God Bless Iridium

While I was still in bed this morning I received a delightful satellite phone call from (did I hear correctly!) somewhere in the vicinity of the Babuyan Islands Chain. My Surreal Quota is definitely covered for the next few weeks. (grin)

Globe Alabang Is A Black Hole

2-year old Olivia is in the house. I have a number of crucial supplies to keep her occupied whenever she is here—a box of pastels, a tray of colored pencils, watercolor paints, a few books and cheese in the fridge. There is also a mini hand-cranked paper shredder that she occasionally likes to use (with adult supervision).  I can hear her now in the living room, humming the Mr. Bean theme song while she draws. I estimate this will buy me about 3 minutes of peace.

It was a busy morning, but things calmed down after lunch. I went to the Globe office in the Town Center to pay my phone bill (one of the few bills I still can’t pay through my bank). They remodeled last year and decided to replace the single large counter with individual kiosks for their service reps. It was a lousy idea if you ask me. The kiosks are trite with their metal cladding and supposedly ergonomic stools that are in reality meant to keep customers from sitting comfortably and taking up too much time. Each tiny table holds a laptop, tangle of cables in plain view (why are there even cables?). Underneath is a shelf always spilling with flyers and pamphlets. Clutter everywhere. An office with lousy design, lousy lighting. There is a smaller, traditional counter (also stacked with flyers) where one lines up for bills payments--even though there are two separate teller areas, only one is open every time I’m there. It bothers me because there are always 2 people sitting there but for some reason, only one of them processes payments. Last month we asked the teller why they didn’t both handle customers since the line was so long. She actually said, referring to the other girl, “Ngayon lang siya mag lu-lunch break.” I was tempted to get sarcastic, but decided the effort would be lost on someone with so little imagination.

Today, I encountered the same kind of flat, uninterested service. 

It now occurs to me that I don’t really like going there after all. Will get that bill paid some other way next month.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned. I like a little cheer from people I deal with.  I don't need (nor really want) sunshine and smiles all round, just the tiniest speck of "pleasant" will be appreciated. Is that so much to ask for in this day and age? Why must you all look so..so..laos?

(crickets and a gentle breeze)

I’m old fashioned.

 

Dear Octopus

This is one of the things I had to draw for work today. What I do for a living may not have an immediate and profound impact on mankind, but it does entertain me sometimes.

Sigh. It’s going to be a long night.

 

Plumber Update

Today it rained so hard and yet there wasn't a hint of a puddle or leak in the house. I *heart* the plumber whom I subjected to Harpy Treatment last week. He finally fixed the problem, no more phantom puppy piddling on my floor! I'm so pleased.

Carlo leaves for Tuguegarao tomorrow to do some fishing with his dad. I have something I need to say to you before you go:

If you catch anything that looks even remotely pregnant, please toss it back.

Immer Wieder

Immer wieder, ob wir der Liebe Landschaft auch kennen     
und den kleinen Kirchhof mit seinem klagenden Namen     
und die furchtbar verschweigende Schlucht, in welcher die andern     
enden: immer wieder gehen wir zu zweien hinaus
unter die alten Bäume, lagern uns immer wieder     
zwischen die Blumen, gegenüber dem Himmel.

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

I, Meldy

I went to see “Imelda” last night with Kats (who incidentally, is parent to a 30+ lbs. cat). The film was good and I wouldn’t mind seeing it a second time. I was particularly impressed by the amount of archival footage filmmaker Ramona Diaz had unearthed – from the Japanese occupation of Manila, to Marcos’ early campaigns all the way to the snap elections, pre-Martial Law unrest, Martial Law era propaganda films. It was surreal. The woman is surreal. My goodness, this self-delusion that is, in Kats’ words, so “hermetically sealed”! 
  
“Thank God when they opened my closet, they found shoes, not skeletons.” 

Heartache

A study prepared by AIM has our country's competitiveness ranking slipping from no. 39 in 2001 to no. 52 this year :(  C'mon, folks!

I Know How To Pick Them

The Plumber From Hell is here today. I think I channeled my Inner Harpy too much while talking to him, and voices were raised (which I hate as much as fist-fighting old men. Is it because I am a peace-loving ilonggo?). I am questioning the wisdom of having called him again instead of just starting from scratch with a new plumber.  It’s just that I’ve already paid this guy, and simply want some proper service for my money. Is that so bad?
 
(long silence, with cricket sounds)
 
Okay, if he still doesn’t get the job done this time, I’ll call another plumber and do what I normally do when there’s nothing else left – chalk it up to experience. In the meantime, I am keeping my fingers crossed. Must be civil and assertive at the same time. Ah yes, I was raised the family diplomat.

Day-to-day domestic annoyances make me mind being alone. 

Ladies Who Lunch (and Dine)

Dinner last Thursday. Thanks, Kathy, for the photos. 

Someone in this photo has "suntan envy". And notice the number of glasses on the table. 

Fistfight

This morning I witnessed a fistfight between two old men over a parking dispute. Both were thickly-built. The one with the vehicle had a full head of white hair, and the other, apparently a resident of that street, was stripped to his waist, man-boobs sagging. Traffic had stopped because they were in the middle of the street, screaming at each other before they started swinging. It took a middle-aged woman dressed in pink to break them apart. 
 
It was disgusting.

The Delicate Plummeting Bodies

A friend is reading Stephen Dobyns. This is the only poem of his that I know, and I quite like it.

-------

A great cry went up from the stockyards and
slaughterhouses, and Death, tired of complaint
and constant abuse, withdrew to his underground garage.
He was still young and his work was a torment.
All over, their power cut, people stalled like streetcars.
Their gravity taken away, they began to float.
Without buoyancy, they began to sink. Each person
became a single darkened room. The small hand
pressed firmly against the small of their backs
was suddenly gone and people swirled to a halt
like petals fallen from a flower. Why hurry?
Why get out of bed? People got off subways,
on subways, off subways, all at the same stop.
Everywhere clocks languished in antique shops
as their hands composed themselves in sleep.
Without time and decay, people grew less beautiful.
They stopped eating and began to study their feet.
They stopped sleeping and spent weeks following stray dogs.
The first to react were remnants of the church.
They falsified miracles, displayed priests posing
as corpses until finally they sneezed or grew lonely.
Then governments called special elections to choose those
to join the ranks of the volunteer dead—unhappy people
forced to sit in straight chairs for weeks at a time.
Interest soon dwindled. Then the army seized power
and soldiers ran through the street dabbling the living
with red paint. You’re dead, they said. Maybe
tomorrow, people answered, today we’re just breathing;
look at the sky, look at the color of the grass.
For without Death each color had grown brighter.
At last a committee of businessmen met together,
because with Death gone money had no value.
They went to where Death was waiting in a white room,
and he sat on the floor and looked like a small boy
with pale blond hair and eyes the color of clear water.
In his lap was a red ball heavy with the absence of life.
The businessmen flattered him. We will make you king,
they said. I am king already, Death answered. We will
print your likeness on all the money of the world.
It is there already, Death answered. We adore you
and will not live without you, the businessmen said.
Death said, I will consider your offer.

How Death was restored to his people:

At first the smallest creatures began to die—
bacteria and certain insects. No one noticed. Then fish
began to float to the surface; lizards and tree toads
toppled from sun-warmed rocks. Still no one saw them.
Then birds began tumbling out of the air,
and as sunlight flickered on the blue feathers
of the jay, brown of the hawk, white of the dove,
then people lifted their heads and pointed to the sky
and from the thirsty streets cries of welcome rose up
like a net to catch the delicate and plummeting bodies.

It's Monday

The theme from “The Mission” was playing in my head this morning. Will I be strapped to a wooden cross and go plunging over a waterfall this week?

Had a full weekend that involved children and good friends. Friday dinner and wine with some of the girls. We marveled at the fact that we are all friends despite our (sometimes huge) differences in personality. Spent Saturday with my baby sister, Olivia. We went to the Fort Bazaar together (not so great), and then Alabang Town Center to run some errands (and a carousel ride for her). Between those two points she managed to consume two hotdogs and two flavors of Dippin Dots. Not bad for a two year old. On Sunday, I attended the dedication of a friend’s baby. I was with a whole bunch of girlfriends, and it was lovely spending time with them again. One of them said she was happy they were seeing me more often. I was touched.

There was another puddle of water on the office floor this morning. Will ring the plumber yet again. Almost two months ago he came in to repair a clogged storm drain, and did such a shoddy job of it – the drain seems to be fine, but now there’s water coming in through a hole he made inside the house. He’s been here twice to fix it, and still, this puddle. Groan.

A little update on the magazine layout I wrote about a few weeks ago. The project head sent the articles back to the writers, advising them to re-edit. According to him, they were genuinely bewildered and said they didn't see the need for editing. “If I was to chose another school, maybe I’d chose another one…” and they can’t bloody see why it needs editing.

Savages.

This Week, I...

1.   designed something I actually liked.
2.   met yet another cousin I didn’t know existed.
3.   wrote a heartfelt email to an old friend.
4.   hit 7 different malls in 2 days for work.
5.   had a violinist play a few bars of “The Sheltering Sky” theme for me.

6.   joked with someone about throwing a common “friend” out of a plane. Her response, “Do you want me to help you?”
7.   had dinner with friends I’ve known almost 20 years.
8.   ate a Smores® fondue.
9.   had my radiator hose spring a leak.
10. ran like a woman possessed.
11. missed a dinner.
12. walked with someone and was charmed.
13. was given a lychee by a street vendor, and was touched.
14. spent time in a number of banks.
15. unearthed old poems I’d written.
16. started re-reading The English Patient.
17. had even stronger suspicions I’m allergic to red wine.
18. will be drinking more wine anyway.
19. discussed the pleasures of Xanor®.
20. slept beside my baby sister.
21. saw someone’s paintings, and was impressed.
22. was issued a cheque dated 2000.
23. ate a bag of chips.
24. ate a piece of Valrhona chocolate cake.
25. ate really good grilled vegetables.
26. did not buy flowers.
27. received two baby shower invitations.
28. drove too much.
29. talked to a friend about married life.
30. fell asleep listening to Gabriel Yared.

My mom saved this for me :) 

Is-Spidey

I saw Spiderman 2 last weekend with Carlo and Kay
(whose most recent project had her turning the NBC Tent into Venice. How cool is this?). While downloading stuff for work the other day (yeah, yeah) I surfed around to see if I could find That Pretty (wedding) Dress. No luck, but here are other stills. Dedicated to Bianca, who, despite her better judgment, sat through "The Buzz" a few weeks ago to catch the press junket interview with Tobey Maguire.

Aww.. 

Hers was actually a very nice coat. 

Someone give this villain a shirt. 

 

Those curls... 

How Do I Stop This Thing?

I am back at the “office” today, after zipping from one mall to another for work yesterday. I began at Eastwood, then a shop in Quezon Avenue, proceeded to Shangri-La, then Rockwell and ended in Glorietta. Tomorrow, three shops in Alabang Town Center, and another in Festival Mall. It sounds like a lot of to-dos, and it is, but it is (sadly) hardly a design fulfillment. I think it is because I’m hurrying so much. Since the weekend I’ve spent so much time in the car, shuttling from one place to another, that I’m already craving for time to just sit. In one place. Preferably outdoors. With sand. And a beer. Feel free to throw in your own details.

While working on one of the stores yesterday, I was told that one of the salespeople died less than 2 months ago. He had a heart attack at the age of 30 – he was in pretty good shape they say, he wasn’t aware that he had any serious medical problems. His heart just stopped while he was sitting with his wife and their 5-month old son. These things unnerve me, they really do. It is that barely perceptible tug at the sleeve that drives you nuts for days.

For months now I have been seriously considering taking a leave from work. At the start I thought of traveling, but now I would be happy for time just to sit and think. (Preferably outdoors…with sand…) Is this a good idea? I worry that it may be simple self-indulgence or laziness, but I can put my hand on my heart and say with all sincerity that I am plain weary. Everyone gets tired. Not everybody's weary.

My workload is gradually thinning out. It is both a relief and scary. Maybe now is a good time to check the escape hatch.

“I shall meet you outside the railway station, you shall know me by the cut of my clothes and the smell of my cologne.”

 

The Man From Cholon

Just finished “The Lover” by Marguerite Duras. I got this book years ago (along with another called “Practicalities”) and realized I had never given it a proper read.

Duras writes like she was talking to a friend. It isn’t your typical straightforward narrative – other thoughts, recollections travel across and through the story of the 15-year old French girl and her older Chinese lover. Some paragraphs so brief, the writing is by turns obtuse, disturbing, devastating. “The Lover” is supposedly a work of fiction, but one tends to forget that it is, wonders if it really is, because of the vividness with which Duras writes. To me it is as much an account of sexual awakening as it is a discussion of the politics of family; dictates of nationality and country; madness (how crazy is crazy, anyway?); artistic calling; love and its many distortions; time and distance; the necessity(?) of deception. One does not love in a vacuum, after all. If only it were that simple.

The book cover is by one of my favorite designers, Louise Fili. I’m actually not too keen on her style, but admire her for her consistency and the fineness of her work. There’s something very precise about it.

I bet she arranges her pencils by height, too. :)

Judith 1, Gustav Klimt 

Judith

Last night I attended my first Philippine Mac Users Group meeting. This one was set up specifically for Philmug Photographers. Nothing unusual about this, except I don’t use a mac (yet?), nor am I a digital photographer. My special pass came through friend Carlo, the evening’s “vivo”. It was a fun bunch, a bit like having dinner with a roomful of Inspector Gadgets. Thanks, and cheers folks.

Today my aunt returned a book I had lent her, A Death In Venice by Thomas Mann. An underlined passage: “Art…is life raised to a higher power. It gives a deeper pleasure and exacts a quicker toll.”

Whose head is Judith holding?

Above The Desk This Week...

Of course I'm the one holding the goat. 

In The Car This Morning...

Macy Gray was on the radio.
God bless that beautiful sparrow-on-sandpaper voice.

I feel awful today. Had very little sleep. Here’s something: How many potentially life-altering offers do we unwittingly pass up on?

Today’s question brought to you by the resident emotional klutz.

Saturday Salad

Last night was good. Mikel is all grown up, as expected. We were on a time-limit from his mum, so after dinner we swung by Greenbelt for a “speed drink” and made some plans. He wants to learn how to surf while he’s here, so we will. He already windsurfs, so it shouldn’t be as difficult. He likes the water. Yup. We’re related.

Today I met up with my girl friends for lunch, because good friend Kats is here. An intelligent, cool chick molding minds in an Iowa University, she’s always great fun to be around. After eating a serving of almond salad bigger than my head, I went shopping for work supplies, swung by “the office” for more work-related drivel, dashed off a couple of emails to dear friends, and now…wait for it… I’m off to Alabang Hills to line up for my annual car sticker renewal.

There is absolutely NOTHING wrong with this day. But I am so ready to jump out of my own skin right now.

Flicker

Renovating Neighbor (he of the drill a few posts back) is at it again today. This time, they’re welding. I shouldn’t mind or even care, except every time they do the actual welding, my lights and monitor flicker. Even with my limited knowledge about the workings of electricity, I know this can’t be a good thing. I don’t understand it- I had welding work done here last year and this disco-style flickering never happened. I rent a 96sqm home to use as an office/studio, and since I’m alone, even the hint of an electrical problem makes me uneasy.

Good thing though that today is a very short workday for me. I leave early for merienda cena for a cousin visiting from Spain, Mikel. His sisters were here earlier this year (Isabel flies 747s for Air Iberia, and Tinie is a samba singer in Mallorca …how cool is that?). Last time I saw Mikel he must have been around 10 years old. He’s in his early 20s now. I just know we’re in for a shock.

Last night my brother and I took a walk around our neighborhood. It isn’t as small as we originally thought. We included the streets that we normally don’t pass either on foot or by car, noticed how many new houses there were. I had the pleasure of going down the darker, tree-lined streets I’d skip if I were alone. Mikki is 5’8” at 16, with the endurance of a pack animal -- the perfect running, walking and travel companion. We discussed in brief his college plans, turned over random ideas, critiqued architectural styles and the health of neighborhood trees, but mostly we just enjoyed the good breeze and each other’s company. No small pleasure, this one. He’s a lovely human being.

 

You Can Dance Here If You Want

I listened to this all day yesterday. It always takes my breath away.

Interesting note: the last track on the album incorporates the voices of Moroccan women from a 1955 recording done by Paul Bowles, author of The Sheltering Sky. Are they singing? Wailing? Calling out at the market? The piece was composed by Richard Horowitz, as an incidental in the film. It is less than 2 minutes long, and you hear the women only a fraction of that time, but it’s enough to haunt you if you let it. But of course it is nowhere nearly as heart-wrenching as the themes by Ryuichi Sakamoto. No use discussing that – just listen and weep. His music is just wonderful. (I am now listening to “Casa”, a collaboration of Sakamoto and Jaques Morelenbaum, paying tribute to Antonio Carlos Jobim. You can’t listen to this and be unhappy)

Another interesting bit: I found out that actor Brandon Lee’s gravestone carries an inscription taken from The Sheltering Sky:

Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don't know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It is that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don't know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps 4 and 5 times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless.

I think it’s a curious choice for an epitaph. It isn’t particularly cheery or comforting, at least not to me. But it does carry more weight than “Rest In Peace” or “Family Remembrance” (if you can’t be kind, be vague). The singer Sade says that she wants her gravestone to read: “You can dance here, if you want.” I like it.

Enough talk of death and epitaphs. My “inexhaustible well” of a life is good this morning. Hope yours is too.

Read about CASA here.