map of starlight and dream

2012-02-01T22:09:00.001-08:00

Books I have bought more than once:

I have a lot, but some memorable ones: I bought a second copy of Pull of the Moon by Elizabeth Berg and gave it to a friend's mom for her 50th birthday. I'm still replacing all books written by Tamora Pierce that I left behind when we migrated, as well as several by Terry Pratchett, Barbara Kingsolver, and Diane Duane.

I honestly don't remember how many copies I have ever bought of Good Omens by Gaiman and Pratchett, as well as By the Sword by Mercedes Lackey and the short story collection Book of Enchantments by Patricia Wrede. I just keep losing them... (Also replacing Wrede's Enchanted Forest Chronicles.)

I bought Quirkyalone by Sasha Cagen and someone liked it so much so I gave it away. I have since bought another copy. I also bought this collection of poems again after giving my old copy to a friend: The Wesleyan Tradition: Four Decades of American Poetry ed. by Michael Collier.

And last year I broke down and bought a copy of The Urge to Jump by Trisha Ashley, which I lost and is out of print, so I was getting desperate. (At the top of my ultra-favorites list, along with doubly-bought Tam Lin by Pamela Dean and Surviving the Applewhites by Stephanie Tolan, and yet-to-be-reboughtConfess-O-Rama by Ron Koertge. Which is next.)

2011-12-31T20:45:00.000-08:00

End of Year Annual Report 2011

Didn't quite make it to 50 books. (Darn it.) Got to 49 only because of the six volumes of manga I read. New authors I discovered whose writing I loved: Guy Gavriel Kay, Sarah Monette, and Lois Bujold McMaster. Best non-fiction book: Poetry in Person: Twenty-five Years of Conversation with America's Poets ed. by Alexander Neubauer.

I watched 17 movies. My top three are all Japanese: Solanin, Instant Numa and Detroit Metal City. The first is based on the manga and is heartbreaking. The second is just crazy crazy, and the third is super funny in spite of the music. Best documentary: Touch the Sound: A Sound Journey with Evelyn Glennie directed by Thomas Riedelsheimer.

A lot of new dramas I got into this year. My favorite Japanese drama is Keizoku Spec 2. My favorite Korean drama is Secret Garden. American ones: Chuck, Psych and (BBC) Sherlock. I also got into a bit of White Collar and Fringe (just the last couple of seasons).

In terms of fanfic, the fandoms I spent most time on: Stargate Atlantis, BBC Sherlock, X-Men First Class, Hawaii Five-O, and Inception.

New band I started listening to: Airborne Toxic Event. Top three songs for the year are all by the same band (Asian Kung Fu Generation); they are "Solanin," "Mustang," and "All Right Pt. 2." New websites: 8tracks.com and radiolab.org. (Plus all those food/art/style blogs such as: shewhoeats, waterhalo, hipstermusings, etc.) Favorite new illustrator: Yelena Bryksenkova.

I bought a new laptop, and got my first free pair of glasses at work. I made my first rubber stamp: a mushroom. I sponsored a child in India. Got into podcasts. Attended one wedding (Janrose) and missed another (Nesmarie).

And the top 5 life changing events this year: I got certified with a raise after Frank left for Toronto; I got heartburn which enforced a diet and started losing weight; I started a poetry log, sporadically but regularly updated; I joined CYWA on FB and might be published in 2 places?; and I took the citizenship exam!

P.S.
I spent the first day of the year hunting down the first sunrise.

I spent the last day of the year browsing through stalls at the Vancouver Flea Market. I bought old pictures, postcards and stamps. And then I went to my favorite store Regional Assembly of Text and bought two rolls of washi tape, 3 postcards, and a five year memory book. I also bought a set of Pantone postcards, just because I love colors.

I also made two small notebooks using my new paper trimmer, my beloved long-arm stapler, long bond and an old cardboard I got from an old job. I showed them gleefully to my little sisters, and then they both asked for one. Oops.

Yesterday I made the poetry zine, one for my colleague and the other for my sister. I decorated them with stamps. I'm going to make more and more and more...

2011-12-27T22:24:00.004-08:00

Something old...

I sent off the three postcards for the names assigned to me through postcrossing. I got back into it after a long hiatus because I had this sudden urge to collect postal stamps, which was the end-result of a renewed interest in the wonders of correspondence.

Some links: send more mail, because I really felt it, letter writers alliance, 300 love letters.

And new ones to explore: passion for letters and the letter writing revolution.

I mourn all the letters my father tore up just before we left home. I don't know if my mom kept her diary or the letters she wrote my dad, or the ones she got from her parents and sisters, but I mourn the loss anyway. I had some stamps that were my mother's, back when my dad was a seaman, I guess. I wonder where they ended up?

So I'm beginning a collection from the ground up, picking up a sheet of three stamps (local, us and intl.) from the post office. I just liked the graphic design. And then I'll eagerly await letters from all over. And maybe get some more penpals to keep them coming. I'm collecting them for art value, not future worth.

Now I want to go back to a flea market to root through old papers and things.

I'm a little bit of a rat.

P.S. Almost bid on a typewriter, but I couldn't log on to ebay. And now I'm not sure I want it. Oh well.

2011-12-24T19:20:00.004-08:00

Flow

Stumbling onto Nicholas Felton and his personal annual reports has me groping to make sense of my own life in quantifiable terms. It also led me back to thinking of index cards as an organizational tool, such as in hawkexpress' POIC. I tried a bit of that, but couldn't sustain it enough to build a useful deck.

Still, this has me planning my own 2011 Annual Report, with a timeline and lists of events and accomplishments, not as a design exercise but as a summation of what has passed which should bleed into the next year. It's far more satisfying than the vague motions that otherwise mark the turnover into the following year.

I also printed three copies of a notebook made from folding a single sheet of paper, something I've been doing with the excess paper at work. There's a website called Pocketmod, where you can make your own, complete with customized graph/lined pages and weekly/daily templates, though it requires a bit of trimming.

All throughout this year, I found myself making up my own planner templates. For the first six months, I printed a monthly calendar on cardstock, writing a word a day. And then I stopped. Later on, I made up weekly templates where I wrote my goals, such as a number of poems to write, number of minutes to walk on the treadmill and so on. So we'll see what I come up with, and if it sticks.

For now, I'm thinking of a single board beside my couch/bed, to do a manual checklist of my yearly goals. I'm so analog...

2011-12-12T21:06:00.001-08:00

Oh, to be a hipster

But although I tend to have a lot of obscure names alongside the mainstream ones on my list of favorite things, I'm really, really too much of a slob to be deemed a hipster. I don't get the art of the ironic shirt. (Except one time we all wore I <3 Cebu shirts while we were in Bohol, so that's the sarcastic shirt.) I shop at thrift stores, but only because the mall's too boring and expensive, and I like inviting serendipity into my life, but my sartorial choices are neither ironic nor fashionable. They're just comfortable, occasionally pretty and dirt cheap.

I've loved mostly the same old bands since ten years ago, though the new ones tend to be more folk rock or old 80's singers that I've only now begun to appreciate. And I'm a liberal arts graduate who tries my best to be more environmental. I also love zines, and spend too much money on them. And I hate monopolies, so I've never had an ipod, or shopped at itunes. (Walmart and Amazon are a little harder to abjure, because who can resist all those cheap stuff?)

So what's so bad about being a hipster? Most people seem to be reacting against the pretension of cool, and the elitism that follows. Their idea of the hipster is a person who strives to differentiate himself or herself from the mainstream, but is still a follower of certain alternative trends. So is there no genuine originality out there?

For me, it's not the cool factor, I just think having eclectic tastes make me more interesting, because otherwise I'm boring as fuck. (With a dilapidated vocabulary to match.) It doesn't make me better or worse, and I love finding out what other people are passionate about, because that makes them interesting to me. We don't always fit the labels others give us, or even the labels we give ourselves. So give it a break, haters.

I mean how weird would it be to become self-conscious about my plastic glasses and my messenger bag because those are hipster totems? Labels are occasionally funny, occasionally useful, but oftentimes used to exclude or denigrate.

If there's a label that I want for myself, it would be of a poet, but that doesn't quite fit, so I'm still working on it. Oh, and I was a math nerd. (Embrace it.)

2011-12-11T23:09:00.000-08:00

Another day for book-buying

unexpectedly. I bought "A Passionate Patience" from Amazon, because I've been looking for this book awhile. I almost bought another book, but it was seventy dollars, before shipping and handling and import fees and I just couldn't do it... APP is a book where Filipino poets talk about their process. I've only scanned it during grad school and I've been yearning for it ever since.

I also bought an online comic book as a present for my sister, and I got a free pdf of a poetry chapbook from someone in CYWA. Someday, I'll get thick enough skin to publish my own chapbook, with the same sort of casual arrogance and self-deprecating humor.

I didn't read it through yet and I don't know enough about contemporary Filipino poetry to judge, but I would describe the collection as exuberant. The best of the lot, however, remains those that use concrete images and vivid language; the rest uses diction that obscures rather than clarifies, and it is like a beautiful fog that slips through my fingers.

My own work feels like that sometimes. And my own life.

2011-12-10T07:15:00.000-08:00

Encircled by Stars

I was walking home last night when I looked up and saw the full moon. And then I saw star after star, and I whirled around trying to look for more. I must have looked quite the fool, standing out in the cold twirling in place with my face up, facing the deep indigo of the sky, looking for answers in the abyss between each pinpoint of light.

Let's just say that clear nights are a rarity here. And also, star-gazing always gives me a little perspective. Why do we like feeling small in such a universe? All our cares we lift up to the wind to be borne away, and empty and weightless we carry on our insignificant lives.

2011-12-08T20:56:00.000-08:00

Today: A Retrospective

I took my citizenship exam this morning. My parents, my sister and I went there an hour early. I had slept less than six hours, but I was more or less alert, though by now my eyebags were like overripe grapes, dark and ripe.

My sister was cramming on the way, as per usual, while I reread a Trisha Ashley book. My parents didn't have to take it, so they just went for the interview and left early. While waiting for the test to begin, I read poetry, because I didn't have any review materials, and because I needed to ply my mind with beautiful distractions.

Some new poets whose work I liked: Don Welch, Gwendolyn Brooks and Donald Finkel.

Useless to ask what this was
before it crusted. It has the face
of Frost over Auden. But it doesn't
worry. It takes itself in folds.
--from "Bark," Don Welch

The test itself was easy-peasy, and I'm pretty sure I got every question right.

Afterwards, my sister and I went for brunch at Tim Horton's, before I accompanied her to school, reading a bit of Kingsolver's The Lacuna while she revised an essay. She took me to the library to print it out, and I spent too long paging through the journals, longing to be able to browse there to my heart's content.

When we got home--after detours to buy all sorts of edibles--I finished the Ashley book, before baking Food for the Gods, which is basically a date and walnut bar. It's my first time making this and it turned out alright, though not quite that taste I was craving.

And then whiling the night away online, as per usual;

2011-12-07T14:14:00.000-08:00

Gave in

and bought a used copy of The Urge to Jump by Trisha Ashley from amazon even though it's twenty dollars plus shipping. I just want to reread it so badly. What other books do I have that I feel so strongly about? (Or maybe I just feel so strongly because it is out of print and desperation mounts.)

I was thinking about what Orson said about making up your own canon. My own favorite books are pretty uneven in terms of quality. I love them terribly, but not necessarily push them onto other people, except those whose tastes are aligned to mine. Maybe I also suspect my own reasons for loving them.

The Urge to Jump, for instance, I love for the language. I've reread it several times and there's always things left to discover, particularly since it's written by a British woman living in Wales who talks of things that go over my head. It's just witty beyond all telling. The story's summary according to her website is:

Sappho stopped counting birthdays when she reached thirty, but now she's approaching the big four-oh! Realizing she has almost become a single eccentric female, she gets the urge to do something dramatic before it's too late, and one of the few things she has not tried is motherhood.

Which does not even tell us that Sappho is a fantasy writer, finally moving into a house of her own, with a couple of quirky friends living nearby, and yes, a romantic love interest added almost as an afterthought to her already full life. It's the love story I want to live, frankly.

It seems to me rare to find a romance novel heroine that never compromises herself for a man. I've read other books by the same author but none of them come close to this one. I like Singled Out and Every Woman for Herself, though. I also like that there are small details connecting some books to others.

Vow: I will buy every copy of The Urge to Jump (below the 20$ price) if I ever find any at secondhand bookshops. Also, I will buy other Ashley books. She needs wider readership!

(I don't need anything for Christmas now. Just hope that it comes soon...)

2011-12-05T22:20:00.000-08:00

The Real Canon

by Orson Scott Card
(from Uncle Orson Reviews Everything)

I recently took one of the Great Courses on the Western Literary Canon. For those who aren't literature students, the "literary canon" is not book-launching artillery. Or maybe it is. The "canon" refers to a term from religion -- it means that something (or someone) is officially certified. So a person who is declared a saint is "canonized," and also the official scripture is said to be "in the canon."

Extending this to literature, the "canon" means the works that the academic community regards as essential for any educated person to be familiar with.

The trouble is that what academia considers to be the "canon" has become absurd.

Once, there were works that everybody knew because education followed similar paths. When grammar-school students all had to struggle through translating Caesar's account of his Gallic Wars from Latin into English, and then reading Cicero, Virgil, and others in the original, naturally all educated people recognized famous Latin tag lines.
It was a mark of education, not that you had memorized "Veni, vidi, vici," but that you actually understood that it meant "I came, I saw, I conquered," and that it was a clever but perfectly natural and understandable way of delivering the message.

But educated people also read books which they selected themselves. There was no English literature department in any university in the 1800s; it was still controversial to have an English department at Oxford, for instance, when Tolkien helped design the course of study for English students.

After all, why in the world would you need a university to teach you how to read the literature of your own language? So English students were required to learn Old English and Middle English, so they could study great works that were written in versions of English that we no longer speak.

Who in the world would need a teacher to explain Dickens or Austen, Poe or Twain? They're perfectly clear to modern readers. And the only reason you'd need an English teacher to explain Hawthorne is because he's such an unbearably bad writer that you'd rather not read his books yourself.

So the "canon" consisted of books that readers, critics, and writers came to love and respect and pass from hand to hand. Professors didn't tell you that you had to read Dickens -- you simply had to in order to be part of the culture of your time, rather the way that if you haven't read any Harry Potter books you're viewed with pity by anybody who actually reads for pleasure.

Nobody declared Harry Potter to be "officially good" literature. Rowling's books were selected by volunteers. And that's how it used to be.

Jane Austen, for instance, was merely one of many popular writers when her novels first appeared. But she quickly became a favorite among other writers, in part because she developed techniques that nobody else was using, which eventually evolved into the third-person-limited viewpoint that absolutely dominates popular literature today.
And Austen's books were memorable, so that people passed them from hand to hand and from generation from generation. There was no academic support for this, but her books remained in print perpetually because it was always profitable to publish them. They found readers because readers loved them and wanted other people to share the powerful and pleasurable experience of reading them.

That's how, for a time, the canon grew. A combination of joy and admiration, along with the prestige of the person who gave, lent, or recommended the book to you, gave life to the literary canon.

And then they started teaching contemporary literature in the universities, and the whole process was kidnapped by idiots.

Gone was the "love and joy" portion of canon formation. In fact, the more popular a book was, the more despised it became among academics. Why? Because academia swallowed the entire bunkum of Modernism, which sneered at "middle-class" values and thought of "high" literature as something deliberately put out of the reach of the common rabble.

The result was pretentious twaddle like James Joyce's Ulysses, which can only be understood with the magic decoder ring which Joyce thoughtfully provided to friends, and which they passed on to the professors.

By declaring Ulysses to be the greatest work of literature of the 20th century, academics attempted to guarantee their continuing employment. If you can't be an educated person without reading and pretending to understand, care about, and admire Ulysses, then you must obviously take college classes from English professors.

But the whole scheme has backfired, because when we finish learning how to read and understand Ulysses, most of us realize that it's twaddle. Whatever insights into the human condition James Joyce had to offer were trivial compared to the labor of receiving them.

And it's not just James Joyce. Students of literature spend endless labor learning to read work after work of modern and post-modern literature, and then learn the precious and silly vocabulary of deconstruction and the patronizing talking-down of multiculturalism, and in the end, what have they done?

They've opened Al Capone's vault and found it empty, and their English professors stand there like Geraldo Rivera, desperately trying to explain that it's still very important to have opened the vault, even though nothing of value was in it.

The result is that enrollment in English departments has plummeted. It used to be that a major in English was good preparation for a career in law or business, because you learned the roots and bones of English so you could write -- no, communicate -- with clarity and grace.

Now, you learn to write with obscurity and hypocritical pretension, and without independent thought. You come out of English programs knowing nothing of grammar and incapable of writing well, with your head stuffed full of literature that nobody cares about.

I mean really -- do you take Stephen Dedalus or Leopold Bloom into your heart and life?

OK, maybe a few hundred academics do. But it's nothing like the way millions of people have embraced Harry Potter. Or, for that matter, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Pip, David Copperfield, Jo and Meg and Beth and Amy, Elizabeth and Jane Bennett and Darcy and Bingley, Scarlett and Rhett and Melanie and Ashley, Judah Ben-Hur, Frodo and Gollum and Sam, Paul Muad-dib, Hari Selden, Sherlock Holmes, Douglas Spaulding, Tarzan, Conan, Robinson Crusoe, Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister, and animals named Buck and Flicka and Bambi and Lassie.

Maybe you didn't know some of these names, or the works they came from, but I'll bet you knew a lot of them, and not just those whose names are in the titles.

So while academics and critics -- people who live by impressing others with their erudition and elitism -- almost universally declare Ulysses to be the greatest work of the 20th century, volunteer readers -- people who love literature for the joy of it -- repeatedly declare that The Lord of the Rings is the greatest work.

Some of us think that only William Shakespeare and Jane Austen rival J.R.R. Tolkien for brilliance of talent and magnitude of achievement.

Here's the lovely thing: Eventually, the literary canon bends to the popular one. Academics almost universally sneered at Lord of the Rings when it first appeared -- even though the author was the very academic who had rescued Beowulf from oblivion and made it that absolutely essential root of English-literature studies.
They hated LOTR because anybody could read it, without help. They declared it to be shallow and worthless and badly written.

But in fact those epithets applied far more aptly to many if not most of the works they taught as "great" contemporary literature. The Man Booker Prize is usually given to pretentious ephemera whose writing only thinly disguises the emptiness beneath it, but the slightly-more-popular prizes rarely do any better.

And anyone who says Tolkien's writing is less than brilliant simply does not understand language or writing. The Old-English-style poetry of almost every word Tom Bombadil says is a delight to those who recognize it, and Shakespeare and Hardy are the only writers I know who rival Tolkien for his ability to contrast heroic, courtly, common, and coarse language in the same work, the same chapter, the same scene.

Nobody in all of English literature is a better master of English prose than J.R.R. Tolkien.

Take this passage from Lord of the Rings:

"And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all men were hushed. And he sang to them, now in the Elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness."

Even if you haven't read the book and have no idea of what this moment actually means, that is simply gorgeous, fluid prose. Who has written about the power of language more beautifully than this, exemplifying what he describes?
The people are better judges of great storytelling and, yes, even great writing, than the academics. In the long run, the fads of the volunteer readers are more likely to identify great and lasting works of literature than the fads of the academics.

I'm not talking about bestsellers. There are genres whose best sellers become bestsellers simply because there are so many readers who seek out that genre for their entertainment.

But is anyone still passing along the works of Irving Wallace as must-reads? His work was popular in its time, but its time has passed; it does not take away from its meaning as a marker of culture, but it will never enter the popular canon.
But writers like Dickens and Twain -- and, in the long run, Austen and Alcott and Mitchell and Tolkien and Lewis and Bradbury -- force their way into the academic canon. How? Because while the professors of one generation might sneer at their work, there will come a generation of professors who became readers preciselybecause of the love and joy and admiration they got from these writers.

They remain perpetually dissatisfied with academic rules and theories that do not make room for works that these professors still love. And eventually, they create new rules and theories that welcome the beloved works, while eventually shrinking and eventually displacing entirely the once-admired works that were never beloved by volunteer readers.

However, there's another process at work in canon-formation: The Rescue. Moby-Dicksank like a rock when it first appeared, but it was rescued by mature readers who realized that it was not just a great literary achievement but also a delightful, witty, mean, hard-hitting, powerfully told, memorable story.

Beowulf was a rescue, after all. Even Shakespeare, after years of eclipse, was rescued by a wiser generation. Often great works are pushed "down" into children's literature -- where science fiction and fantasy and women's fiction are often sneeringly placed by academics and critics too stupid to see past their prejudices -- only to be rescued by later generations.

After all, it was as a child that I was first given Alcott, Austen, Mitchell, Bradbury, Dickens, Defoe, and Twain; I was given them by people who loved both me and those books, and they were great and memorable gifts that have stayed with me my whole life.

Here is my rule: Never sneer at another person's taste in reading. Never make another person ashamed of a story that they love. You don't know what hunger that book is satisfying. And the book you despise today may be part of their personal canon in ways that you are simply unable to understand.

Meanwhile, if you're a reader, a lover of books, why not take on a little project? As you gather with family this Thanksgiving holiday, take out a notebook and paper and ask: What are the books you love? What are the books that you have urged on your friends and begged them to read?

Offer no word of judgment or criticism, and permit no one else to offer any. If someone says Twilight and you hate the book, keep your opinion to yourself and write it down.

Write them all down. Every book that has been loved.

The danger is that some will suggest books that they think will make them look smart -- the main reason for pretending to admire most books in the academic canon. Somebody will say "Plato" and someone else will say "Virgil."

It happens that I do love Plato, though I disagree with him on so many things; Virgil, though, I regard as a bit of a talented hack -- does anyone really care about the story of Aeneas? I suppose so. Write down the pretentious ones as well.

Leave the notebook open for people to add titles and authors as they come to mind, for many a beloved book lies deep in the memory and only pops up from time to time.

I think of Nordhoff & Hall's Bounty Trilogy, the third volume of which, Pitcairn's Island, struck me to the heart as a great tragedy, and the second volume of which, Men Against the Sea, became my exemplar of how the villain of one story can be the hero of the next, without changing even a shred of the character.

Create your family's Canon of Beloved Literature, and then distribute it. Post it on your blog. Send it out with your Christmas letter. Give books from it to people you love and care about. Make sure all the books on the list are on your Kindle or Nook or iPad, and sample the ones you haven't read.

We, not the professors, are the creators of the real canon. Let's take conscious control of the thing. As they lose their students, let's gain readers for the books we love. Then, when the professors wise up and start teaching from our canon, they'll get their students back. We will have saved them. Aren't we nice?

----
Mormon/homophobic or not, I still really respect this guy's definitions of what constitutes a good book or movie. And I like this idea of making up your own canon of books that you have loved.

2011-11-30T12:03:00.001-08:00

My problem with tumblr

aside from the time-drain is that we scroll down and consume image after image, pick favorites and likes, and we are not really pushed to create beauty for ourselves.

also, that followers become the be-all and end-all of our narcissism.

and we do get a chance to see other people's art and thoughts, but there is no invitation for a deeper connection.

we either produce and become ourselves a commodity to be shared/traded/protected or we consume and nothing new is created.

we learn to skim, rather than read. and a life of skimming is shallowness personified.

---

on the other hand, lots of cute things! (animal gifs, pretty cakes, frothy dresses, pictures of jensen ackles...)

2011-11-30T11:44:00.000-08:00

For Change

The endless rallies are wearying. Maybe it's our culture of dependence (on charity, on hand-outs) but whenever I see another rally on tv (internet news), I think, why don't they do something more proactive? Our problems will not be solved on the say-so of a politician, no matter how charismatic or well-intentioned. If your government's not working for you, why don't you create an NGO that'll do the job?

Sounds simplistic, and more than a little ignorant, yes, but I am just tired of the hopelessness I can see in others' eyes and mine. Wouldn't it be nicer to watch news of ordinary people who initiate recycling projects, small business lenders, vocational training, adult education, etc. Wouldn't it be nice to offer solutions that any and everyone can do, instead of endless criticisms of whoever is in power?

Maybe a group that bands together and says: I will not participate in corruption. I will pay my taxes on time. I will not jump through hoops at City Hall to get a permit or a license. I will not give money when a policeman stops my car after I broke the rules of traffic. I will not steal office supplies from work, or tissue paper from hotel bathrooms. I will not write on public property. I will not steal books from libraries. (Just small things we don't even consider wrong nowadays.)

It could snowball into something bigger, if only with enough momentum.

And then the question is turned back onto me. What am I doing to help the change along?

2011-11-25T16:01:00.000-08:00

Living Will
(morbid though it may sound)

If I get killed and eaten by a wild cat (tigers, jaguars, lions, etc.) please don't kill the cat. To be part of such a life cycle would be scary but somehow majestic, and a more beautiful end than the car accident I'll probably get. (Just so you know, I hate cars.)

If I get killed and eaten by a shark, please kill the shark, gut it, feast on its fins, make necklaces from its teeth and let rot take the rest.

If I get murdered, don't push for the death penalty. I'll haunt them until they're old, and make them pay and pay and pay. If it's a kid, and it's accidental manslaughter (such as in a car accident) give them a second chance at life.

If I get into a coma, don't wait too long to pull the plug. I might enjoy the rest too much to ever wake up again. But if the doctors say my chances are good, read to me, and maybe that will lead me back.

If I die of blood poisoning or tetanus or something, you have my permission to sue the heck out of my employers. :P

If you ever need to send me to a care home, don't feel too bad about it; I forgive you in advance. (But take note that I will now try my best to stay out of a care home, and if I grow old and start being grumpy and staying at home too much, kick my ass and tell me to watch "Up" and get a life.)

Donate what can be donated of my body, though don't inflict my eyes on anyone. I don't want to be embalmed; cremate or bury me if you wish. But don't spend too much on fancy coffins. I'd rather get to the earth as soon as I can. In fact, if you bury me with worms, that would be amazing. (Intellectually speaking. The visual creeps me out.)

Of my writings, keep my poetry, and my ramblings about my poetry. Discard the rest. Please discard the rest. I dream of giving journals over unto the next generation, but you could just print this blog if you wish. Everything else I have written is just so much crap. As for my fanfic, um, that's up to you.

Take from my books what you like, and what you don't, give to the Salvation Army or some such. If you want to keep anything for sentimental reasons, take your pick from the books on poetry.

I would like my sister MG to be the Speaker for the Dead at my wake. (Read Card if you want to learn more about it.) You don't have to paint a pretty picture of my life; just be a little kind. And play "Asleep" by the Smiths. (Or other versions.) If I get a tombstone, you can pick the quote from whichever book you like, although I am partial to a Taoist idea: It is the dark within the dark; the gateway of all craft.

If you get any money from well-wishers, divide them among my sisters. If you wish to donate to a charity instead, consider picking one in the Philippines, or giving to Office of Letters and Light (Nanowrimo), or to any poetry organization in BC, or the David Suzuki Foundation.

I may have had misgivings about faith and what comes next. But even so, I do not fear death. And if you must mourn me, do so by celebrating life in all its glorious complexities. Eat delicious food. Read amazing books and lots of poetry. Sing. Dance. Frolic. And wherever I am (will be), I will be content.

This started out as a joke, but it's all (mostly) true.

2011-10-01T21:05:00.001-07:00

Great Booksale Day 4
Spent 8$ (yes I went over budget by 2$)

A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami (fiction)
Sparkling Words: 225 Practical and Creative Writing Ideas by Ruth Kearney Carlson
The Robot Novels by Isaac Asimov (sci fi)
Young Sherlock Holmes by Alan Arnold (fiction)

2011-09-30T12:27:00.000-07:00

Great Booksale Day 3
Spent: 8$

About a boy by Nick Hornby (fiction)
Bushido: the Way of the Samurai ed. by Justin F. Stone
Dreamfall by Joan D. Vinge (read before; fantasy)
Elvenbane by Andre Norton and Mercedes Lackey (fantasy)

2011-09-27T18:31:00.000-07:00

Great Booksale Day 2
Spent: 18$ (9 more books, including MG's)

A Classical Education by Robert Woods Kennedy (fiction)
A Handbook of Greek Art by Gisela Richter
False Impression by Jeffrey Archer (fiction)
How to Read a Person Like a Book by Gerald I. Neirenberg and Henry H. Calero
Kaleidoscope Century by John Barnes (sci fi)
Le Morte D'Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory (fiction)
Practical Calligraphy by John R. Nash and Gerald Fleuss
The Mapmaker: A novel of the days of Prince Henry, the navigator by Frank G. Slaughter (fiction)
The Sea by John Banville (fiction)

2011-09-25T15:01:00.000-07:00

Great Booksale Day 1
Spent: 18$ (9 books)

50 Great Artists by Bernard Myers
A Scientific Romance by Ronald Wright (fiction)
Guns, Germs and Steel by Jared Diamond
High Tide in Tucson by Barbara Kingsolver (read before)
The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker (fiction)
The Klingon Dictionary by Marc Okrand
The Norton Anthology of Poetry, 3rd edition
The Random House Compact World Atlas, 1991
Three Centuries of American Poetry, ed. by Allen Mandelbaum & Robert D. Richardson, Jr.

2011-09-08T22:12:00.000-07:00

Moneyed

This thing I bought online finally arrived. It's called "Afterzine" and the first issue is about negative space. The articles are varied and brilliant glimpses into all sorts of ideas. I'm glad I bought it, even though it felt like another unnecessary indulgence at that time.

I also bought a dress, though I almost didn't. It was from "Latitude," that store in the mall that's closing soon, so everything's either 50% off or five to ten dollars. The dress was cotton jersey in soft gray. (A color I've been drawn to recently, because it's a softer neutral that goes well with other dreamier palettes like pink and green.) It's a strapless, empire-cut tube dress, with beads sewn on top. I wouldn't have bought it if it weren't so similar in style to that dress of Jenny's I borrowed and wore to Jaja's wedding. I tried it on, and the cut is very flattering and the fabric is comfortable against my skin. It straddles casual and formal, but I'm not sure where I would wear it. Would it look good with a t-shirt underneath? It's five dollars, so it's a steal.

And what else is on the horizon? Books at the yearly booksale at the mall. That new laptop I have my eye on. And Christmas is fast approaching. (Everyone, duck!)

And I have the gall to refuse extra hours on my shift? (Yes.)

2011-08-24T21:55:00.000-07:00

This bag, and another one carried by a girl on the Skytrain home has me wanting to get plain messenger bags and design them. The other one was black and had a bird appliqued to it using different textured fabrics, but all in black and white. The girl was wearing a striped blouse with a gray cardigan and a high-waisted denim skirt with buttons down the front. She had a silhouette like a model.

2011-08-24T14:49:00.000-07:00

Listography

I'm feeling the familiar impulse to write lists of favorites of Japanese culture:

favorite manga:
skip beat!
komatta toki ni wa hoshi ni kike!
aruku hito

favorite live action drama:
nodame cantabile
nobuta wo produce
seigi no mikata

favorite movies:
instant numa
solanin
lovely complex

favorite anime/movie:
tokyo godfathers

favorite anime/show:
skip beat!
antique bakery
lovely complex
r.o.d. the tv

favorite character:
naruto

2011-08-11T23:30:00.000-07:00

Instant Numa/Instant Swamp

I don't know how I got there. I just started watching this Japanese movie, and then-- the head rush! the giggling! what a trip.

First of all the actors fit their roles like tailor-made gloves. No false note struck. Also, Kase Ryo is amazingly versatile, with a face that is familiar but does not overpower his acting. But it is Kumiko Aso which blossoms in this quirky movie. She is brilliantly funny and living in her headspace is like eating Milo sludge. Odd, but yummy. I love the sentimental antiques, the kappas, the open-ended romance. I love this universe.

There should be more movies like these. I almost want to be a filmmaker just to see that happen.

2011-08-07T18:44:00.000-07:00

Handiwork

Today I took up a hammer and a large screwdriver and tried to chip ice off the big block in the freezer of the unplugged refrigerator, oh so slowly dripping all over the bathroom floor. It was a job my manager left for me, and I banged myself a few times, feeling like an inept sculptor.

Aside from that, there were no jobs. Everybody's too busy enjoying the sun out there.

I've never thought I'd be someone who'd work with her hands. But I like it, sore fingers and all.

2011-07-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

Motivations

I've taken a leaf from the book at work and have started to set weekly goals for myself. (We have goals for sales and productivity and breakages and other boring stuff like that.) My goals are more in the way of number of poems to write on certain themes, minutes to walk on the treadmill, and that sort of thing. It's a way to make myself accountable, if only to myself.

And it's not a bad idea, for however long this drive lasts. (I am not known for my follow-through.) It's barely a week, and I've already walked and written more than I would have. I just need to stick to it, and maybe I'll make more progress. It makes me feel less like I'm in a rut, and makes me more aware that time is passing, that other things could be done. I need deadlines like air.

Still doing less book-reading and art than I'd like though. I hope the day comes where the goals I set become too low, and I have to raise them just for the challenge and exhilaration of overcoming them.

2011-07-06T21:26:00.000-07:00

First Love Story

I am no Eve to your Adam.
There will be no rib-stealing
in this garden. Though yes,
we can name the flora and fauna
side by side. I like naming things.

I am not an ox to be yoked,
nor a sheep to be penned in.
I will not obey, and if it means
that I will taste some foreign fruit,
then so be it. It's not so bad on the tongue.

And you with your exquisite rage,
that I am sure our sons will inherit,
you with your notions of right and wrong,
(Which the fruit awakened? A strange
idea. Our brains are complex enough

to come up with such absolutes.)
go ahead and change the world.
But I am no Eve to your Adam. And outside
this garden, there is nothing but pain.
And after pain shall come solace and rest.

Go ahead and change the world. I will do
what I do best, and yes, our love
might have shifted shapes like the strangest beast
in the garden. But I hold on, nevertheless,
for I am as strong as you--strong enough

to say you're right and I'm wrong.
And I am Eve, and you are Adam.
And this world is ours to change or to conserve.
And this love is ours to replenish.
And this life is ours to taste and touch and tarnish.

And we will walk in the shadows hand in hand
And we shall fear the evil that grows
like a poison root in our souls.
And in spite of fear we will soldier on,
raising our sons to command themselves.

And our daughters to hold their heads as high.
And when death comes for us, the promised death
from a God we both love and loathe, then we will leave
for another garden, and we will leave this world
to those we have raised. And we will not be afraid.

----
First draft of the longest poem I have ever written. Inspired by Adam Baldwin, and his name led me to all the Biblical imagery. Not tight enough and not entirely sure what I meant to say, but just working with the idea of what it means to be the parents of humanity, to have the future resting on our hands. (And being the wife, and needing to have equal share of the work.)

2011-07-04T08:34:00.000-07:00

Ambivalence

I have anti-American sentiments. (Mostly after reading my country's history books, which I remember defacing with a lot of swear words. Imperialism. Benevolent Assimilation. Bah.)
I have pro-American sentiments. (That I am slightly ashamed of. But I have to admit, I devour a lot of American books, films and music. I admire them for their patriotism, and yet I think they can be blinded by it.)
I think the "Star-Spangled Banner" is a silly song about fireworks (and imperialism), and my country's anthem is way better. But when people sing "Star-Spangled Banner" they put their entire selves into it. When people sing "Lupang Hinirang" with feelings, they get scolded because they got the tempo wrong.
I am anti-war. (Because I'm a damn Liberal, and when did that become a dirty word?)
I am not pro-war, but my views towards soldiers have changed. (Blame NCIS and Adam Baldwin and a lot of fanfic about Marines.)
I don't hate Commies, but I get why people do.
I see why people choose to be Republicans, but fervor, religious or political, scares me. (It's still not clear to me what Democrats and Republicans believe in outside of the stereotypes.)

I go down on the side of ambivalence. Happy American Friendship Day! (Aren't I glad I migrated to Canada instead?)

2011-06-17T20:45:00.001-07:00

I should write here more often. I miss this space.

2011-06-17T20:20:00.000-07:00

Shelfish

Haven't been reading much. Right now I'm plodding through "The Language Instinct" by Steven Pinker. He's very good at explaining things and the book is engaging and informative, but I'm at the point where I'm thinking of returning the book unfinished, to be reborrowed another day.

I'm also going through a couple of my (expensive) poetry anthologies: a collection of Modern European Poetry, and one called "Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia and Beyond." The books feel like treasure boxes, rarely opened as they are. (Though interestingly enough, I got curious about Polish poetry after I finished Hirsch's book, and through the first anthology, got acquainted with some new voices.)

But when I'm stressed out, I seek out stuff I've already read, things I scan and read with half my attention. Sort of like static on the radio...

All these things make me want to learn foreign languages so I can translate poems.

I did fall for Sarah Monette's Doctrine of Labyrinths series. I love the world she builds, and wishes there were more stories about them. I like how the series is unpredictable, and how each place has their own history, ideas about magic, views towards magic-users, etc.

If I could create a world half so vivid...

2011-06-17T20:10:00.000-07:00

Freewriting: Return

Always return
to sender, this missive,
surrender from hand to hand.
Always return to this land
swept clean, but holding traces

gathered in layers
a slice of earthen pie.
Always return home
where a soul gets enough air
to grow higher, a flame
steady in the stillness

without echoes.
Nothing to return to.
Nothing but empty hands and cracked
shells, growing luminous and numinous.
Do you ever dream of deserts? Of grit
in your eyes and the weight of absence?
I dream of pie, fresh from some mom's oven:
a rolled crust pierced with holes
and the fillings seep through.

I dream of you.

2011-02-23T23:45:00.000-08:00

A Series of Digressions: It just occurred to me...

that I am a Person of Color. Wow. It's like coming out of the closet and seeing yourself on the mirror for the first time. And yes, I am Asian, and yes, my skin is brown. I knew that. But it's only been four years since we moved to Canada and it hasn't quite sunk in yet: I am a minority.

Maybe it's because I walk around on the streets or in the mall, and there's always someone speaking my language, as well as Punjabi, Chinese, Spanish, Korean, and English... BC's pretty multicultural, so it's not a matter of blending in or standing out, but finding a place where you fit.

Rather than race, it took awhile before I got used to the emptiness. Manila is all sound and heat and color and smells and crowds of people going this way and that. I still can't get over how devoid of life the streets here can be. (Or maybe I'm just not where the crowds are.)

And I miss being able to speak in my language, but I'm getting used to it, even though I still get tongue-tied and self-conscious about my pronunciation.

And I know racism exists. I know how language can be used to include and exclude. I know people, family and friends, who make assumptions based on skin color. And I hate bigots, but how do you change someone's mind?

When the Avatar movie was whitewashed, it didn't bother me that much. (I didn't watch it, but only because my sisters said it sucked.) All my life I've been reading Anglo-American literature, identifying with white girls.

And that is why I didn't realize I was a PoC.

So who else am I supposed to identify with? There are no Filipino heroines I can put to mind. I am out of touch with my own literature--though I prefer local poetry in English--and haven't read anything beyond all those assigned books in high school.

I had an Isabel Allende phase, and am nursing a current interest in Cuba. I used to love Chinese movies, before Japanese and Korean stuff became big. I read manga.

Philippine Fantasy? Aside from the comics turned to movies or tv series, this is pretty much a burgeoning literature. There's horror, which I hate. There's Arnold Arre's graphic novels, which I like. There's Dean Alfar, which reminds me of McKillip and is as difficult to pin down.

My problem with my own literature is that I find a lot of it boring. Too much modernist crap. Too much of Hemingway's influence. Either that or it's dense, packed with allusions you have no hope of following, and comes off as pretentious. Maybe because there's Literature and then there's cheap romance novels that you gulp down like potato chips. And for a long time, that was it. We are not a reading country.

Canada is. There is this strange pleasure whenever I go on the bus or train and there are people pulling out their novels, from a Japanese how-to book, to a Robert Jordan paperback, to a school textbook in Nursing or whatever. At the food courts or coffee shops, it's the same thing.

I started writing this without a destination in mind. Once, I spent my lunch hour talking to a friend about this, and we dreamed of revolutionizing publishing or something. (She's a lawyer working in public office and I make glasses. Go figure.)

What can be done? There's this thing called "Remyth Project." It's an old entry, and I don't really know if it's still in progress or not, but I'd like to give it a try.

"The Remyth project is this: You, as a person of color, as a person whose myths have been sidelined, removed, changed, altered, turned into movies, popularized and sold, you as a participant of your heritage (even divorced by many generations)...

You write up, draw, or ramble in whatever way befits you about a myth you can claim ownership to. You take back that myth. You tell us what you think it is. Reinterpret, reconstruct, or even revise- give it a rebirth, as you would."

When I think myth I think of people turning into flowers after dying of broken hearts. I think of guys getting raised from the dead by the rooster's crow. I think of Maria Makiling falling for a mortal who betrays her. I think of Lola Basyang and that story about the monkey princess. I think of Bob Ong's "Alamat ng Gubat" and Juan Tamad and the monkey fighting with the turtle. I think of paglilihi and blood stew--two things I've seen mentioned in American novels. There are dozens more, but they don't feel mine.

And then there are those half-remembered personal myths, like my great-grandfather being a full-blooded Chinese chieftain or such who came over to Isabela, changed his name, married local and died a blind opium addict. My grandfather was a spy during the war, a teacher and shop-owner, a genius whose large family survived because he stockpiled salt in bamboo posts. My grandmother was a sharp and strict entrepreneur who bought many lands after selling insurance. They (supposedly) had a large jar full of gold that they buried on one of their lands, but it sank and the deed was lost...

On my father's side, my grandmother remaining unmarried but bearing a handful of children. Curiously enough, they look pretty Chinese compared to my mother's side. (And I took after her.) My grandfather was born in 1880, and was 76 when my father was born. My father was the youngest, and has all these stories of making toys out of cans and catching crabs by the beach and eating unconcernedly while there was gunfire and everyone else hid under the table.

I have my parents' love story, which um, might have turned me off romance completely. I have me and my sister's childhoods, scars and scares and making up our own games and skits. I have the memory of the school library, with its blue floors and shelves full of Newberry winners. I have a list of crushes whose names I barely remember. I have the friend I love to hate and the men I hate to love.

I'm not sure any of this should or would make its way to my writing. But I think I'll have to take a deeper look, just so this PoC thing makes sense. In the meantime, maybe I should start looking for fantasy novels that go beyond European myths. Otherwise I'm stuck in a white, white world, blind even to myself.

2011-01-08T09:30:00.000-08:00

Projects for the new year

1) Daily Poetry (or wordplay) - I may not be producing works of quality but it gives me impetus to be more observant. At first I was rhyming a lot, but I made a conscious effort not to. I love rhymes if they're done well, but it felt restrictive.
2) Word/Phrase Calendar - I drew a grid on blank board and numbered it according to the month. Every day, some resonant word or phrase gets written in the box. Once I'm done, I'll paint the whole page. Hopefully this doesn't peter out and last until December. It makes me take each day as a separate set of moments.
3) Flow Book - It was supposed to be filled with associations and connections, but I just add random things like lists and maps and drawings. I'm hoping to make more of these, until I make something that straddles the line between private and public, something I can give away.
4) Scrapbook - I haven't started on this yet. I want to take the printed pictures of last year and arrange them along with all sorts of ephemera in a plain brown book. It doesn't have to be the polished scrapbook look you could see in magazines. I'm thinking more like photos, notes, scraps pasted together in a jumble, so that you don't always know what you'll see when you turn the page. Last year was pretty interesting for me, coming back home for a month. I also fell in love with mori girls then. I'll see what I can do and report back.
5) Weight Loss - It really is a problem. I feel heavy and I hate getting my pictures taken because I feel fat. I know I eat too much and exercise too little. Why is it so hard to change those habits? I'll never be stick thin, and I'm never going to be gung-ho about gyms and sports, but there should be a middle way, right? At least the treadmill my parents bought is getting some use, even though I only walk for five to fifteen minutes at a time. You know what I'm addicted to? Mayonnaise and pastries. And maybe I should throw that tub of sour cream in the fridge...

P.S.
I'm also trying to draw more often. I still want to make my own manga, but I don't even have the basics down. I think I need to practice just drawing a character in different poses and with different expressions.

My hero: my sister's friend Pokemon kid, and several of my favorite mangakas including Inio Asano ('Solanin'), Yoshiki Nakamura ('Skip Beat!'), Umino Chika ('Honey and Clover') and Taniguchi Jiro ('Aruku Hito'). Those are all my favorite mangas. I'm also currently loving Abe Miyuki's 'Komatta Toki ni wa Hosi ni Kike!' and some Korean manhwas like Yubi's 'Ensemble' and Lee Kyung Ha's 'Happy Ending.'

2010-12-31T21:47:00.000-08:00

Last Day

On the way to work I saw a house Coca-cola red with a roof black as a chalkboard just before a good cleaning. It looked abandoned, though it was surrounded by other houses and buildings in varying states of disrepair.

I wrote in my orange notebook while on the road, and came out of the train with a headache. And then I worked a measly three hours--though there were a lot of orders to get through--because the mall was closing earlier than we expected. I went home with my co-worker Frank. He's a tiny man my father's age. We rode the train together until the end of the line, then walked to his car parked on 100th Street and he dropped me off at the library.

Although I didn't get much done, although I cut my thumb again and went through several band-aids, although my nails look like broken sea shells ground up in the surf, although it's cold, it felt like a good day.

2010-12-29T17:36:00.000-08:00

A Big New Free Happy Unusual Life by Nina Wise
(somewhat paraphrased)

1) Begin from stillness. Then see what comes. Pay attention to what you've done, but don't anticipate what you will do next. In this way, you live in the present moment.
2) Be true to whatever you are feeling physically, whether tired or lively.
3) Respond to emotional impulses as they arise moment to moment, whether irritated or frightened. Don't demonstrate the feelings through cliches but express them in your own way.
4) Include everything. Push nothing aside.
5) Surrender. Let go of believing you are in charge of the way your life goes, the way your work goes, the way you move or sing or draw or write poetry. Give up, yield, lose control. Surrender to the subconscious.
6) Surprise yourself. Go for what you don't know, what you've never done before. When you are moving in a way that is off balance, quirky, odd, awkward, you are doing good work. When you find yourself working in ways that are unfamiliar and uncomfortable, feed more energy into the process. Go as far as you can into that new territory.
7) Take risks physically and emotionally. Not to the extent that you injure yourself, but that you move beyond what is known into what is unknown. Risk adds excitement and interest to your work. It is fine to take a risk and fail. Move to the edge of what your capacity is, expand your ability, and continue to move to the next edge. Like life, art making is not a static event occurring in a safe space, but a dynamic unfolding of new possibilities.
8) Make mistakes. Be stupid, awkward, ridiculous. Write the worst poem imaginable. Paint a horrible picture. Sing out of tune. Embarrass yourself. Often our attempts to be good or skillful camouflage a deeper part of ourselves. When we let ourselves make mistakes, we discover the wisdom inherent in our stupidity, the grace embedded in awkwardness, the truth couched in the ridiculous. When you fail in your efforts, congratulate yourself for your courage and vitality.
9) Commit to what you are doing. Commitment plus energy equals enjoyment. Don't hold back. Feed energy into your action. You don't have to believe in what you are doing, you simply have to do it.

You have to force yourself at first. And then you fall in love with the whole experience. Then it's a question of love.
---
I keep coming back to this book from the library. The title drew me, and it always leads me to be a bit more present in my body, to be more sensual and still, and to trust my impulses more. You can say this list represents my New Year's Resolutions.

2010-12-29T12:07:00.000-08:00

End of Year Post

Movies I watched (Might be incomplete)
1) Avatar (New Year, with family)
2) When in Rome (Feb, with Jayne)
3) Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief (with the kids)
4) Bounty Hunter (was it Mother's Day or Father's Day? with family)
5) How to Train your Dragon (with Chi. loved it!)
6) Shrek 4: Forever After (for free)
7) Karate Kid (Summer, with the kids. pretty good, too.)
8) Inception (in the Philippines, with my cousins. Mind-blowing.)
9) Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows (November, tradition.)
10) Salt (on video, liked it in spite of myself.)
11) Despicable Me (on video, it's so fuzzy!)
12) Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (on video, liked the alternate ending better.)
13) Plus some films on DVDs from the Phils.

Series...
1) MacGyver (finished Season 1 and parts of Season 2)
2) Big Bang Theory (Season 2 only)
3) Jeeves & Wooster (1 & 2, from the library)
4) The Mentalist (minus the Red John eps)
5) Due South (first 2 seasons. Vecchio!)
6) Korean, Taiwanese and Japanese shows...

Books I read
1. Please Don't Eat the Daisies by Jean Kerr (I remember this from my creative nonfiction class in college; still funny after fifty years.)
2. Brilliant by Marne Davis Kellogg (Filled with twists; I couldn't put it down.)
3. Max Makes a Million by Maira Kalman (Colorful and jazzy)
4. Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within by Kim Addonizio (I want my own copy; the exercises are amazing.)
5. Arrows of the Queen by Mercedes Lackey (Nice enough; good beginning)
6. Three Nights in Havana: Pierre Trudeau, Fidel Castro and the Cold War World by Robert Wright (Wow. Considering it's historical and non-fiction, very well-written.)
7. Fables: Exiled (graphic novel)
8. Thirteen Orphans by Jane Lindskold (reccd by sister.)
9. Gone-Away Lake by Elizabeth Enright (reread the sequel as well. I want a copy!)
10. The Whispering Grove by Margery Hilton (Harlequin book from 1971)
11. Virgin with Butterflies by Tom Powers (vintage Harlequin reprint from 1940s; hilarious, reads like a parody)
12. Daughter of the Forest by Juliet Marillier (I was caught in its web of silence, and cried a lot in the reading. Even though it's a fairy tale with a familiar ending, I was still in breathless anticipation as to what would happen)
13. Son of the Shadows by Juliet Marillier (ran through it quickly, bk 2; 3rd bk is still out.)
14. Book of Atrix Wolfe by Patricia McKillip (Good, but ethereal and forgettable.)
15. Perfect by Marne Davis Kellogg (Decadent and gorgeous. It made me want to go out and buy jewelry or a sinful chocolate cake. Now I want the next one...)
16. An Exchange of Gifts by Anne McCaffrey
17. Wildwood Dancing by Juliet Marillier
18. Child of the Prophecy by Juliet Marillier (Sniffles)
19. Havemercy by Jaida Jones and Danielle Bennett (Slashy!)
20. The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet by Rief Larsen (Brilliant, restrained, sensual and yet didactic; T.S. is now my favorite twelve year old cartographer.)
21. Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allen (Like Practical Magic. A bit simplistic, but compelling, too. Made me want to eat edible flowers.)
22. The Writer as an Artist: A New Approach to Writing Alone and with Others by Pat Schneider (Nice, commonsense, but also inspiring book with writing exercises inside and how to lead a workshop...)
23. Whatcha mean, what's a zine? by Mark Todd and Esther Pearl Watson
24. Shock Waves by Carolyn Keene (Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys Super Mystery) - Did I just imagine better quality in the Super Mysteries I've read before? Or is it hit and miss? I remember reading Evil in Amsterdam and being impressed by it.
25. Three Fortunes in One Cookie by Cochrane Lambert (picked up for the gay, loved it for the friendships.)
26. The Great Indoors by Sabine Durrant (Interesting interiors.)
27. Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman by Elizabeth Buchan (Nice, low-key wit.)
28. Wives Behaving Badly by Buchan (Liked the first one better.)
29. Deadville by Ron Koertge (Has nice moments.)
30. Scandalizing the Ton by Diane Gaston (romance paperback.)
31. Zanna's Gift by Orson Scott Card.
32. I am the Messenger by Marcus Zusak (should have a crossover with Stargirl!)
33. The Melancholy of Suzumiya Haruhi by Nagaru Tanigawa (Boring at first, but moderately interesting; I'm enjoying the anime more.)
34. Tongue by Kyung-Ran Jo (Vivid, sensual, like Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses, disturbing. The ending didn't really ruin it for me, but makes it hard to reread.)
35. Momo by Michael Ende (inventive and resonant; still, I'm keeping it because of Kim Sam Soon.)
36. Flipped by Wendelin Van Draanen (Needs a sequel! Made me cry. Revenge!)
37. Heir to Sevenwaters by J. Marillier (Not as good, but alright, too.)
38. Scaramouche by Rafael Sabatini (Easy to read in spite of the florid language, or maybe because of it, a sort of tease of the French Revolution)
39. The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall (Much more wonderful than I thought it would be, like Enright but actually better.)
40. Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place: The Mysterious Howling by Maryrose Wood (Too short! Parody of Jane Eyre.)
41. Wheels of Fire by Mercedes Lackey and Mark Sheperd (No Tannim though... I like Joe!)
42. Eon: Dragoneye Reborn by Alison Goodman (Sequel! Couldn't put it down! Brilliant twists.)
43. Dragonflight by Anne McCaffrey
44. Dragonquest by Anne McCaffrey
45. The White Dragon by Anne McCaffrey (concise and thrilling; omnibus.)
46. Dragonsong by Anne McCaffrey (don't know if it counts, because I think I read it a long time ago, but it's unfamiliar enough to be considered.)
47. The Liar by Stephen Fry (Naughty, brilliant and mad, with lots of quotable quotes.)
48. Dragonsinger by Anne McCaffrey (I love it!)
49. Dragondrums by Anne McCaffrey (Finished it in half a day. Reminds me a little of Island of Blue Dolphins. Piemur's interesting life as singer, drummer, sometime spy and explorer.)
50. The Penderwicks at Gardam Street by Jeanne Birdsall (I love Batty!)
51. Vampire High: Sophomore Year by Douglas Rees (Amazing!!! As cool as the first, and reminds me of Plain JANE's art thing.)
52. Dillweed's Revenge: A Deadly Dose of Magic by Florence Parry Heide (bought for Ellis' illustrations. Too short...)

There are still a couple of days into the end of the year so I could pull of last-minute additions.

2010-11-01T11:53:00.000-07:00

A Month of Writing

I didn't really prepare for this year's Nanowrimo. I was too busy navigating the treacherous and addicting waters of Inception fanfic and the TV tropes website. I was too busy watching The Big Bang Theory and Due South, and reading Anne McCaffrey's Pern books.

In a last minute rush to find something to write about, Pern gave me the answer. I thought Harper, wanderer, futuristic and dystopian society. I was going to include native mythological creatures, but now I had a little too much plot to spare them space on the stage. About an hour and a half before this month of writing officially began, I wrote copious notes about my heroes Jax and Mercury, Jax being a Jack of all trade harper type, and Mercury being a mercenary with a mercurial temper and large muscles, and also blue eyes in a SE Asian society. Distinct enough, no?

Wrote my first four hundred words at twelve this morning, reaching a thousand words hours later, then discarding the whole thing and rewriting using Write or Die. It took me two thousand words before anybody even spoke dialogue.

It wasn't meant to be funny. But I can't turn off my funny button. I had it marked as satire only because my excerpt described the fall of Philippine society, and I didn't want to be taken that seriously.

Still, I'm excited.

Books I was reading before I began:
1) Harper Hall trilogy by Anne McCaffrey (especially 2 & 3, Menolly's songwriting and Piemur's adventures)
2) The Liar by Stephen Fry (a bit of the run-around language and the naughtiness)
3) Thirteenth Child by Patricia Wrede (Seeing magic, frontier living)
4) Terrier Books 1 & 2 by Tamora Pierce (Dogs and the Court of the Rogue, districts and the chaos of falling values of coin and poor harvest)

Books to (re)read for inspiration:
1) The Kite of Stars and Other Stories by Dean Francis Alfar
2) All the Weyrs of Pern by Anne McCaffrey
3) Sunlight on Broken Stones by Cirilo Bautista
4) The Circle Opens: Street Magic by Tamora Pierce
5) Super Spy by Matt Kindt

I want to make a mix for the fic, starting with The Decemberists' "Here I Dreamt I was an Architect." I already made a cover of sorts under the novel info tab.

2010-09-21T10:56:00.000-07:00

History

Never realized how important this blog was until I had to account for my work/education history for the past four years, for the application for citizenship. Now I'm cursing myself for not writing the pertinent details. I spend too much time noting the weather, recording impressions about my days, and not enough time saying "I started at this job on this date."

Ah, my own romanticism has failed me.

Days pass by so quickly, don't they? You can barely grasp them in your hands, and you are left with the finest powder, sand escaping from your palms.

I'm trying to look for a new job, hopefully to begin next month. I'll miss a few of my officemates, but I won't miss the upheaval, the tumultuous changes being brought to bear upon us. I'm also looking into applying for a short course in editing. Not sure if it'll be useful, but at least it would be interesting. (Story of my life, I'm afraid. I'm trying to be interesting, but not necessarily useful.)

2010-08-31T17:37:00.000-07:00

Dear CF,

Take this electric body, ripe with longing, fingertips buzzing, synapses afire and run, run with sharp scissors beside pools bright blue. Run with swollen moons and tumbling rooks, barefoot on hot sand, eyes on the receding horizon. Carry a tree on your back, wear a dress of strings of lilies, vines intertwined. Carry the scent of daisies, lavender, ocean waves. Carry the flaming torch, the red flag, the sword of truth. You are alive with joy, but how do you live it?

Love, CM

2010-08-19T16:21:00.000-07:00

Search for the Real Anywhere

Excerpts from Lane Wallace' article What Makes a Place 'Real'?

On some level, it's impossible to capture or define the "real" anywhere, because places are not just fixed buildings you can point to. They're a melding of culture, viewpoint, character, detail and experience. And every person's experience of a place, group, event or culture is unique.

...

[W]hat we view as the "real" version of places we know, or have known, is almost always one in which we belong.

It makes sense. Part of our identity comes from a sense of place; the context that gives us status and a sense of belonging in the world. So if the "real" nature of a place is, or becomes, something different than the narrative we've used to build our identities, what does that mean? At the very least, it means we lose the power of insider knowledge and status. At worst, it means we run the risk of being exiled. A sudden outsider who no longer fits. Whose narrative no longer has a reference point in the real world. And that's very scary.

...

But in the end, when we argue about what the "real" New Orleans (or anywhere else) is—beyond a general definition of a place that's far more complex and far less sanitized than the mass-market sights most tourists see—we aren't arguing about reality at all. We're arguing about narratives. The irony, of course, is that a narrative is just a story we've created in our minds. So while we can enjoy exploring all the rich and varied stories and perspectives that exist within a community, city, or country, and they can give us a far greater understanding of its many faces and truths, perhaps the reality is ... there is no "real" New Orleans. Or America. Or, at least, not one we can ever objectively describe or define, outside of our own minds.

===
I've always wanted to know my own narrative of the Philippines, my own version of its "reality" even though I'm aware of how sheltered my own childhood was, and how ignorant I am of the many issues and power struggles playing out there. And now, the distance makes it even harder to grasp this place I call home, even though the impetus is there.

Coming back was an exercise in renewing ties to people and place, but I recognize that expectations meet with disappointment and there's always this longing for the other home, on either side of the globe.

Last night I couldn't sleep. I had too many things going off in my mind. Questioning reality and that sort of thing...

2010-07-31T08:53:00.001-07:00

Home and Heart Divided

The cynicism I wear like another suit, choking on a bitter tie. But there's this scent of hope, like lemons and jasmine and ocean breeze, a yellow ribbon in the bleak desert. And heat like a solid blow, like a beast, and the mosquitoes snapping, over a feast of remembered tastes, enough to make me weep. And friends like ancient acacias, steady and familiar, sharing pasts and holding on to a future worth having. And family like a web made of sailors' knots and diamond ropes, tight, sharp and strong.

Beyond the oceans lie a cold world, but serene, sometimes remote. Full of green trees and box houses and the cheery and polite. Parts of it shine with fresh coats of love. It is still a strange land, though strangers meet strangers and paths get worn and paint fades and hearts get divided.

People would call me stupid to entertain the idea of coming back to the Philippines for good, and I'm not really serious about it, but I just mourn the day when my heart will pick one over the other. And yet isn't that better than this constant longing between the two?

2010-06-21T10:09:00.000-07:00

Mapping a Family

Finished reading Reif Larsen's The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet which I borrowed from the library after coming across a review from a magazine. I'll never look at cartography the same way again.

But although I was interested in how T.S. thought, and the kinds of maps he produced, the backbone of the novel is his family. I admit I almost abandoned the book throughout his journey by rail, but I'm glad I didn't. The ending was worth it.

I loved the emotional restraint that flows underneath the story, in T.S.' simple acceptance that his parents do not know him, and perhaps do not love him. And in the end he is proven otherwise in Dr. Yorn's revelation and in that final scene, when he sees his father's face and knows he is loved. It shows that sometimes dialogue isn't necessary to resolve something.

I also love how Larsen described this one character, who made different maps of one state, and based him on Barry Lopez. I sort of guessed it, as although I have not read Arctic Dreams, I understand Lopez wanted to approach a place by mapping its histories and the interaction of its inhabitants. I loved his short story collection Light Action in the Caribbean most especially the stories "The Mappist" and "The Construction of the Rachel."

Larsen's book is very sensual without using flowery language, since T.S. observes and dissects his environment to include sights, sounds and smells. His own thought processes are cataloged as best as he could.

One of T.S.' asides:
Smells Are Evocative but Hard to Describe from Notebook G101

I wonder if there was ever a smell in and of itself or whether all smells could in turn be broken into their smaller component parts, ad infinitum. The olfactory system seemed the trickiest of all our senses, because we lacked a real language for it. My family always spoke about smells in terms of tastes or memories or metaphors. Once, when one of Dr. Clair's toasters was burning, Father came into the kitchen and said, "It smells like the fourth circle a'hell in here. Woman, you asleep at the wheel?"

And Layton screamed from upstairs, "Yeah, it smells like burning poop!"

And Gracie looked up from her toilet seat computer and said, "It smells like my childhood." And she was not wrong.

---

Perhaps it is wrong of me to hold the conviction that my parents do not know me, and perhaps do not love me. I think mother knows more than I give her credit for, although mere knowing, or having a lot in common, does not mean we get along well. I think we just try to cooperate in taking care of our family, and shove our issues to dark, unspoken of places, like old clothes growing mold at the back of a closet. That's how we keep the peace.

I grew up knowing she was unhappy, and not being able to do anything about it. This may have affected my attitude towards family and money--as those were the sources of her problems. I think, beyond wanting her to be proud of me--which seems a futile task now--I just want her to find happiness. It is easier to see that in her these days, although money remains a big issue.

My feelings for my mother are complicated: love, frustration, helplessness, resentment, a mix of superiority and inferiority complexes, pity, rage, admiration, even a bit of envy. I'm still hoping to one day forgive her, and forgive myself for not living up to her expectations.

As for my father, there have been two instances in my life where I felt his protection. And that was enough for me to forgive him anything. The first was coming home to an unlocked door, and he pushed me back, while he took a saw from a nearby shelf and walked through the house in case there were intruders. The second was in the car, and he had to stop quickly because of a passing tricycle, and he held an arm in front of me to keep me from pitching forward.

My father may not be the most open-minded man, but he is generous and strong in his own way.

Suffice to say, T.S. Spivet's family feels like a mirror to my own, although mine seems darker and distorted by the burden of my culture. A part of me will always see family as ties that bind. But I also recognize that without them, I would be lonely and rudderless. I guess I'm just not that ready for freedom.

2010-06-18T10:48:00.000-07:00

The Envelope Project

Have joined the envelope project at Meet Me at Mike's. Will try to send off mine today or tomorrow.

I hope the envelope doesn't get rained on, though as my design is water soluble. :)

I've always loved mail art, ever since I lived in UP just around the corner from the post office, but now I can be really lazy about it. Except when projects like these come along. And then zing! there goes my energy.

Except... still got to go to work in 3 hours. And my eyes are still a bit swollen from my allergies. I'm allergic to a sofa. (That's my theory, anyway.) Work can be such a downer... Hopefully we don't get too busy. My arm still hurts from operating the generator.

2010-06-15T16:58:00.001-07:00

Wish List

1. Typewriter and ribbon
2. Working compass
3. Glass domes and bases
4. Brown Oxfords
5. Vintage letters and photographs
6. Brooches
7. Sturdy umbrellas
8. Thrift store clothing
9. Maps and postcards
10. Local history/poetry books
11. English-Tagalog Dictionary
12. ~~Polaroid camera~~ Polaroid 600 film
13. Leather boots
14. Gocco and silkscreen materials
15. Wooden chest
16. Black and white 35 mm film
17. Bouquet of roses and other flowers
18. Ballet flats
19. Jeweled barrettes
20. Paper trimmer
21. Leather messenger bag
22. Bicycle
23. Boxes with little compartments
24. Wooden clothesline pegs
25. Miniatures

2010-05-29T10:47:00.000-07:00

Monster

The night is a smear of ink,
the shadows a-playing,
while I, ancient professor, muse:
such a pretty mob it is
that stands outside my door,
pitchforks gleaming in torchlight.
And their raised voices mingling
with reverberating howls.

I watch them in their folly, as they fight
whether to retreat or to rally.

Yes, my creation is awake,
human and animal skins merged,
and minds, though the seams
leave much to be desired.

Go home, good people,
get to your cold beds. This night,
I will guard the doors to hell myself.

I fear to fall to my own fondness
for only I whose hand has forged,
must be prepared to unravel.
----
A silly thing, inspired by a new blog I'm reading sporadically: http://inbetweennoise.blogspot.com full of old photographs, found poetry, and insightful musings on different branches of art.

I used words from the book "Court of the Air" by Stephen Hunt.

2010-04-10T23:47:00.004-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, an Announcement:

I've been working almost a month now. I vacillate between being overwhelmed by what I have to learn, and being bone tired from the manual labor involved. I am a lab technician at an eyewear store. I chose that instead of working retail because I hate selling things to people, especially expensive things that I know are priced a little too unreasonably. It goes against my uh, moral code. (What there is of that.)

So I chose to work behind the scenes. I wanted to learn a skill, to make things with my hands. I'm still torn between regretting my choice, and looking forward with fingers crossed to a moment when I will be competent at this.

And yet... I don't see myself staying for long. I feel like I'm counting the days. Three months until we go home, and then it's all gonna be up in the air, whether I stay or find something else. It's tiring, all this weighing options. I just want to settle down in something that mixes challenge with ease, something I can feel like I'm making a difference in.

Mel says she is always trying to find her passion. I just realized that if I consider what I've been thinking and dreaming of lately, my ultimate ambition at the moment is to be a housewife. Without the wife part. (Cue snort of laughter.)

I want to learn to cook and sew, to make crafts and preserve fruits in season, to have a garden, to decorate my own place and buy crockery and just live around that small and happy life.

I do have a few goals: to be able to visit Japan with my sisters in four years, to learn to read and understand Japanese so I can understand raw manga and dramas, to buy and use a bicycle around the city, to buy and use a sewing machine, to make books, and write more poetry, maybe to learn knitting or embroidery, to grow basil and maybe mint, to pare down the clothes and books I own to those I love, and form a consistent sense of style, to collect brooches, postcards, stationery, jokers, to get into shape, to wear more dresses and visit more craft events, to attend a flea market or bazaar, to collect recipes in a personal cookbook, to be a mori girl.

These things fill my heart with joy. But alas! I'm mortal, and in need of money. We're trying to save and are in the process of buying the house. We're already giving up cable. What else can I give up? Buying all the volumes of Honey and Clover? Nooooooo....

2010-03-11T09:24:00.004-08:00

What I Did on Spring Break

Monday: It snowed unexpectedly as we all went out to borrow movies from Blockbuster. We were all woefully underdressed. Finally got the expired medicines to London Drugs for disposal. Bought 15$ jeans at Off the Wall. Borrowed: Star Trek, Blood, and Julie&Julia, plus two wii games. Had chocolate ice cream bubble tea on the way back. Went to lib with Chi.

Tuesday: Woke up at 7 to get us all out with a full itinerary. With younger sisters, went to Burrard Station, took the 22 MacDonald from there, and got off at Cypress and Cornwall. Walked, following the signs uncertainly, until we found the Museum of Vancouver in Vanier Park. Got us in to see the "Art of Craft" exhibit. Interesting, though we enjoyed the Canadian History exhibit more, especially the 50's and 70's display. Read childhood memories of other visitors, played "Johnny B. Goode" on the jukebox, tried on a hippie vest, and took lots and lots of pictures. Left around 12:30 and took bus back to Burrard. Got off to eat at Japadog stand before going to Main Station. Took the 3 Downtown bus and got off at King Edward Ave. Visited Lucky's Comic Bookstore, Regional Assembly of Text and Front and Co consignment shop. Then went home laden with parcels.

Wednesday: Finished a couple of books on my shelf, my first day at work got aborted because the manager was off sick, and I ended up buying a pair of slacks at Wal-Mart. Watched Blood in the afternoon. For a gory movie, it's very interesting, particularly the multicultural aspect. The heroine's Korean ("My Sassy Girl"), the enemy's Japanese (Kimi wa Petto) and the director's French, and action director's Chinese. Plus the other people in the cast are American and British.

Thursday: Seeing that I spent a LOT of money, maybe I'll stay home today. Tomorrow is my second "first" day at work. :)

2010-02-18T08:08:00.003-08:00

Ear and Mouth

I'm trying to train my ear to listen better as I play podfics on the computer or my mp3 player. And I wish I could be able to speak better, too. I want to read my own works aloud. The samples on Audible.com delight and frustrate me. Can't really afford them, but there's such variety of voices, some even the authors' own.

Of course, if I didn't eat too much chocolate or sugar every day, my throat wouldn't feel so sore-y, and I'd be able to speak without feeling like I'm choking on crawling ants.

The experience of listening to a story instead of reading it is a lesson in patience and attention. You can't jump back to parts you like, or skip parts and read ahead. It's a different way to take in the story, and I'm still ambivalent about it.

2010-02-07T21:46:00.003-08:00

Some New Words

Levee - n; bank built along the river to keep it from overflowing; landing place for ships along a river. Or a reception held by a king or nobleman, usually in the morning
Leviathan - n; large water animal mentioned in Bible; anything huge or powerful, as a huge ship
Lief - adv; willingly or gladly
Weft - n; threads woven across the warp in a loom; woof
Weir - n; low dam built in a river; fence built across a stream to catch fish
Welter - v; roll about or wallow; be soaked or stained - n; tossing and tumbling; confusion

Suddenly poetry is terribly exciting.

2010-01-22T19:51:00.002-08:00

Local Drama

I'm watching "Kung Tayo'y Magkakalayo" and it just resonates with me: Albert's anger and unfairness, Kris' perfectionism and guilt, their relationship on the rocks, the rebellious and frustrated child. Direct hit, dude.

I feel like it mirrors a lot of Filipino families, and captures the complexity of emotions for each player in the game.

There haven't been a lot of dramas that I could say the same of.

I'm a little frustrated about the limited subject matter in these kinds of shows. Nauubos na yung mga comedy shows of the past, nalalaos na yung mga fantaserye. I still remember the sharp wit of "Abangan ang Susunod na Kabanata" and the way they can react so quickly to current issues.

I watch a lot of Japanese and Korean shows, and I guess I just want our own shows to reveal the best of us.

2010-01-19T15:29:00.002-08:00

What's up, doc?

I watched a documentary online called "The Power of Community: How Cuba Survived Peak Oil" and it is filled with hope and energy. It reminded me of those short films about the different traditions and cultural products of Japanese prefectures, but more so, because the latter is about aspects of a culture that is fading away, but this doc is about the future challenges we must face.

First of all, I need to read more about Cuba politically and culturally. Aside from "Dirty Dancing" and this film about a gay writer, I haven't really encountered anything about Cuba. Of course, we grew up knowing it was under Fidel Castro's rule, but what did that mean, really?

It made me want to start an urban garden, and buy locally. It made me think of home, of what we can do together in the Philippines.

I've always been impressed with Philippine ingenuity, so I feel that although nature may throw its brute force against us, we will survive it, and that means we can survive as well if... when oil runs out.

The problem, however, is that although there are places with great senses of community, there are always people looking to take advantage of others. And there are these super-rich people who would pay any amount of money to retain their positions of power. Before we can become something like Cuba, those people need to change their priorities.

I'm feeling very low about our upcoming elections...

2010-01-15T09:42:00.002-08:00

Cookie Monster

I've been baking stuff lately. Not particularly well, mind you, but well enough that it gets eaten pretty quick around here. Why am I baking? It would have something to do with my little sister, who gets the urge to use the recipes they learned in class, and somehow pulls me in.

Yesterday I made maple walnut chocolate chip cookies. We left them in too long, so they ended up tasting like the eggnog cookies in the Philippines. But you can't go wrong with walnuts and chocolate chips, in my ever so humble opinion.

I sent the kids off to school with a cookie each (and a pinwheel which my little sister made) and I felt like a mom or something.

2010-01-13T12:27:00.002-08:00

End of Year Summaries:
This Year I Fell in Love With

Celebrity
Shida Mirai (Seigi no Mikata, Tantei Gakuen Q, etc.)
Ellen Page (Whip it, Juno)

TV Show
Castle (Nathan's so hilarious)
Dollhouse (Joss. Nuff said.)

Website
Twitter - a tad addictive

Music
Said the Whale - folksy local stuff
A Silver Mt. Zion - post-rock (with words, though)
Pink Floyd - blame Supernatural fanfic

Author
Brandon Sanderson - Mistborn trilogy
Orson Scott Card - (Well duh) Alvin Maker and more Ender stuff
E. Lockhart - Ruby Oliver series
Ellen Kushner - Swordspoint, Privilege of the Sword and Fall of Kings
James Thurber - The 13 Clocks
Marne Davis Kellogg - Kick and Lily series

Film
"Avatar"
"Whip it"

2010-01-13T11:02:00.002-08:00

Holding Ground
Fojee

Standing at the center of the city's gray palm, I sift through the rubble, trying to find among the dust a piece hard enough and large enough to be read like oracle bones. The debris of this nation's sorrow drifts over me like a benediction, though my eyes are drawn to my feet where I
scramble to find purchase even as it rocks and grumbles. There is an empty space beneath my breast bone, that I am yearning to fill. Perhaps with stone, or a piece of sun, or a lost song.

---
I'm not too sure what to make of this prose-poem or uncut paragraph. Maybe I should tie it to a disaster or something, but the idea in my head has to do with a desperate search for something of home to keep, even as the thought of it depresses me.

These days I am reading from poetry books borrowed from the library or lying around the house. I am also reading Kim Addonizio's book "Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within." It is very, very good, but although I just finished part one, it's not something you can read once. It is filled with ideas and exercises I want to try. Suffice to say, I won't be returning it anytime soon.

Here are some things I want to try from the book:
1. Write about someone you remember from high school.
2. Write a letter to the future.
3. Take a line from another writer and use it as the last line in your poem.
4. Stare at someone. Describe the person very specifically. Then invent a life for this person. Create this person's story, using the details at hand. Use observations to create characters for poems. Imagine them: what their lives are like, what their joys and sorrows are. Look beyond your own life.
5. Choose a photograph of yourself or someone you know. Describe the external things the photograph shows, and the reality it seems to portray. Then describe why, and how, the photograph is a lie.
6. Visit a museum. Look for a work of art that puts you under its spell. Bring your journal or laptop to the museum and sit where you can see the piece. Describe everything you see, as completely as possible. If a docent comes by with a group, listen in. Later, you might look up more information about the artist or artwork online. The image is your starting point, but let the poem travel from there.

I'll try to post responses to these, and maybe more exercises as I read further into the book.

2010-01-12T19:29:00.002-08:00

Night Scene
Arthur Yap

the warmth had left the west. timid
the stars appeared. preparedly, in the distance
a finger of light waved across the sky.
others too appeared &, higher or lower,
all impressed their lines on the blackboard sky.
quickly they are disambiguated,
the solitary finger is left
to write the margin of the next sunrise.

from Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond.

2009-12-13T09:53:00.003-08:00

I miss this place.

For Auntie Beth

Grief is like an ocean wave,
rising and falling, like a breath
you cannot catch. In space,
darkness is the norm, and light
the rarity. Every life more
precious than sparkling stone.
Everyone feels alone.
But we try to find a bridge,
and tie threads between our hearts.
It hurts to leave and to be left,
but we must never stop. Until we do.

I don't really know how to articulate grief like this.

Where did I go?

2009-12-13T09:43:00.000-08:00

It is suddenly December, and I feel like I just woke up from a long dream. (I did exactly that.)

The night before I dreamt I was something of a wizard in the middle of a fairy tale, holding a sword in my right hand and a ball of pure magic in my left. I prophesied and showed the enemy mercy, believing the skeletal warlord to be redeemable.

Last night I dreamt we were up in the mountains, somewhere cold, and there were free jackets all around. And I had to catch a bus, and I looked up and saw the stars as if for the first time. I saw them form lines and shapes, and I suddenly floated among them. (Like I was in a 3D movie about astronomy.) Maybe it has something to do with reading Carl Sagan.

I am filled with remnants of other dreams, some of which I only remember vaguely, but they still fill me with a sense of nostalgia for a world that doesn't exist outside of my head.

---

November passed like a hurricane: I wrote a 50,000 word novel that I want to rip up and rewrite and I started a job as a sales associate for a portrait studio. Now the novel's molding in my hard drive and my job is ending, too.

My aunt just died, and Christmas is right around the corner but I can't feel it, except for the cold in my bones.

Still, an ending always brings us back to the beginning. I wonder what next year will bring?

Canadiana

2009-10-26T11:23:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've been dropped here, like a stray elephant attached to a parachute. (Or one with large ears to flap and fly with...) It's only here that I am able to face what it means to move to a foreign country, how torn and ambivalent you feel. I was surprised to find within me an eagerness to embrace this new home.

Terry Fox, Robertson Davies, Margaret Atwood, Emily Carr, Mordecai Richler, Nickelback, Carly Pope, Douglas Coupland, Anne of Green Gables, Pamela Anderson... Really, what do I know about Canadiana?

Coupland has these books called "Souvenirs of Canada" that capture a little of what differentiates Canada from its neighbor. I've read Davies' Cornish trilogy in college, not even knowing he was Canadian. I also read "The Stone Diaries" by Carol Shields, just before I left. But I still feel so ignorant. Will it always be like this?

Or will reading more fiction and history books, watching local films, traveling around the country... will it make a difference in shaping my idea of home?

Attempts at Verbosity

2009-10-19T09:16:00.000-07:00

This is what happens when I try to rhyme:

The Gosling and I

We waddled on this lonely trail
Flapping our featherless arms
In hope that we would prevail
Against the wind's chilly charms.
I squacked, and it squacked:
In mirroring songs we bowed.
What in harmony we lacked,
We made up by being loud.
But one day the gosling flew
While on the ground I stayed.
It was then that I knew
Our goodbyes we must bade.
The gosling now can choose
And it chose to be a goose.

It was inspired by Douglas Couplands' "Souvenirs of Canada 2" with his spiel about hatching baby goslings and watching them fly away. Also, I wrote this after we saw my little sister off to Ottawa. The next one I just wrote after walking outside today. Still riddled with attempts at rhyming:

Foggy Morning

Were it not for my hot breath
Coloring the air smoke-white
I would feel like a ghost
Or maybe I'd be one tonight--
Just another soul in a world
Full of lost dreamers and the damned.

All happiness fades like clothes
Through the wash. We are nothing
But outlines and shapes.
Even the fire-topped trees go out,
All vividness erased.

And in this ocean of silence
Even the birdsongs drown,
And the rumble of cars with their yellow eyes
Staring into the white abyss, and my own
Footsteps become heavy and morose.
I am a dark shadow. I walk without knowing
Where this road goes.

I'm not very good at criticizing and/or revising poetry, especially my own, but I think it captures perfectly my own pessimism at the moment. (Or maybe my lack of sleep coupled with the irritation at being disturbed; I had to take my sisters' instruments to school because she forgot them.) Well, last night, I did make a wish for my wish jar: write more poetry. Just proves that it works! (Or that I need to get out of the house more often...)

I started

2009-10-14T11:42:00.000-07:00

an entry about things that depressed me, but it depressed me too much and I had to stop.

Thanksgiving just passed by. I tried to list things I was grateful for, but nothing seemed good enough to list here.

I need a bolt of electricity to get me out of bed, moving, moving, moving.

*Toddles off in search for inspiration*

Breathless

2009-10-12T16:47:00.000-07:00

I watched this Korean movie last Friday. No, it wasn't a romantic comedy like I expected, though the frequent cursing did get a few laughs. I cried. It was the wrong day to wear eye make-up, because I remembered thinking to myself, "Oh no. What if I walk out of the theatre and I looked like a raccoon?" It sort of distracted me from the very powerful scene at the end, where *spoiler spoiler, spoiler spoiler*.

Aside from the movie, I spent a lot of time at Chapters. Again. And only barely did I come out empty-handed. I almost bought Diane Ackerman's "A Natural History of Love" and Pico Iyer's "Video Nights in Kathmandu." I did have a lot of fun in the crafts section, especially since there were long tables and chairs nearby.

I only went down to one vintage shop. It was really nice, and the musty smell was great ambience. (No, not sarcastic.) But I don't know... I guess I wasn't in the mood for spending money.

Today is Thanksgiving, but we're all busy planning for Mom's emergency trip home tomorrow, and Chi's trip to Ottawa on the 18th, and the 50,000-word novel we're all going to write come November. It all leaves me breathless.

Kamui + Oneofakind Vancouver

2009-10-08T20:10:00.000-07:00

Well what did I expect from a ninja movie?

The best part was seeing Kenichi M and Koyuki and Hideaki Ito in it, mentally assigning them different roles as L from Death Note, Sumire from Kimi wa Petto and Kawasaki Tomoya from Buzzer Beat. The second best part was the Naruto flashbacks. Third best was soaking up the coastal atmosphere, making notes in my head about how people lived and of course, how the fights were choreographed.

And the worst? I jumped in my seat when the first shark appeared, and kept telling myself, "Oh no, I did not sign up for sharks."
***
I've never been to anything like it.

And now I'm super attached. I want more, more, more. Except of course, budget willing. One of a kind Show and Sale Vancouver. I stepped out from Waterfront station more than a little lost, so the first thing I get from this experience is discovering the "tunnel" from the station itself to the Canada Place, where the show is held. "Under the sails" indeed!

I bought things as if checking things off a mental list: a pink wool messenger bag, a long violet scarf with white flowers screen-printed on it, a pewter necklace and two sets of earrings, a crochet brooch, some pouches, notebooks and kawaii hair accessories.

The best part was Uppercase Magazine's "flora & fauna" notebook of found papers. And seeing all those crafty people in their cute ensembles. The free postcards, the cute business cards, the easy atmosphere that invited conversations.

And the worst? Being told photographs weren't allowed, and coming home with regrets for the things not bought. ;P

Rimed with Frost

2009-10-07T08:47:00.000-07:00

Two seasons ago, I picked up a thick red book at the annual Rotary Book Sale. I wasn't a fan of Frost, for it was a book of his poetry and prose, and yet I could not resist the couple of sheets of handwritten notes inserted within its pages, as with a single photo of some painted flowers by the previous owner named only "Bill." The history, the idea that it was loved and used, drew me in.

Today I picked it up again, and read an interview with Rose C. Feld, entitled "We seem to lack the courage to be ourselves," about his preference for ordinary pursuits as well as blank verse, and about his opinion that American poetry should embrace the writing of its foreign immigrants as its own. He reminds me of an old professor of mine, whose poetry I delight in, but cannot really understand. And it made me miss the uncomplicated past, torn as I currently am between the old home and the new.

Anyway, I've decided to read more poetry. (And thus get some usage out of the handful of poetry books scattered around the house.) And so this is one I liked with its wonderfully vivid images, like a slap of cold wind on a warm day.

ON LOOKING UP BY CHANCE
AT THE CONSTELLATIONS

You'll wait a long, long time for anything much
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
Nor strike out fire from each other, nor crash out loud.
The planets seem to interfere in their curves,
But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life,
And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
For the shocks and changes we need to keep up sane.
It is true the longest drouth will end in rain,
The longest peace in China will end in strife.
Still it wouldn't reward the watcher to stay awake
In hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break
On his particular time and personal sight.
The calm seems certainly safe to last tonight.

Robert Frost
from West-Running Brook, 1928

Airdoll

2009-10-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

It was Sunday. I was several hours early to the 4:00 show of Japanese movie "Airdoll" at the Vancouver International Film Festival, so I had a panini at the nearby cafe, and walked around the place. The shops were full of unusual and expensive clothes. There was a comic store, and I had to stop myself from buying some books such as "Super Spy" by Matt Kindt. Around the corner was a Chapters, and I whiled away an hour or so there, listening to the folk music of some guitarist up in the coffee shop, and smelling those delicious candles in the Lifestyle section. I saw Karen Michel's book on eco-friendly art, and mentally added it to my wishlist, along with another book called "A Hand-made Home."

The most intense pleasure was soaking it all in, watching people pass by, listening to someone with a tambourine on the street. I saw some vintage shops I'd love to explore next time. I saw an Asian girl with her hair in two braids, wearing a long white cardigan over a black, ruffled skirt, black hose, black and white moo shoes and a black and white checkered bag. There were a lot of people in day-go shoes or shades, leggings and tights, long cardigans, scarves, plaid, and people carting yoga mats.

In the theatre behind me, there was a girl in a black beret, with a black knit cardigan over a patterned dress. On the cardigan was pinned a brooch mixing embroidery and jewelry. Beside me, another Asian girl with long, straight hair had on a blue and white scarf with flowers on it.

As for me the movie, it really hit me hard, what with the empty people in search for beauty and meaning, using substitutes instead of making real connections. The blow up doll kept a sketchbook where she drew people and dandelions. She collected translucent things like colored glass bottles and a fake ring. I loved her encounter with the old man with the oxygen tank who told her there were other empty people out there, as well as her encounter with Odagiri Joe, her "creator" when he said "Okaeri" so easily, without a trace of surprise. Me, too. I want to meet my maker, and say, "Tadaima."

Wish for Wishes

2009-09-30T19:13:00.000-07:00

I took an old pickle jar, the bottom slightly tapered, with a black lid with gold writing and crest on it, and I turned it into a wish jar with the simple application of a silhouette sticker (which my sister Mel gave me from Australia) and a black strip with 'wish jar' embossed on it (from my primitive label maker). What I love about it: the original pickle jar employed a 'basket' inside so you can scoop up the mini pickles at the bottom of the jar, so there's this green, plastic scoop-like thing standing in the middle, with the bottom looking like a flower with green petals.

And then the hard part of writing down wishes and dropping it in. What's so hard about it? I thought the jar was so pretty, so of course the wishes had to be perfect. I finally wrote two on some graphing paper. But I want to write the rest on colored paper, just to add to the pretty factor. Now my sisters want to add theirs in, too. So I told them the rule: you have to put in the wishes you believe will make your life more fulfilled and spectacular. (It's from Keri Smith on 'Living Out Loud.')

Wanna know my first two? A job (with all the qualifiers attached) and some friends my age to just talk to. (I'm getting pretty lonely out here...) I'll post another pic once it's satisfactorily full.

When it rains...

2009-09-25T11:54:00.000-07:00

Ideas drop like rain, or maybe hail. Sometimes I feel like I'm manic depressive, only because I seem to follow these cycles of up and down, of extremes. One of my favorite non-fiction books is "Exuberance" by Kay Redfield Jamison, who talks about people who seem to surf the waves of the up part of the cycle. She herself suffers from manic depression, and her latest book about losing her husband "Nothing was the Same" is on my wishlist.

But if there is a behavioral problem I would lay claim to, it would be my avoidance. (Hence my previous list of suggestions to counter it.) And although I'm not so far gone as to be holed up in the house, afraid to venture forth, I feel like I'm living my life in fear.

I read somewhere that to counter fear, we must explore the edges of what is comfortable and safe, but in tiny steps, testing if the ground will hold beneath us. This is what horror movies and roller coasters are made for. (And I happen to hate both.)

I just wrote a (pre) poem about visualization for change:

How to Grow Courage: A Brain Exercise
Fojee

The cascade of synapses cut short
at the edge of the abyss. All there is
is the dark ocean, the rising tides
of fear. The Light flickers like a dying star--
until--a tendril reaches out, breathless,
in suspended disbelief, feeling its way
across the waves.

We lay down the tracks by clearing
through the wild imagination
and anywhere there is a chasm,
we must leap towards our better selves.

Or as Roethke put it much simpler: "I learn by going where I have to go."

Thrift Costs Money

2009-09-15T07:24:00.000-07:00

I took a shopping day yesterday, because Value Village had a fifty percent sale. But the roads were so bad that I ended up getting off at the Salvation Army thrift store. Everything was much better organized, and I ended up buying three green items. (It's my favorite color.)

The first was an olive green blazer with over-sized buttons, three-fourth puffed sleeves, and an empire cut, so the bottom was slightly flared. For some reason, it reminded me of my stylish cousin; maybe she had a similar jacket, or maybe I'm just imagining things.

The second was a dark green over-sized blouse with a tiny white horse embroidered on the back. The fabric is opaque and the fit is a little off, but I couldn't resist. Blame Riko from J-Drama Buzzer Beat, whose typical outfit is a large, flowing top in white, blue or green over skinny jeans or shorts. I figured I could always use it as a nightie.

The third was a pea-green leather bag, messenger length, with two pockets in front. It's similar to one item on my wishing list, and I'm more likely to buy it for six bucks than for the exorbitant prices at the mall.

I had lunch at a Korean restaurant, eating sushi with real crab meat and lemon sauce, asparagus, cucumbers, avocado and mango. Then I walked to Value Village, where the crowd of people--and the messy piles--deterred me from shopping to my heart's content. I ended up buying one pink striped shirt with a collar, and a long wallet with Japanese scenery painted on it.

And all these purchases for the very thrifty price of forty bucks. (Including the meal and the fare.) Thrift sure costs money.

Walking in Beauty

2009-09-11T13:26:00.000-07:00

Ever since I started reading about style, I began to notice how people dress. It makes even a trip to the mall nearby a vivid experience. Even the little old ladies pushing their carts home seem so put-together. It makes me want to take more pictures of strangers. And paint them later like Kalman does. My eyes open once, and then once again.

The red cardigan over the flowered dress; the brown wrap dress with the two-toned flats; pearl bracelets with the white v-neck and white sunglasses over skinny jeans and red sneakers; the long thin strap of a leather bag over a black shirt, jeans and gray kitten heels...

Maybe it's the full-length mirror I finally bought, leaning precariously against one wall. Maybe it's having had my older sister here for a month, because she likes pretty things and doesn't shy away from buying expensive bags or shoes like I do. Maybe it's the green hummingbird necklace she gave me. (Because it has magical properties, maybe.) Maybe it's that book I borrowed from the library full of interviews with stylish people. Or the tall and well-dressed heroines in the Asian dramas I watch.

Maybe I'm growing up. (But don't hold your breath.)

Imagine This

2009-09-01T15:31:00.000-07:00

I'm staying at a small place with white and green walls. There is one couch and a black bookshelf in the living room, and a tiny but clean kitchen. My laptop is on a table, beside a printer and some magazines and folders arranged neatly. The bed is low on the ground beside an alarm clock and more books. My clothes hang in the closet and in drawers. On the walls are prints from favorite artists. The throw pillows are in bright colors. There is one phone, and no television, and one music player.

I am having friends over, so I'm making something simple, a salad perhaps. There's a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge, and other bottles to make cocktails with lined on one shelf. I have tiny pots of basil and mint in the kitchen, and some tomatoes and spring onions by the window.

There are still too many books, though they are (barely) manageable and a good portion of them are from the library. There's also a box of art supplies, and dozens of notebooks lined up on the table.

In my free time I am learning how to knit and sew, and trying out different recipes in the kitchen, maybe baking some pies or cakes. I clean my bathroom and vacuum once a month and wash the linens twice. I have some photo albums out, as well as a ring of postcards. I have an umbrella, a few hats and bamboo lined slippers by the front door. My winter clothes are in a storage box beside the tools and manuals.

I am planning a vacation to Japan, and keep in contact with my friends and family. I am also saving money for retirement, and for my sisters' education. I draw a lot and write faithfully. I am happy.

(I am tired of being lost, scattered, and unfree.)

Loneliness

2009-08-25T08:04:00.000-07:00

I am used to being alone; solitude allows me to deepen my thoughts, or to construct them as if they were a house, a haven to live within. Generally, being surrounded by people all the time drain me. I feel like I have to perform for them, and I cannot rest until I am alone again.

But I am not exempt from loneliness.

I still keep in touch with a handful of family and friends, and I live with two of my sisters, whose mere presence allows me to feel useful and needed. And yet, how I long to have girlfriends to talk to, face to face: over coffee or a light lunch, after watching movies or window-shopping. Talking about boys and clothes, dissecting our lives together...

I'm lonely, too. And I feel it like a wound, just above my heart, occasionally stopping me in my tracks with the pain.

And the thing about it is: I do not know a cure. We can be lonely with other people around, if they do not understand us. How hard is it to find someone with whom we can be ourselves, faults and flaws side by side with our greatness!

Maybe the reason why I'm this lonely, is because I don't feel worthy to be accepted by a friend.

I don't know the answer. All I know is that I hug tightly and clasp someone's hand as if my life depended upon it. I can only hope to be the person to assuage someone else's loneliness. It's a start.

How Not to Avoid Life

2009-08-20T10:10:00.000-07:00

1. Ask for help
2. Take a class or volunteer
3. Skip the earphones and listen to music out loud
4. Play more games
5. Post opinions and invite criticism
6. Write letters again; fill with observations
7. Make appointments and keep them
8. Turn off the computer
9. Read more magazines and newspapers and non-fiction
10. Bust out of routines; try one new thing a week

Desert Notes

2009-08-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

I feel emptied out, like a bowl standing alone on the table, waiting.

I haven't been writing much, although there's an unfinished story on my hard drive that begs to differ. I'm stuck; I've lost momentum. Or just confused by what is yet to come. I've never dealt well with conflict, not in real life, nor in fiction. But that just means I have to work harder at it.

M&J have come and gone: one month of delirium, adventure, shaky feet, late nights, Japanese food, marathons, picture-taking, shopping and hundreds of dollars worth of books. And in the space of that whirlwind-month, it was like I was the tourist. The world has been made anew. Or I anew.

I learned how useful maps are, and that one can walk from Chinatown to the Waterfront. I
learned how to get to Granville Island, and that there is an amazing bookstore in Victoria Island where I bought all those books I've been searching for awhile. I saw Vancouver Public Library again, and desperately want to live nearby, so I can read to my heart's content.

We all picked up a thing or two about cooking, even something so simple as adding seaweed strips to broth, and making sandwiches with strips of red pepper, shaved meat and cheese on toasted bread.

I've been craving Martha Stewart Magazines, in retaliation, looking at the recipes, and all those organized surfaces, those party themes. I'm a frustrated homemaker. Among other things.

In the middle of the arid desert that is my writing, there is one barely surviving plant. I did finish one story, spurred on by the imaginary deadline M gave me. (I added the last period just as she and J were walking through the back door, luggage in hand.)

But it is too... too silly for words. Empty-headed and pointless, this last-minute offering. It ended up a depressing retelling of Sleeping Beauty, wherein the castle did it. I called it "Castling." Certainly not what I set out to write. (Which was something Pratchett-esque, funny and wise.) I don't know what to do with it. Revision is not my strong point.

I just finished the monster saga at Polliwog Press, an old favorite that I failed to finish years ago. The world struck me as brilliantly crafted, the new characters vivid, the old amusing and heartbreaking, the romance well-mixed with the action. I must admit: I am positively seething with jealousy.

Hence coming back to this blog after a two-month hiatus. I really must get back to the page. I just need another imaginary deadline.

2009-07-21T22:44:00.002-07:00

Back to the Page

I haven't been by in a long time. You could say that nothing happened, nothing that would inspire an entry. It isn't necessarily true, or maybe I just wanted to keep things close to my chest.

So why speak now?

I've watched several movies lately, read several books of note, and drowned myself in tons of (Japanese) drama. And still it is Harry Potter which brings me back to the blog.

Harry bleedin' Potter and the Stupid Movie Review (Either the movie is stupid or the review is stupid...)

In the beginning: a moment of panic; I told myself, "I'm not ready to watch this." I didn't like the sixth book anyway. But there was no help for it. Saw Dumbledore and first reaction is disgust and distrust. Then I got drawn in... Superman flashbacks in the cave with the ice blocks that looked like it got lost from the Fortress of Solitude. My little sister got Airbender (firebending) flashbacks. Draco in black: eeeemo. Ginny: not as horrid as I imagined, though I liked Luna better and Hermione best. (I'm a Harry/Snape shipper you understand...) Missed quidditch, but sniff, no Wood. And where the hell is Bill? And Fleur? And Rosmerta? (Or did I imagine that whole sequence?) Loved the moments of levity especially with Harry being high on the liquid luck...And the closing credits reminded me of the third movie...

Okay this was completely incoherent. But it's a relief to write it down. Til next film, I suppose.

Torn

2009-05-22T14:12:00.000-07:00

I am trying to decide what to be. And it is exhausting, soul-wrenching work. (I felt the same way my senior year in high school.) You should love what you do. I believe in this. But when you're used to not working, what can you do that you would enjoy?

Can I really handle kids between the age of two to twelve? I've never babysat in my life--except for my sisters. And some kids bug me, and I mean disturbing roach or mantis kinda bug. I don't know if I have the patience to teach little kids. Working in a kindergarten sounds fun, but what if I end up as a nanny? I don't even know how to cook!

Can I deal with individuals with mental health issues and developmental disabilities? It's quite a mouthful. I'd learn to talk people down, and restrain people if they are violent. It might be a challenge worth pursuing, but it scares me a bit, too.

The third choice on the list is Special Education, which is a mix of the two. It sounds interesting, but it's sort of middle ground. If I end up too torn, I could land there.

My answer to personal turmoil is to shut down, and fall away to silence. I understand why my friend R is often absent these days. I wish I could disappear, too. The problem with having a career counselor is that someone notices when you flake...

#70: Say Goodbye

2009-04-23T13:08:00.000-07:00

from Learning to Love You More

Today is the 2nd year anniversary of my family's migration. Today I say goodbye.

Goodbye constant sunrise and sunset.
(Hello four seasons, equinox and eternal chill.)
Goodbye sandy beaches and warm swimming pools.
(Hello sweatshirts and thermal undies.)
Goodbye booksales and Magarbo thrift shops.
(Hello Value Village and shopping online.)
Goodbye maya birds.
(Hello crows, seagulls and all sorts of song birds.)
Goodbye cousins that live a block away.
(Hello email conversations.)
Goodbye friends to text.
(Hello loneliness and much pining.)
Goodbye social smoking and San Mig Light.
(Hello sweet wine and clean living.)
Goodbye pirated DVDs.
(Hello original and online marathons.)
Goodbye tricycles and jeepneys and giant buses.
(Hello translink and walking.)
Goodbye sidewalk urinals.
(Hello benches and bus stops.)
Goodbye lengua, and sizzling sisig, and lechon kawali.
(Hello egg muffins, and donuts, and pizza.)
Goodbye chico and papaya and mango.
(Hello pine and cherry and evergreen.)
Goodbye calamansi and buko juice.
(Hello strawberries and bellpeppers and coffee.)
Goodbye house.
(Hello renting.)
Goodbye road rage and traffic.
(Hello crosswalks.)
Goodbye Las Pinas.
(Hello Surrey.)
Goodbye Philippines.
(Hello Canada.)

Cartography

2009-04-16T06:48:00.000-07:00

I know little about reading maps. Put me in a wilderness and I will be lost, even if I do not take a single step. I do not drive, and will gladly never learn, so the roads do not belong to me. But then there is walking, and riding the bus. And there are maps on Google, maps on Translink, and maps that people have made their own.

I want to make my own map too.

It's called a manifesto.

According to Ellen and Julia Lupton, "[a] manifesto is a short document that “manifests” or makes public a set of ideas and goals. A manifesto is passionate, personal and vivid."(from Manifesto Mania)

Most manifestos are written by political theorists and designers/artists. But the ones that have affected me the most are Bruce Mau's 'Incomplete Manifesto for Growth' and Robert Fulghum's books, especially Uh-Oh and Words I Wish I Wrote. I would like to write my own version of the latter, because my life is defined by what I have read and loved.

Maybe a writer's workbook, compiling what it means to write, and advice to write well, and passages which have blown me away. (I could mix it with art, because my life centers around those two.)

What I believe in:
Serendipity and found art, karma and consequences, prayer as a means of knowing oneself, the punk ethos of diy, to teach oneself long after school years have passed, the taoism concepts of living with mystery and letting things happen, the value of stories and the imagination especially in reading books and watching plays, old-fashioned notions such as sending letters in the mail and handwritten diaries, free and guerrilla art/craft, sustainable resources and green living, sisterhood and friendships that last forever, the power and necessity of poetry.

What I aim to do:
1) Leap without overthinking. Make friends with uncertainty and wonder.
2) Fill a universe with stories. Listen to what people say. Read, watch shows and movies and write.
3) Be an amateur, and give myself permission to experiment, to fail and learn from failure.
4) Welcome criticism to uncover the intent behind it, to turn it to good purposes, and to remain unmoved in the face of its barbs and thorns.
5) Invite confrontations and rejection, so that I will cease to fear them.
6) Be more honest.
7) Love things made by hand, from books to maps to dolls. Personalize what I can, from journals to bags to clothes. Do it myself.
8) Make myself uncomfortable; list what I avoid and face them, such as narratives about war, racism, poverty and injustices.
9) Try writing or making something difficult. Challenge myself.
10) And persist in trying to get published. Don't fear success either.
11) As much as possible not to waste anything. Reduce, reuse, recycle.
12) Walk in beauty, above it, beside it, in pursuit of it.
13) Love widely and well.

Who I aim to be:
Someone on whom nothing is lost. Someone who will face death unafraid because I have lived passionately and found joy in experiences great or small.

2009-04-02T08:38:00.002-07:00

The Body

It gets us were we need to go. It contains us. It allows us to project an image for other people to judge. It grows towards life, then towards death. It works with a little tuning. It requires a mirror to know it exists. It can feel like a burden, and yet without it, we are nothing, not even a wandering thought. (Okay, so people believe in the spirit. I'm not committed to the idea, myself.)

I am not the first, nor will I be the last person who ever wanted to get into shape. It's practically a religion these days--as I realized when I browsed youtube and found several bodies paraded as a narrative of desired loss.

But I have been resisting the idea, out of some pompous need to prove my lack of vanity. I don't wear heels, rarely use make-up, and am exasperated with the constant need to shave/trim all this hair. But I think there is still a thin line between dieting for your health, and dieting to fit society's image of what is beautiful.

The truth is that I hate it when people say I'm fat. (Who likes to be judged?) Or fatter, for that matter. Though they do not compare me to an actress or some athlete (often), they still compare me to my 18-year old or 20-year old self. And then I hate myself for being affected by their opinions. (Vicious circling, very buzzard-like)

So when I look at myself in the mirror, I am torn between convincing myself that I am beautiful as is, and telling myself that I can be healthier if only I wasn't so lazy.

What does it mean to be healthy? It means that no matter how much weight I gain, I shouldn't starve myself. (I tried that before--out of laziness mostly--and ended up anemic and prone to dizziness.) It means that I respect my body for what it can do, and try to understand what is wrong when I feel pain/sickness. It means cleanliness and wearing weather-appropriate clothes.

As far as foods go, the word out there is pretty confusing. They all agree that we should consume a variety of fruits and vegetables, and that processed foods aren't good for you, but you still need carbs, protein, dairy and yes, fat. Sugar and salt should be consumed in moderation, as with caffeine, alcohol, etc. Grains, and fibre help rid you of toxins. Moderation, balance, variety, control: that's pretty much it.

To be healthy is to be active. (This reminds me of old PE classes, trying to define fitness.) So we should exercise regularly, and do weight-training, in order to metabolize more efficiently, and build muscle and bone. As with food, there is a need for variety and moderation, especially as there are exercises that add pressure to the back or knees. Stretching, warming up, cardio, weight-training. But also being active means enjoying what your body can do: dancing, playing sports, swimming, and walking/running.

So what does all this have to do with weight? Yes, people do say that obesity leads to certain diseases, and that belly fat in particular, is unhealthy. (Those claims are genuine, aren't they?) But what about those who are merely chubby, with slight double chins, and a little pouch, and solid thighs? They may never be able to wear two piece bikinis with confidence, but does that mean they aren't healthy?

I may look very different from my 18-year old self. (Mostly around the face.) But I don't feel so different. It is still mostly the same body.

But I am tired of this culture of shame. I really really am.

2009-04-01T12:54:00.002-07:00

Sewn and Sown
Foj

Couched in polysyllabic terms, I offer not my love
but my compassion, though I have lost a great many things
within thy folds. The remote control, in particular,
prefers thy deep recesses, as with various pens,
cellphones, notebooks, even mittens. (Though not,
as I have read elsewhere, a trapped kitten.)

Covered in faded roses thou art, and in the absence
of a table, I make my art upon thee. My feet are raised,
my back held upon thy discourteous but solid arm.
A pile of books beside. I could sleep pon thee,
if it were not for all my various things a-scatter,
though my length does not entirely fit in thine.

I have felt it: the growing of mine eyes, the yearning
for rich soils upon which to feast. How does a tuber
feel, when it has found its place in the darkness?
The television is right across, the kitchen behind.
And when I tremble, I lean upon thy foamed breast.
Except. The sun does not upon me rest. Thus, I intimate:

the couch potato will wither in its upholstered shell.
So now I offer not my love but my farewell.

---
So much for odes.

2009-04-01T12:47:00.003-07:00

Perhaps the World Ends Here
by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

---
from The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms (The Ode)

Lone

2009-04-01T09:55:00.000-07:00

I am alone and the noises of the house rise around me: the clock, a neighbor's step, this gadget's humming, and the fullness of silence ringing in my ears.

Last night I couldn't sleep. I was trying to reach out into the ether, talking to chance and fate, as if they were guests in this same house. I was trying to imagine a life of freedom, wherein I face myself in utter solitude. When did people become the chains that bind me?

I have been weak for so long, that all I dream about is to stand in strength. And maybe that path is lonely and bleak. Or maybe it is the only reckoning.

But people abide in and around me, and the generations spring forth unto forever. Or until the world cracks, shattering and scattering into the vastness. All I know is that in my head, I--with my myriad selves--am at peace.

2009-03-31T23:11:00.001-07:00

Welcome to Poetry Month

I want to write every day about something related to poetry. (Either a piece of advice, an old favorite, or a prompt.)

Take a Journey

2009-03-31T21:32:00.000-07:00

The question we must ask of a poem is not what it means but how does it get where it is going? We must follow it point by point as it moves from one image or idea to another, from a height to a depth, from a distance, coming close, where it turns, and how it moves through itself towards some ending. (from Billy Collins "Teaching Poetry")

But what questions do we ask about life? How does it get where it is going? It unfolds. I like that word. It is related to a sort of release, a surrender, referring to a chain of events moving from order to chaos, but gently. It is an unmaking.

But life is not always gentle. Sometimes the world exerts violence upon us, and sometimes it is us who must struggle within the world.

I am reading Rebecca Solnit's A Field Guide to Getting Lost and I recognize in its passages an attempt to accept this violence of change. "Some people inherit values and practices as a house they inhabit; some of us have to burn down that house, find our own ground, build from scratch..." (Solnit, 80)

It sounds both exciting and terrifying. All I know is that I spend so much time being afraid that fear, by now, should be as familiar as a friend. But that act of burning and rebuilding is not just violence upon myself; it is a stone in a pond, ripples cascading.

There are things that must remain buried; there are masks that must be worn. And yet...

"Sometimes an old photograph, an old friend, an old letter will remind you that you are not who you once were, for the person who dwelt among them, valued this, chose that, wrote thus, no longer exists. Without noticing it you have traversed a great distance..." (ibid)

The truth: I have changed. I am not the same person who loved and lost her. I am not the person whose reflection was built of fragmented expectations and disappointments. I am not the person who took the world for granted, or who sought to leave it.

I am standing on the edge, surveying the endless blue.

2009-03-26T14:31:00.002-07:00

Carl Sagan
from Pale Blue Dot

Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every 'super-star', every 'supreme leader', every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there--on a mote of dust susended in a sunbeam.

---

Loren Eiseley
from 'Little Men and Flying Saucers'

Lights come and go in the night sky. Men, troubled at last by the things they build, may toss in their sleep and dream bad dreams, or lie awake while the meteors whisper greenly overhead. But nowhere in all space or on a thousand worlds will there be men to share our loneliness. There may be wisdom; there may be power; somewhere across space great instruments, handled by strange, manipulative organs, may stare vainly at our floating cloud wrack, their owners yearning as we yearn. Nevertheless, in the nature of life and in the principles of evolution we have had our answer. Of men elsewhere, and beyond, there will be none forever.

---
All excerpts from Richard Dawkins' The Oxford Book of Modern Science Writing.

2009-03-23T08:47:00.002-07:00

Since I liked it so much...

The picture is called "Tomb" by Sibtainn on flickr. The quote I got was Stephen Nachmanovitch's "The noun of self becomes a verb. This flashpoint of creation in the present moment is where work and play merge."

Band Meme

2009-03-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

To Do This
1 - Go to "wikipedia." Hit “random” (Mine: Paradigm)
or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to "Random quotations" (Mine: Design is how it works)
or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Go to flickr and click on “explore the last seven days” (Mine: Just a View by Amir.S.)
or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use photoshop or similar to put it all together. (Through picnik.com)

---
Got the meme from Dolly Rock Muse. Funn!

2009-03-20T10:09:00.002-07:00

And OK, it's a little late

but here's my tribute to Francis M: I sang "Mga Kababayan Ko" in music class in first grade. (I rapped, dude.) I had a crush on him and Janno Gibbs in the movie "Tong Its" (1996) which is like a funnier "Bad Boys," and I'm still hoping to score a copy. I listen to Parokya ni Edgar's "Bagsakan" a lot.

It's not much. I'm not a big fan of rap, and I prefer my music a little funnier, but he's still someone who matters to every Filipino in my generation. Kiko, wherever you are, our prayers are with you.

2009-03-20T09:02:00.002-07:00

Life Appreciation 101

How do you appreciate life more? You allow it to mean more to you, allow it to gain value. So it is a change of perspective, primarily, but also a change in terms of environment and habits so that you are able to design a life that fulfills you.

So I need to design that life. If I should read this whole blog again, I'd find the answer: a life filled with connections between senses and thought, a life of beauty and depth, a life of art and craft, particularly the craft of poetry.

I want to make what I call an experimental autobiography, following the example of Maira Kalman's "Principles of Uncertainty." I want to make Trip Books like Brigid Berlin and Ken Kesey.

--
I'm listening to a radio program about water in Canada. (I like listening to the accent, and I've also been reading bits of Rachel Carson...) There was something about drinking water in a first nation reserve, about the river in Toronto needing to be cleaned up like the Hudson River.

Oh and it's the first day of the equinox. The equinox occurs "when the tilt of the Earth's axis is inclined neither away from nor towards the Sun, the Sun being vertically above a point on the Equator." (wikipedia) It means the night and day are equally long. (Which is like everyday back home in the Philippines.) It marks the beginning of the day lengthening, though which is always something to celebrate.

I just read "Love, Stargirl" by Jerry Spinelli where Stargirl created her own solar calendar, marking the Winter Solstice. The solstice marks the extreme position of the sun, and like the equinox, occurs twice a year.

2009-03-12T12:56:00.003-07:00

25 Things About Me

1. There are books on every surface of the house.

2. I have a superhero alter ego, but she's experiencing burn out, and is getting fired from her "calling" after which I assume she will die. For the final time.

3. Listening to "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver is an instant cure to angst or panic attacks.

4. My first reaction to a friend coming out: is it my fault?

5. I don't like people who believe in something so fervently, they'll accept no other explanation for it. Which makes me really fun at religious services.

6. Show me a horror movie. Watch me run far, far away.

7. Ditto with a war movie.

8. I'm a slob who lie around in my pjs, eating pickles and ice cream and whatever else is in the house.

9. I have this fantasy of living off the grid. If I just figure out how to do that and still surf the web 24/7.

10. I don't speak boy. (and cars, and sports, and other remotely connected subtopics.)

11. If anyone else asks if I'm a lesbian after they find out that I don't have a boyfriend, I will turn lesbian. (non-practicing, though.)

12. The biggest thing I miss about home are the booksales. The second biggest thing is local literature. The third are my friends. That says it all about me. (The fourth is the language, and the fifth is the steady warm weather.)

13. I'd be antisocial if I weren't so polite.

14. I'm still thinking about what I want to do with my life.

15. I live near the library.

16. I'm trying to stop obsessing about my body fat, since I loathe exercising and dieting anyway. (And it is not that bad, but boy, do the relatives rub it in...)

17. I'm a big believer in serendipity.

18. I'm a sucker for kawaii things like kittens and plushies and babies. I always say, "They're so cute I want to eat them!" Which disturbs my little sister.

19. I'm a practicing Taoist: unemployed and parked on a couch.

20. The book that I've reread the most times is probably Tamora Pierce's Keladry series.

21. The first fantasy book I've read is "The Wizard Children of Finn" by Mary Tannen, which belonged to my mom: all Irish mythology and self-insertion time travel.

22. I fell in love with poetry in grad school, when reading it was less socio-political impact and more imagery and sound and beauty.

23. I am trying to let go of remorse, and find a way to make amends.

24. I'm jealous of people who can do cartwheels and wu shu and speak Japanese and Korean and Portuguese, and write and translate poetry, and make little artist books and stationery, and ride a bike, and have tea in odd places, and scribble in notepads and browse in secondhand shops, and have a quirky fashion sense, and go bravely towards their heart's desire.

25. I want all of that. And to write.

Why Xander is My Favorite Scooby?

2009-03-11T19:03:00.000-07:00

He bounces back from insult and injury with wit and wonder. He was Soldier!Boy. He is content as back-up, and accepts his role as the ordinary man in the group. He saved Buffy's life at least thrice. He works towards a bigger goal. He saved Spike's life at least twice. He is goofy, but is slowly growing into himself. He was Hyena!Boy. He sees the big picture. He is capable of deep compassion, though he is not free from prejudice. He bought Cordelia her prom dress. He loves fiercely and fights to protect his people. He told Dawn she is extraordinary. He comes up with good ideas when you least expect it. He is funny guy. He avenged Renee's death. He counts Dracula as a friend. He leads well and follows well. He is loved.

2009-03-11T18:48:00.002-07:00

What's in a Notebook

I tell myself I can never be able to make an art journal as fun as Dan Price's or Danny Gregory's or Sabrina Ward Harrison's because my penmanship sucks, I don't have the patience to draw, the paper's too thin for anything other than ballpoint, and my head is empty.

But there are notebooks in which I--armed with nothing but good intentions and daily routine--managed to fill with glimpses of beauty, bad handwriting and all.

I need to stop caring about linearity and neatness and just face chaos head on.

What do you want to learn?

2009-03-09T17:22:00.000-07:00

1) how to speak Korean.
2) the names of birds and flowers, especially those commonly seen in the area.
3) how to write good poetry.
4) how to make better notebooks out of household materials.
5) how to live well.
6) how to make amends.
7) how to cook a few dishes, including mee goreng and pasta dishes.
8) how to write the next chapter of my fic.
9) how to write original fiction.
10) how to draw better.
11) tai chi.
12) making zines and artist books.
13) how to sew bags and pouches and other crafts.
14) how to dress stylishly but still be comfortable and low-maintenance and frugal.
15) how to take better photographs.
16) how to make a difference.
17) how to teach.

And what do you want to teach?
1) algebra.
2) appreciation of poetry.
3) appreciation of good stories.
4) writing more vividly and more concretely: journal, letters, stories.
5) bookbinding from household materials.
6) arts and crafts.

2009-03-09T17:00:00.003-07:00

On Living Well

I still don't know if I should pursue teaching or editing. Teaching--as previous experience has shown--is very rewarding, but also exhausting and terrifying. My fears include not being able to discipline students, being unable to communicate myself well in front of people, and getting overwhelmed by students who are in your face and fearless. As for editing, my fears stem from the need to find work of the same nature, and the competitiveness of the job, though I see it as work that will lead me to a more intimate involvement in art/literature. For now, teaching seems both the most practical and varied. We'll see if I change my mind.

I kept thinking about what it means to live well, all throughout the services I attended last Saturday. I barely understood the homily. In my mind were two images: swallowing a bowl of pebbles, which I held in my stomach and grasping a stream and tying it in a knot. I don't know what it means. Maybe that I am trying to find an inner calm, trying to assess things, like counting stones or grasping water: a sometimes futile act.

I lost my job. I had to force myself to type those words. They feel like a step towards the edge of a cliff. I am not ready to leap.

In church, I think I comforted myself with images of cooking, of using this opportunity to make a meal for my family. I have yet to do it, merely buying a box of tomato soup at the store this morning, as well as household cleaner, band-aids and eyedrops.

I want to clean house. I want to read good books, and walk in the sunshine to listen to birds. I want to sing. I want to leap and bedazzle and celebrate that I am alive, that I am well. I want to write.

Whenever I visit Keri Smith's blog or Gracia and Louise's store, I am inspired to think of a life surrounded by art: zines and postcards and artist books and stationery and mail art and journals overflowing with zest. They help me to look at the world differently.

But in the end, I will still choose words. I will still choose the cadences and rich tapestry of poetry. I will still prefer the involvement of a good tale.

I don't know what it is to live well. But I have an idea what my soul feeds on.

2009-03-09T16:33:00.002-07:00

Adopted Country

Watching last night's TV-movie "Diverted," I searched for more information about it online and came across a book by Jim DeFede called "The Day the World Came to Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland."

Newfoundland is an island on the east side of Canada, near New York. Used for refueling before the planes were revolutionized and during World War II, the town of Gander boasted a very large airport. And they took it thirty-eight diverted planes in the immediate aftermath of the 9/11 attacks when all of American airspace was shut down.

I read it all in one sitting, periodically sniffling into tissues when my tears got the better of me. It makes me want to be Canadian, and proud of this place, even though it doesn't belong to me and I don't belong to it. Not yet anyway.

I borrowed the book from the library, scouring the history section for a copy. In the section of Asian history, I automatically looked for books about my country, the Philippines. One look at a book about the People Power and I almost cried out of homesickness.

I love it here. I love that I said good morning to a stranger walking a couple of bulldogs, and that I helped an Asian lady figure out the machine to check out books in the library. The Korean man in the Post Office is very friendly, and the car immediately stopped even before I was on the edge of the crosswalk. It might never feel like home--and I could list hundreds of things I miss from my own country--but I am becoming very attached to its atmosphere of welcome and politeness and generosity.

An office-mate's place burned down a couple of weeks ago. They were put up in a nearby hotel by the govt for three days, then for a week at another hotel by local charity groups. Everyday, someone brought food to them, and clothes. Churches in the area participated as well as other NGOs.

The truth is that I would expect the same treatment at home, though possibly less lavish and less coordinated, with little to no help depending on the local government involved. But I think we Filipinos have the same sense of community; we only need to be led in the right direction. What would stop us from being as generous would be our own personal problems, which we never run out of.

So I think I am in a good place, though I consider myself a bridge person, neither here nor there. I will find within myself the capacity to care, taken from the two heritages on either side of me.

I am also reading the preface of "Language for a New Century," an anthology of contemporary poetry in the East, including my own country and the poetry of exiles and diaspora. I want to try to read every poem, no matter the style or content. I thought to myself what is most valuable and essential to me in terms of endeavors, and I came up with fiction and poetry and performing arts. No matter what happens, I need those things in order to live well.

Nine and Eleven

2009-03-09T08:08:00.000-07:00

I was nowhere near New York
when the skies rained death.
All I did was study French in class
and feel vindicated that it did
not happen to me and mine.

It took a few years before I
could face my own hypocrisy,
and properly mourn. Every life
leads to me, and every death.
This is what it means to be human.

The tree bore the fruits of war
and pain and death and fear.
All I can do is keep together
the pieces that are falling apart.
This is what it means to be alive.

For Better

2009-03-09T07:57:00.000-07:00

I know what it feels to fall
in your expectations. Control
is an illusion, bolstered
by the face in the mirror
whose eyes hold infinity
but whose flesh remains soldered in dust.

We hold good intentions
like shyly offered roses clasped
to our virgin's breast. Nothing
lasts long enough to remain pure.
Not the gentle snowfall of fading spring.
Nor the song of birds drowning.

But regret and remorse are rarely beautiful.
We should really find a way to make amends,
as if putting puzzle pieces together of
the shattered porcelein. It has fallen.
Like everything else in my hands.

What does Spring feel like?

2009-03-08T20:48:00.000-07:00

It feels like the wind in your face is sweeter. Snow still falls, but each flake is a gesture of farewell. There are lilac bulbs and lace near the library. I was late for an hour to work a few weeks ago, because I stopped to listen to a bird singing on a tree branch. I tried to write down his song, and I missed the bus, and the next one passed by an hour later.

The flocks are returning. They tell me all is well.

Even with me laid off, pickling at home. (bad metaphor, but I've been craving pickled things all week in vinegar and salt.) You can't feel too down when the world is saying yes outside your door.

I miss this place. (I'm not writing enough poetry.) When I am bothered by things, I listen to Oliver's "Wild Geese" and my eyes open wide and the world seems beautiful again. (Poetry saves.)

2009-02-23T19:06:00.002-08:00

I'd Rather Have This:

A small yet interesting life. My sisters. The library and bookstores and thrift stores. Seeing the people I love most grow into themselves and being a part of that process. Poetry, the discovery of and the attempt to really read and to write this genre. Seeing people read on the bus, or at tables in the food court. Being able to smile at strangers, or start conversations. Getting letters from Mel. Taking pictures on my own camera. Cafes and journals. Laptops. Making tiny books/notebooks. My favorite authors, as well as new discoveries. Losing and finding God in the world. Fanfic. Nanowrimo. Street musicians. Trying to use less plastic and more recycled paper. Manga and Asian drama. Video rentals and movie dates. Trees, clouds, birds, stone, wind, leaf, snow, sky, dream. I am trying to love what I have and I have as much of the world as I can hold.

2009-02-23T14:41:00.002-08:00

Laid Back

I got fired today. Our whole office had to shut down, because the economy's so bad they couldn't afford to pay us. Everybody was crying. Every single person in our office loves coming to work, because we have great friends there, and because our boss is super nice. I think I am mourning the loss of that atmosphere more than just losing the job itself.

So now what? I have a few options: I can go on EI until my sister comes here in July; I can find part-time work at the library; I can study again. Or just look for a new full-time job. *Will have to discuss these with my mum.*

Still hasn't sunk in.

2009-01-10T11:42:00.003-08:00

Fell in Love With

Celebrity
Ryan Higa of nigahiga fame
Neil Patrick Harris
Kim Sun Ah (Kim Sam Soon)
Yoon Euh Hye (Coffee Prince)

TV Show
NCIS especially Tony (whom I didn't recognize as Logan from Dark Angel)
Burn Notice (Blame Uncle Orson)
My Name is Kim Sam Soon (Kdrama)
Bones (love the squints)
Sarah Connor Chronicles (love Cameron)

Website
Uncle Orson Reviews Everything

Music
Mozart's piano concertos esp. Symphony 3 and 11.
Soundtrack from Dr. Horrible's Singalong Blog
Japanese rock bands like Plastic Trees and Flow and Asian Kung Fu Generation

Author
Andreas Escbach - German, wrote fantasy "The Carpet Makers"
Douglas Rees - best vampire book for the year, "Vampire High"
Sherwood Smith - good at both for kids and the more adult Inda series
Patricia McKillip - best lyricism, also loved her short stories
John Moore - best fairy tale parodist ever.

Film
"Saving Face" - A Chinese American lesbian romantic comedy written and directed by Alice Wu
"Kung Fu Panda"
"House Bunny"

2009-01-10T11:27:00.002-08:00

An Incomplete 2008 Read List
Fojee

1. Life Sucks by Jessica Abel and Gabriel Soria
2. An Assembly Such as This: A Novel of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman by Pamela Aidan
3. Worldweavers: Spellspam by Alma Alexander
4. City of the Beasts by Isabel Allende
5. Kingdom of the Golden Dragon by Isabel Allende
6. Shall We Tell the President? by Jeffrey Archer (Kennedy version)
7. Trip to Tagaytay by Arnold Arre
8. Singled Out by Trisha Ashley *
9. Sowing Secrets by Trisha Ashley
10. Faerie Wars by Herbie Brennan
11. The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson
12. A War of Gifts: An Ender Story by Orson Scott Card *
13. The Adventures of Michael MacInnes by Jeff Carney
14. The Graceling by Kristin Cashore *
15. The Plain Janes by Cecil Castelluci
16. White Tiger by Kylie Chan
17. Red Phoenix by Kylie Chan
18. Apropos Nothing by Peter David
19. Wizards, edited by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois
20. So You Want to be a Wizard by Diane Duane *
21. High Wizardry by Diane Duane
22. A Wizard Abroad by Diane Duane
23. The Wizard's Dilemma by Diane Duane
24. A Wizard Alone by Diane Duane
25. Wizard's Holiday by Diane Duane
26. Wizards at War by Diane Duane
27. Into the Wild by Sarah Beth Durst
28. The Carpet Makers by Andreas Eschbach *
29. The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman *
30. Garage Band by Gipi
31. An Ice Cold Grave by Charlaine Harris
32. Grave Surprise by Charlaine Harris
33. The Princess and the Hound by Mette Ivie Harrison
34. Across the Nightingale Floor by Lian Hearn
35. Santa Monica Canyon by Gregory Hinton
36. Smarty Pants (Pete in School) by Maira Kalman
37. The Principles of Uncertainty by Maira Kalman *
38. Castle in the Air by Diana Wynne Jones
39. Conrad's Fate by Diana Wynne Jones
40. The Dark Lord of Derkholm by Diana Wynne Jones
41. The Game by Diana Wynne Jones
42. The Year of the Griffin by Diana Wynne Jones *
43. Priceless by Marne David Kellogg
44. Homeland and Other Stories by Barbara Kingsolver *
45. Born to Run by Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon
46. Brightly Burning by Mercedes Lackey
47. A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L'Engle *
48. An Acceptable Time by Madeleine L'Engle
49. The Boy Book by E. Lockhart
50. The Willoughbys by Lois Lowry *
51. Life Style by Bruce Mau
52. No One Noticed the Cat by Anne McCaffrey
53. Cygnet (2) by Patricia A. McKillip
54. Alphabet of Thorn by Patricia A. McKillip
55. Harrowing the Dragon by Patricia A. McKillip
56. Od Magic by Patricia A. McKillip
57. Solstice Wood by Patricia A. McKillip
58. The Riddlemaster Trilogy (3) by Patricia A. McKillip *
59. V for Vendetta by Alan Moore *
60. Watchmen by Alan Moore
61. A Fate Worse than Dragons by John Moore *
62. Bad Prince Charlie by John Moore *
63. The Unhandsome Prince by John Moore
64. Hero by Perry Moore
65. Feeling Sorry for Celia by Jaclyn Moriarty
66. The Murder of Bindy McKenzie by Jaclyn Moriarty
67. The Year of Secret Assignments by Jaclyn Moriarty
68. Once More with Footnotes by Terry Pratchett *
69. Lyra's Oxford by Phillip Pullman
70. The Firework-Maker's Daughter by Phillip Pullman
71. Natural Prayers by Chet Raymo
72. Vampire High by Douglas Rees *
73. Holes by Louis Sachar
74. Inda by Sherwood Smith *
75. Fox by Sherwood Smith
76. Wren to the Rescue by Sherwood Smith
77. Wren's Quest by Sherwood Smith
78. Wren's War by Sherwood Smith
79. Tinker by Wen Spencer
80. Wolf Who Rules by Wen Spencer
81. Milkweed by Jerry Spinelli
82. Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli
83. The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp
84. Green Thumb by Rob Thomas
85. At a Crossroads: Between a Rock and My Parents' Place by Kate T. Williamson
86. A Year in Japan by Kate T. Williamson
87. American Knees by Shawn Wong
88. American Born Chinese by Gene Luen Yang

Around 91 Books. (This however, does not count the boatloads of manga I ingested including Love Pistols, Love Mode, Totally Captivated which I own and the scans of Skip Beat!, Beauty Pop, etc.) I also failed to include the comics of Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 8, and the art books I bought and just scanned through. So I suppose I did pass the hundredth mark.

This year I'll shoot for another hundred, hopefully more well-documented. The ones with asterisks are my favorites.

2008-12-24T18:21:00.002-08:00

Master List
For the Year
(culled a bit from my 100 list)

1) juggle two writing projects and a revision of a novel.
(a sequel, an intertwining and a really funny mock-epic...)
2) save money for everything I want to buy, plus for 2010 plane tickets home.
(burn notice season 1, ncis, lomography cam, polaroid, print gocco thermal copier...)
3) borrow dance movies to get me moving and get me in great shape.
(step up 1 & 2, take the lead, how she move, you got served, stomp the yard...)
4) make things to sell at etsy: imbentory.
(notebooks, stickers, cards...)
5) read about a hundred more great books.
(including new ones from Tammy, Duane, Sherwood and other favorite authors...)

2008-12-03T18:44:00.002-08:00

I'd be the first to admit that I'm not an extrovert.

But I still read Jamison's book "Exuberance: The Passion for Life," greatly enjoying the many tangents it bring me. (Because of it, I watched Charlie Brown's Christmas on youtube, and has made lists of people to look up, such as Theodore Roosevelt, John Muir, Snowflake Bentley, P.T. Barnum and Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin.) I want to give a copy to all the artists I know.

On depicting exuberant moods and igniting them in others:

"When words are neither the only thing nor the most important, [Jim] Dale emphasized, then action is. And music. For it is in action, in dance and in music, in the kinetic thrusting upward of arms and legs and the throwing up and back of the head that great joy finds its highest expression." p.135

"Whether through play, through exploration, or through engagements of the imagination those who are exuberant act." p.99

2008-11-30T08:16:00.004-08:00

Yippeeee! I made it, 50,000 words in one month. I cheated, though with an introduction and an afterword because the story was done too soon. It shaved a hundred and one words, though so I had to write extra. I even had to write a poem...

They Dwell Deep

Do you know where you come from? Do you know

How you were wrought, and what for? It is hard to believe

That our world exists, this, and the one beneath it.

But what can we believe? The seed grows from the ground

And the child becomes the mother. Things change.

And they change for better or worse.

In the meantime, we are here. Here, here, and here.

The world is ours to keep and to abandon.

We dwell deep.

All I can say is, thank God. :)