below. We were forbidden to cook inside the premises so we bought our food from the nearest turo-turo. Inside the 4 X 2 room space, sparkling mirror and sparkling floor warned against any spillage. Ate Minda, the owner who freely came in and out of the room blurted out invectives any time a ring of soda stamped itself on the dresser. I believe that Ants avoided that place for sheer fear of her restive broom. In such a pristine, clean and narrow space, a private suite complete with king-size bed and bathtub wobbled in my imagination. For a respite, during dead hours at work, when doctors would be either asleep or occupied (I was a medical representative), I would stall in and around Farmer’s plaza or browse all the classics at National Book Store. I killed time, feeling the expanse of Cubao, until my heels burned. All that time, Ate Minda would be sweeping every speck of dust in our little room.

3rd House
I didn’t last long in my first job, but when I came back to Manila, I rented a boarding house near my new place of work. Just behind the building where I worked, the apartment unit I found had an extra room for a boarder. I first thought that Cora, shared the rent with her best friend Susan (not their real names), and they occupied the other room. So I thought that we were a total of three women in that apartment unit. But I had not lived there for a month when one day, Susan barged into "my room" with her pillows, blankets, bags, shoes, and clothes.

“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s not yet the end of the month, but he’s already here.”
“Who’s He?”
“Cora's boyfriend.”
“But doesn’t he have a house?” I persisted.
“This is his other house. He pays the rent.”
So much for my privacy.

4th House
The next house tried to leave me a lesson on sibling relations, but I didn’t learn the lesson. By then, my sister already had her first job and she was a liberal, as opposed to me, a conservative. Our dreams were telling of the direction we were about to take. She wanted to get rich, and I wanted to be a writer. Meanwhile, Rita (not her real name) and her siblings were living in complete harmony. My sister and I rented the other room, which was big for two. Rita and the rest of her four sisters shared the other room. One of Rita’s sisters washed the sibling’s clothes, the other went to the market and cooked; Rita worked in the office where I was also working, while the other younger sisters were studying. While my sister and I were fighting over who was going to wash the dishes, our rent partners functioned as effective support to each other. In contrast, my sister and I could not stop our senseless fights and petty squabbles.

5th House
Eventually, my go-getter sister had to rent her own room. So I needed a smaller place for myself. Just around the corner I found a house owned by a middle-aged woman with a child. Ate Mayette (not her real name) told me that the present boarder, Christy, was leaving for Canada. Christy rebelled against Ate Mayette's decision to rent me the same room while she was yet there. The first time I came home from work, Christy had already installed a plastic curtain in the middle of the room, and moved all her things in her corner. As a consequence, I couldn’t turn the lights on when she was already in bed. I couldn’t turn my electric fan on because she was already using the only outlet in the room. I couldn’t use the upper deck so I couldn’t open the windows, I couldn’t read, and she wouldn't talk to me. Later, I found out her dilemma. An engineer, she couldn’t get a job in Canada because she was over qualified. So she had to fake all her papers in order to be accepted as a domestic helper. It didn’t help our relationship when I refused to become accessory to her plans of lying to her agent.

Ate Mayette's husband was unfaithful and he had stopped sending dollars. So she decided to get more boarders, and I moved to the bigger room. My roommates were sisters. They were fanatic basketball fans. They had a fourteen-inch TV, which they squeezed into a corner of our room. Every night of the PBA season, they jumped, and shrieked and swooned over their basketball heroes - on their king sized bed. Yes, they brought their own bed, while I occupied the lower deck of Christy’s double deck, using the top deck for miscellaneous. By now Christy was gone. And our former room was occupied by four bed spacers. In the bigger room, my new torturers seemed like wild birds when they cheered their idols wildly in kapampangan. I couldn’t separate the praise from the curse in their language. In that situation, I chose to be completely deaf in order to be able to sleep.

6th House
In the course of about two years, I had dysfunctional solitude. Decidedly, the only way out was a new boarding place. My next landlady, Mamang, was about seventy plus or so years old. She lived with her adopted daughter’s family in the house at the center that was part of a U-shaped compound. On the right was her son’s family abode, on the left was her daughter’s space. The house was a 1960s model, with a garage and a terrace. My new room was at a semi-basement in Mamang's house, near the servant’s quarters. The maid provided me with a table, a bookshelf, and a bed with drawers. That room had only a screen door because it wasn't supposed to be occupied like a real room. Right outside, it was like a highway where all of Mamang’s relatives passed whenever they wanted to cross over to the other side. When I looked out my window, there was Marilyn, the servant in the attached servant's quarters. She was the eldest among her nine siblings. Back in her home in Leyte, everybody depended on her salary as a house help in Manila. Marilyn became a friend since we didn't have a wall between us. She kept some left over food for me and opened the door when I came home late. She sometimes murmured about house chores and didn’t mind that I was hearing them. I never closed my window for fear of hurting her feelings. I never complained about the transparent screen door either. I could hide no secret from all the residents of that compound.

8th House
Right in that same area, a dorm was being built by a Balikbayan from the States. I had an artist friend who wanted to move in to a new place because her dorm mate’s mother was beginning to get suspicious about their relationship. We both eventually moved in to this Balikbayan’s dorm. Three of the four rooms on the second floor of that house could accommodate a total of eight girls. On the first floor, three rooms could house eight more boarders. There were four bathrooms, a huge wash area, a spacious kitchen and a big terrace for parties. The place was okay for individualistic singles like me. My friend and I were able to occupy separate rooms because we were among the first boarders. Later, the landlord took in other women. All of us, women, bonded easily since we moved at close range. Our doors were useless to prevent the private stories from walking up and down the house and entering the rooms. Among the stories of the women in that house, mine is the most plotless one. But the band singer's, the mute's, the mistress', the adulteress's, the flirt's, the GRO's, the artist's, the gossip's, the jobless', and the landlord’s live-in partner's stories – their tales could be a most interesting collection of vignettes of women of the nineties.

9th House
My last room was not a room. To make a partition in the dirty kitchen, I lined up a table, bookshelf, washing machine, and vinyl closet on my left side, and then installed a wire where a curtain served as door. Over my head I hung batik curtains to cover the old cement wall designed with holes that looked out to the laundry area. It also served a decorative function. Across the foot of my bed I re-arranged an old cabinet so it would cover the holes that looked out to the main house. On my right was the concrete wall where on the other side is the stove and sink area. When it rained, I wore a jacket and doubled my blanket. To protect myself from mosquitoes, I slept with a mosquito net. To shield me from prying eyes, I used a very thick curtain. I always heard frogs outside, and watching lizards became my constant diversion. In fact, that room was a most provincial one; as a result, I felt completely at home in it. My constant companions were the helper, her daughter, and her grandson – Bryan. Bryan was a lovechild. From eight AM to five PM, his mother, Carol, packed biscuits in a factory while Grandma took care of the house. In my two years of stay in that house, with no walls nor doors around all my personal belongings, I never lost a single precious item. The only private belongings that my housemates always touched were my dirty clothes. Carol would always take them out of my washing machine to wash them by hand, so she could have additional cash for her son’s upkeep.

7th. A real House
When I finally bought a house, I lived in it for two years – alone. At last I had my much coveted privacy. But ironically I didn’t really enjoy it. At first, I cherished the peace and quiet that was so conducive to writing. But after a long while, I got bored writing about wild flowers and unruly grass and prowling cats and fading rice fields. I missed the noise, the murmurs, the shouts, the smiles, the laughters.
Looking back, I remember that the people I lived with were at many times more vulnerable than I was. They did not intrude in my privacy, instead, I barged into theirs.

Curious about Boxing

2008-09-10T08:48:00.001+08:00

In today's excerpt--the poor and disenfranchised,including Jewish, Irish, and italian immigrants in early twentieth century America, often have disproportionate
success in high-risk sports because these sports are seen as a way out of poverty:

"There had been a Jewish [boxing] champion as far back as 1791, when Daniel Mendoza, a native of London's poor Whitechapel neighborhood and only 5'7" and 160 pounds, won the world heavyweight championship, which he held for four years. Mendoza, a Sephardic Jew, was a ring revolutionary in that during an era of roughhouse brawling, he introduced a scientific style of boxing, predicated on jabbing, counterpunching, and strong defense, qualities that were virtually unknown during the days of the bare-knuckle era. After losing his title in 1795 when he was
thirty-one, Mendoza became London's most renowned boxing instructor.

"By the second decade of the twentieth century, six Jews had won world titles, and, in total numbers,Jews were third behind Irish and Italian professional boxers. That number continued to grow in the 1930s when seven Jews held world titles. The high point was in 1933 when Maxie Rosenbloom (light heavyweight), Ben Jeby middleweight), Jackie Fields (welterweight), and Barney Ross (lightweight) held half of the eight world titles then recognized. ...

"For many young Jews, Italians, and Irish-Americans, boxing, for all its inherent risks, was seen as a way out of poverty. Also, Jews who grew up in crowded ghettos such as New York's Lower East Side or the Maxwell Street neighborhood in Chicago were
disinclined to take up baseball or football because playing fields were virtually nonexistent. Boxing, by contrast, required little space, and settlement houses,
where the sport was taught, abounded in Jewish ghettos.

" 'You did it for money, no other reason,' said Danny Kapilow, a good welterweight of the 1940s. ... 'It was very hard to get jobs before the war.' ... Some Jewish
fighters of the era conceded that the street fights they got into after being attacked by Irish and Italian teenagers helped them develop into boxers. 'As a kid
growing up in an Italian and Irish neighborhood in West New York, New Jersey, right across the Hudson River from Manhattan, I got into a lot of fights after being called a Jew bastard and worse.' "

Jack Cavanaugh, Tunney,
Ballantine, Copyright 2006 by Jack Cavanaugh, pp.
96-97.

Spread of Christianity

2008-09-04T09:21:00.002+08:00

In today's excerpt--in a Roman empire that was ruled by a small number of elites, heavily populated by slaves and the poor, and possessed of a flaccid paganism, Christianity grew from ten thousand believers in 100 CE to six million in 300 CE. It was the fastest spread of a religion in history until the rise of Islam in the sixth century CE. And it spread in spite of the difficulty of maintaining uniform beliefs given poor communication, poor literacy and wide geographical dispersion:

"Early Christianity was tiny and scattered. No precise figures survive, but best estimates suggest that there were considerably fewer than ten thousand Christians
in 100 CE, and only about two hundred thousand Christians in 200 CE, dispersed among several hundred towns. The late-second-century figure equals only 0.3 percent of the total population of the Roman empire (which was about 60 million). ... The rapidity of its growth rate helps explain why coded statements of belief, rather than complex rules of practice, were the passport to full membership. The very small size of
Christianity helps explain why the Roman state paid so little attention to suppressing it effectively. ...

"In the early stages of Christianity, at any one time, perhaps only a few dozen Christians could read or write fluently. On the numbers which I have just cited,
and even if we allow for a significantly higher rate of literacy among Christians than among pagans (outside of the ruling elite), by the end of the first century all Christianity is likely to have included, at any one time, less than fifty adult men who could write or read biblical texts fluently. ...

"Religion was not a frontier along which the Roman elite considered it needed to defend itself with vigor, at least not until the middle of the third century. And when the state did attack the Christian church on a massive scale ... the number of Christians, in spite of temporary setbacks, continued to grow. ... By the end
of the third century, perhaps 10 percent of the empire's population--6 million out of 60 million people--were Christians. The emperor Constantine openly converted to Christianity in 312, and the emperors who succeeded him were also Christian. ... It is difficult to decide whether this [turn of events], which had so much influence on the future course of western culture, should be called a triumph of the Christian church or the triumph of the Roman state.."

"What is amazing is that in spite of the practical difficulties of size, dispersion, rapid growth, and illegality, and in spite of the startling variety of early Christian beliefs, Christian leaders actively pursued and preserved the ideal of unity and orthodoxy.

Keith Hopkins, A World Full of Gods, Plume, Copyright 1999 by Keith Hopkins, 2001, pp. 82-84.

The Greek Olympics

2008-08-21T13:51:00.001+08:00

In today's excerpt-the Greek Olympics. For five hectic days and nights every four years from 776 BC until the Christian emperors banned pagan festivals in AD 394-a mind-boggling twelve hundred years-the sensationally popular Olympic games were held in
Greece. Each Olympiad was an expression of Hellenic unity, an all-consuming pageant, as spiritually profound for these ancients as a pilgrimage to Varanasi for Hindus or the Muslim hajj:

"[The athletes] appeared one by one-parading like peacocks, entirely unclothed and unadorned, yet dripping from head to toe in perfumed oils that flowed in rivulets from their curled black hair. Competing nude was a time-honored tradition of ancient Greek
athletics, ... only barbarians were ashamed to display their bodies....

"Of the eighteen core events in the Olympics program, some are familiar to us today-running, wrestling, boxing, javelin, discus. Others seem more outlandish. The Games began with the chariot race-a deliriously violent affair where up to forty vehicles crowded the track and crashes were guaranteed. ... And one of the favorite audience events was the pankration-a savage all-out brawl, where only eye-gouging was banned. The more brutish participants would snap opponents' fingers, or tear out their intestines; the judges (one coach noted) 'approve of strangling.' The gaps in the program seem just as odd to modern
eyes-there were no team sports, no ball sports, no swimming events, no marathon, and nothing resembling an Olympic torch. ... Money permeated every aspect of ancient athletics. All contestants were professionals. ... Corruption charges would regularly
disgrace contenders. ... Champions would be treated like demigods around Greece and guaranteed an existence of luxury and ease for the rest of their lives.
...
"Splendid religious rituals were observed; in fact, the ceremonies, including the butchering of one hundred oxen for a grand public feast, took up as much time as
the sports. There was sight-seeing to be done: the sanctuary of Olympia was an open-air museum, and visitors rushed between events from temple to temple to view famous masterpieces like the forty-foot-high statue of Zeus, one of the seven wonders of the
ancient world. ...

"And then there were earthly pursuits: The squalid tent-city [at the Olympic site] was the scene of a round-the-clock bacchanal where students would squander their inheritances in
lavish drinking parties (symposia) and prostitutes could make a year's wages in five days. There were beauty contests, Homer-reading competitions, eating races. ... Young boys in makeup performed erotic dances. Competing for attention were palm-readers
and astrologers."

Tony Perrottet, The Naked Olympics, Random House,
Copyright 2004 by Tony Perrottet, pp. 6-14.
From Delancey’s Place (Tell a Friend about Delancey’s) http://www.delanceyplace.com/tellfriend.htm

This blog isn't dead...

2008-06-29T18:44:00.003+08:00

...But it's thinking what to do with itself. As flat as the world is right now, that is as much as events have gone by in this corner; not even a sepia hue could turn them into memorable pictures. Imagination is lacking, eyes are dry, wrists are hurting, and the gift suffers. Could turn this into records of meta poems of frustrations. Says someone, why reveal your soul? Says I, why indeed? Still looking for answers.