Ang Ganda Ko!

The Age Of Innocence

2006-03-22T06:16:31Z

The past few days were a blur of movement when life's realities (business renovation, short budget, job hunting, ministry work, children home, summer temperature, a gallbladder attack, for God's sakes!) knocked into the door of comfort zone and took over but still kindly allowed, not much blogging, regretfully, but some Edith Wharton in between. At page 92 of "The Age Of Innocence" she wrote that "... cleanliness and comfort are two of the costliest items in the modest budget...' to which I heartily say 'you bet!' In fact I find myself rethinking how my household can afford to continue operating with a staff of 4 and find, with trepidation, that the driver will have to go this summer. This can only mean limited extra activities for my girls or added driving chore to my daily calendar, which isn't exactly an exciting prospect. In any case, compromises will have to be made that we were all known to have survived doing before, it's okay. But definitely these middle class concerns were not what "The Age ..." is all about.

Wharton's elegant writing smelled of a rose garden in full bloom, and gives one, undoubtedly, an insider's view on the rigours and rituals of upper-class establishment during the end of the 19th century New York. Tedious, rigid, maybe necessary but constricting were the motions that one had to go through for de rigeur social norms back then, which in one way one can appreciate for being the art of civility practiced in its highest form, that you understand is the desirable manner of turning the other way, to not have to deal with the vulgarity of scandal, which, like hypocrisy, as then and now, is rife and never out of fashion.

Tribal solidarity, gracious courtesy belying cold brutality, palpable sexual tension in the slightest nuances, love, faithfulness and betrayal -- all told in beautifully elegant prose in a rich setting -- this novel is not for the faint of heart, which Countess Olenska, the unconventional heroine, was certainly not. And that is why in the end, she had the courage to walk away and live the life that she wanted, to be who she is, in a foreign land that couldn't be more like home, and away from the conventions of New York, the town so seemingly good to her, but really only for its own selfish sake. What a great story of love this is, and not in the usual way it is served. I loved, loved this book, moreso that it's another tick off The 100 Best Novels Ever Written for me.

misispi @ 2006-02-19T06:38:00

2006-02-18T22:43:29Z

'I wish I knew how to quit you".

That sentiment, that painful ouch, felt by all of us at some point, and said by Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) to Ennis del Mar (Heath Ledger), sums up the sad desperation of these two cowboys, whose relationship unintentionally begun from 20 years ago, when they were put together by need and circumstance, to work as sheep herders one summer at Brokeback Mountain.

Set against the pristine backdrop of the Marlboro Country in Wyoming, one cannot help but sense all the more the stark contrast that the exhilirating freedom in the blue and vast expanse of their chosen trysting place momentarily offered, but not necessarily extended to their forbidden love, which had to remain hidden at all cost, affording them only, every year, as Jake Gyllenhaal's character said, 'a few high altitude fucks'.

Not that this movie is only all about that. Instead it is all about decisions and sacrifices made to 'make right' certain things that only undermined the truth. Anyway, nobody ever really said that love was fair. But if there's one thing, Jack and Ennis gave themselves something that remained uncorrupted by the overuse of time (which they didn't have), unmarred by pressing obligations whose unfulfillment only bruise and create even more want, something that took them far, far away from society that never gave them a chance, leaving them only as these soulmates, living their fantasy life, free underneath the stars, every couple of days in a year, back at the postcard-perfect Brokeback Mountain.

Some people would die to have even a little of what they had. And a little more than what they had would have been too much. This is a story that leaves you aching, all the more from superb, heartwrenching acting rendered by Heath Ledger. I didn't mind that my husband didn't fancy to join me on this one. I cried and loved it on my own.

I'm Feeling A Doggone Year, I Know It

2006-02-01T20:35:04Z

I don't know about you but I have imbibed quite considerable chinoise subtleties in life in the manner that any red-blooded male will be mesmerized by the beauty of Gong Li -- it's inevitable. These days that the rest of the world is an extended China village, dimsum, feung sheui and Stephen Chow are not merely exports but have become these mainstream staples. Inspect your jeans label and see what I mean.

So, I am making a great go of some Chinese New Year's Resolutions where I failed miserably on the first day of January. Why is that? Maybe the Year Of The Dog looks upon with favor on little water bunnies like me. Of course I don't take these things seriously, but I'm no fool to dismiss the wisdom where it's coming from either. I just know that the Chinese say that whatever animal you fall under happens to be the critter that hides in your heart. "Me, a bunny?!" Weeeeeee.

I like that right now I'm into what's happening -- beginnings, epiphanies, little earthquakes ( like John told me ), a white template and a Red Dog. So far, so good. And if only for the sake of our little dogs Puffy and Hamish, I'd only be too willing to keep the faith. And may these boys, like the rest of us, have the best doggone year that we've ever seen.

Early Bird

2006-01-27T22:24:13Z

Rising early has it perks. For me it buys monopoly on time and space for at least an hour, in the safety and confines of home. Long before the house is stirred into action, I go through my small rituals, undisturbed, in silence, unobserved. Where a cigarette would have done for in the past, making coffee now becomes that all-important final phase of decompression from sleep. I marvel at the zen-like quality to it, a steaming cup of camel-colored brew, with vapors languidly rising out of it, much like a snake seduced awake by its hypnotic charmer, to implore the warmth of it to moist the brows, clear cobwebs off the head, and soothe those achy bones, so recently petrified from the biting cold of sleep.

In the quietude of 4:30 am, every motion becomes all important and deliberate. Open the front door, let the dogs out to do their business, this being the very time they have to go, which make them such good dogs, so loved, and loves you back even more. Then pick up the newspaper, by now neatly scattered in two or three parts on the floor, hurled by the newspaper boy who, for each passing day, you come to respect more and more. People like them are the invisible hands that fairies are made of. They give wings to the news, that would have aggravated you more, if it weren't known to you. And then you realize how the world is so small, so codependent, and made complete by the ever presence of so many others, which makes you appreciate the little alone time that you have, yet grateful for the hand that switched the lamp post on outside, that illuminates you in your quiet thoughts, in the abnormal darkness of these early mornings.

I love the structure and simplicity of it, these mornings that I begin the day with. I make them up so I'll hardly ever be getting up on the wrong side of the bed that way. And by the time the sunlight is slowly creeping in, and everyone else begin rubbing the sleep off of their eyes, my day would already be in full swing. And I know I've got the edge.

Ang di marunong tumanaw sa wika, daig pa ang isang malansang isda

2006-01-26T01:10:48Z

I don't know how it came about that my three daughters grew up thinking in, and speaking (almost) exclusively English. Wala lang, di kasi namin kinausap ng Tagalog. At definitely hindi sila lumaki sa Eat Bulaga. Kasalanan ko ba? Naging pretensiyosa ba ako (para maging 'class' sila, kesehodang Tagalog naman ako kung mag-isip)? Wala ba akong paki (that they were bound to encounter Pilipino in school)? Kasalanan ba ng super devoted social climbing yaya nilang si Yaya Lyn (from whom all three developed their Bisayan/English accents around the preschool age) ang lahat? O wala ba man lang akong pakundangan sa long dead lolo kong kapitapitagan (Patricio Mariano -- zarsuelista/makata)? Actually I think it had more to do with the books I bought them to read when they were small, and none of them were Lola Basyang.

Yesterday I was called to school by Ms. Amor, Arianna's Grade 3 teacher, para ireport ang kaso ni maliit. Predictably, it was the same old, same old I was called to school for many times over and back in the days of Fatima's and Antonia's struggle, namely -- Sibika and Pilipino.

As usual: 'You know Mrs. P, Yanna's doing really well in Math and English blablablah BUT Pilipino and Sibika pulls her average down ...' Eh. Pano na kaya pagdating ng Florante at Laura? Disaster.

Basta, talagang talaga, Tatagalugin ko na sila. Gagawin kong required viewing kay Arianna, pati na din kay Antonia, ang mga Korean serye nobela at Tagalog anime. Ibibili ko pa sila ng Eat Bulaga soundtrack, magbagong buhay lang sila. Puede rin, pakukuhanin ko sila ng Fagalog tutorial lessons kay Jay Lozada (sister payag ka?) para bumongga na sila. Sabagay, si Fatima ko nga, sa tagal tagal natuto kay Tado, salamat sa Strange Brew, at ngayon nga, big fan na siya ng mga movies ni Jeffrey Jeturian. Di pa huli ang lahat.

Eating Oyster

2006-01-24T21:52:43Z

I feel an oyster running down my throat. A shapeless blob, at times a strand of half a gummiworm. Nasal and bittersweet, sometimes I like to swallow. When I do, it comes creeping back, in the early morning, persistent and sticky, in fragments and stuck, deep in the recess that is the space between my nasal passage and my throat. Like now. To coax them out I draw them downward, a snort, taking care to do with just the right pull, carefully, doing that a few times again, to build it up into that one perfect bead, centered now at the base of the throat. At this point I tell myself: 'Do it, do it.' Is today more gray than green? Yesterday was flat and languidly green -- a mini puddle, with random specks of black, like slate, crawling down my sink. Toxic. Now it's sweet -- plump, ripe, salty, and sweet. Swallow or spit. Swallow or spit? I wanna see. My precious. My oyster. I love you. I'm hungry. I'll eat.

misispi @ 2006-01-24T06:18:00

2006-01-23T22:59:52Z

'I Love You, How Could You Sleep With My Mom?'

If that doesn't beat the crap out of sleaze and dysfunction, I don't know what does. Jerry Springer, the show that's "wasting technology since 1991", is this monster its creator created. It sticks a tongue out at losers, makes sport out of their misery ( fits them ), makes the bloodthirsty audience do like the romans do ( shame on them ), and provides guilty pleasure for you, you, and you!

Ask me, and I'll tell you that ever the moralist, I'm never remiss in telling my kids to stay away from the channel whenever that show is on, because it's trashy and it's bad, bad, bad. Needless to say, it's an exercise in futility.

As I sit here quite awake this early morning, I am thinking about how pandan essence and a pat of butter turns the simplest cup of instant coffee into an early morning wonder. And what was I just thinking? Oh yes. "The Deer Hunter And The Army Girl" -- I gotta look up what deer hunter means.

Oh by the way, that was the title on the early morning rerun of the Jerry Springer show today.

Some hypocrite I am.

Pac Yo!

2006-01-23T04:49:23Z

I was never a sports enthusiast. True I dabbled in swimming, tennis, golf and badminton, and I am nowhere near smelling like a wet sock every other day. I guess I am innately and stubbornly a sedentary woman. Does that, for FAT, make? Well, lets just say that I got me a pleasantly plump spirit. Physically, I have super high hopes that I will conquer all my demons namely: Breadtalk, Condensed Milk and Second Servings, and that the Brand New Me shall surface, ala 'Venus Rising From The Sea', around the time that my Chinese New Year's Resolution is in effect.

Now that I got that over with, what I really wanted to ask is, where were you yesterday afternoon when our Guy was Number One? I was hoping that you, like Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, the rest of the Philippines, and myself, had your nose glued to the TV and witnessed every left and right hook flying out of Pacman The Destroyer, leading to the moment on the 10th when El Terribly Battered Morales went down on his knees to pray. I myself was in between bites of hakao for an extended standing lunch, simultaneously jumping and shrieking and going to and fro the big TV and my mother in law's lunch table, all the way to Vegas. 'Whataguy' I thought. What a great guy this Manny Pacquiao, indeed.

Much as I do not use the word 'hero' lightly, it is just plain to see why the Pacman becomes one. He makes the Filipino see in him, the many things he wants to see in himself -- goodness, humor, humility, faithfulness and courage, resulting in fame, wealth and dignity, and a showbiz contract to boot. There's nothing wrong with the guy, and his triumph injects a timely and much needed shot of morale booster in the badly bruised Filipino arm. More than that, he converts me, this non sports enthusiast, into a fan -- a big, big, hysterical boxing fan. And for a man like Manny, why not? Go, Pac Yo!

misispi @ 2005-02-27T06:46:00

2005-02-26T22:55:31Z

And yet again, I start another journal. This time, I'll make it a point not to type exclusively small caps. Am I growing up or what?

Again, the question: Why the need to livejournal?
The answer, simple: Because I can.