Why I Love Divisoria

Fabrics make me happy. 

Kick Me

I spent the entire day yesterday in Divisoria, buying materials for a project. I would have taken less time, but my mom (who really knows her way around) also had her own list of things to purchase. She navigates Divisoria like she was in a trance. My mother is one of those beautiful, intelligent creatures who will just as easily operate on instinct and heart, and I adore it. But when we’re shopping, it drives me a little crazy. Most people trying to sell her things become impatient, even awed, by the amount of time it takes her to make a decision. Being my mother’s daughter I worry that I will fall prey to genetic manifest destiny and share in this tendency to plod. So far so good, though (I think). Never mind that I’ve many times made decisions for the sake of simply deciding. But I digress.

After a number of run-ins with rude sellers (the majority of them are sweethearts, though), miscalculating yardage (how’s that for a phrase), and running across Recto holding a filthy pair of child’s slippers (long story), I was uh, no longer happy to be there, and was glad to be heading home. Normally, a trip to Divisoria always scores lots of fun points with me, but yesterday was just…exhausting.

Hazards of the job I guess.

Today was no less strange. Lots of crazy work. Rain and gusty wind, no sunshine at all today, and it’s been unsettling. I discovered that I had completely forgotten about a substantial “financial obligation” due TOMORROW. My mind has been elsewhere for weeks. I’d kick myself but I have bad aim.

Saturday Night Geek

It’s 8.30 on Saturday night, and I’m working. This has to be wrong. Been working since this afternoon on the layout of a commemorative magazine full of the WORST-written articles I’ve come across in a while. It’s so frustrating trying to make it look good visually, when the content is simply atrocious. In case you don’t believe me, some samples (let’s hope none of these people ever come across my blog):


I was feeling at ease with them when I received something from the registrar – they were asking me to move to another section since the section were (sic) I was is already crowded. Lucky me, I thought… I don’t want to do it but I have no choice. And that meant another adjustment to me. Good thing though, the girls on the section I transferred were all nice and approachable.

(The) albums were selling like hot pancakes.

To my luck, I tripped off in the stairs.

As I stood up, I fell in the floor again this time I almost kiss the floor.

Bang the damn thing if the product get stuck.

Still, those terrorist are still on the loose and no one has an idea on when will they strike next.

The tantamount of our classrooms where we learn how to socialize…

…it isn’t tantamount to the amount of time spent together. (Tantamount is today’s big word, apparently)

If I was to chose (sic) another school, maybe I’d chose another one… but I gained great fiends (sic) here…

You’ll never know when will those be so handy at times. (And I hope I never will)

Meaning, their lives and probably the lives of many others around them would be revolving around their chosen career path, unless they decide to shift to another course. They would then eat and breathe anything and everything concerning their majors. It would definitely take over their lives. (Ano daw?)


Tama ba yan?! Is this fair? Is this right?? Is it any wonder I’m upset? I’ve just spent my Saturday designing a publication for grammar terrorists. What is the world coming to? I have to calm down. Maybe I can send everything back and politely suggest they get a living, breathing editor.

I need to get out of here.

Dip Your Finger Into The Sea

Because no one else wanted to do it, our yaya pulled out the remaining boxes of my sister’s things from under her bed this week. I was surprised they were still there – I had gone over the contents of her bedroom and closets at least twice last year and assumed I had taken care of everything. Sorting through her things -- I don’t believe it will ever turn into a casual activity for me. There has to be a certain buckling down to do it, an internal preparation. Like climbing a cliff. Or jumping off of it.

Two cartons, full of everyday things. Books, videos, scripts and papers. A stick of really tacky plastic flowers given as a token, I would have thrown those out, but not her. It strikes me that these inanimate, basically inconsequential things have physically outlived her. Handbags, CDs she treasured. Mobile phone, digital organizer, receipts. Wallet, hairbrush, cologne.

Then my mother pulls out a book from the box – A Grief Observed, by C.S. Lewis. He writes about the loss of his wife, the journey back to faith. The book’s flyleaf is signed to my sister by Douglas Gresham, Lewis’ stepson, whom she had the privilege of meeting and working with. And then a sheet of paper between the pages, in her writing:

As we part and say goodbye
Weep not, do not cry
Just dip your finger into the sea
And know that somewhere
The water that you touch
Somehow touches me

Gresham had written this for his wife, if I recall correctly. My sister liked it enough to have made note of it. In a roundabout way it travels back to my family and me. I appreciate the “arrangements” made for my benefit.

Last year on my island holiday, I climbed one of the highest points and scattered a handful of my sister’s ashes into the sea just before sunset. The sky had turned into the gentlest of pinks, yellows and blues, sweet this time instead of the riotous reds and oranges of the previous days. My sister and I agreed that it was one of the finest afternoons we had ever shared.

 

Dear, Sweet Skully 

My New Boyfriend

For creative inspiration, I tack photos above my desk and change them on a fairly regular basis.

“Skully” has been benevolently watching over me for a week now. This handsome photo by Neal Oshima is originally from an equally gorgeous book, The Treasures of the Philippine National Museum (designed by Robert Alejandro. Hello, I’m a fan.). Happily, they’ve also been developed as postcards, available at the National Museum shop.

The skull was discovered in Bolinao, Pangasinan and is dated to be from between the 14th and 15th centuries. Detail may be lost here, but the teeth are covered with tiny gold scales, indicative of the skull-owner’s wealth, status and courage.

Must ring my dentist soon.

Somewhere A Drill Is Screaming

It is 3.30 in the afternoon on the 24th, Thursday. I'm trying to work, but there is a problem.

My neighbor is doing some kind of house repair, and is operating what seems to be a VERY large drill. The drilling is followed by very tinny hammering. Imagine Tinkerbell hopping on checkered steel. This hellish combination of sounds is driving me nuts. I can't hear myself think. I have a headache the size of a giant squid.

It's the Ladykillers all over again. "F*ck you and your irritable bowel."

Technical Difficulties

Only a couple of entries in, and already I'm wondering if blogging with photos is really this unwieldy.

Must shop around for a user-friendlier blog interface.

Oh yeah, must go to work, too. Groan.

Meet Jack.

 

Meet Jack.

It was love at first sight for Jack and me.

We met on my uncle’s beautiful island home in the southern Philippines last year.

For the length of my holiday, he followed me everywhere. Every chance he got, he would rest his head on my lap, and gaze up at me with those beautiful brown eyes.

Jack’s human family were surprised at how suddenly friendly he was, because he was basically one of those lone-dog types, preferring long walks on the beach by himself.

I should write to him. I miss him and that gorgeous, gorgeous island.

 

Megaphone For The Ordinary Man And Woman

I did it.
I finally caved in and started a blog.

It took a while to decide. Balked because I had privacy issues (obviously, this is NOT the activity of choice if that were my priority). But having ironed those out, here I am.

How are you? Good.

My best and truest friend -- my only sister, died three years ago. And then, at the start of this year, the boy I had shared a life with for four years decided, over a fabulous New Year’s dinner, (I'm gisting here) that he would rather be somewhere else without me. (Unhappy memories aside, I still highly recommend the lamb at Gaudi, for those of you who don’t have problems eating bleating animals.)

For those of us who are lucky (and perhaps picky) enough, life hands over one or two confidants, the truest and dearest kind. I feel that I have lost both of mine, and so here I am.

I promise less pathos next entry.