This blog has just been resurrected. Save for the now inactive links for old photos and slideshows, lists of favorite posts and other widgets from the sidebar, everything remains intact.
Funny that just yesterday, with much dread and frustration, I have outlined how I wanted my 2013 to pan out - and the item "resurrect blog" was actually scheduled for "when have time/when I feel like it" on this list. Based on my experience, that means either "never" or "the worst time possible when I should be doing more pressing things". It happened to be the latter. The sudden discovery that my old domain name was available again (which I didn't think was possible) excited me so much that it had to trump everything else that I had to do today (being on leave has its perks). Several hours and a refresher on HTML code writing later, I am proud to say I have ticked my third item off my 2013 to-do list (the first, finishing reading a non-yoga book for the longest time; and second, my 2013 list).
Anyway, writing has obviously not been my most preferred form of expression in the past one and a half years, owing to social networking, restricted typing on touch screen mobile devices, plain laziness, and just the reluctance to explain anything to anyone. Hence I don't think this blog will see a lot of more recent entries after this. Just think of this entry as a sort of welcome back post to anyone who might stumble upon it and for whatever it's worth, I'll list off some stuff that's happened since I lapsed with my writing.
1. Why I'm welcoming myself back in the first place. I deactivated my blog some time last year for privacy issues. It was meant to be reactivated after 90 days before it truly got deleted, but I set my alarm a few days late (3 whole months, of course is a couple of days over 90). When I realized what had happened, it took a while to accept and let go of the fact that I lost 5 years' worth of entries (though I did back them up), 15,000+ page views from people who did not even know me (this was supposed to be a blog for just my online persona), the link to my Philippine Blog Awards-winning entry and my domain name. It did not help that Multiply (which mirrors most of my entries here and are for friends and family) was shutting down its personal blogs. Sure, nobody really writes or reads blogs anymore, but it did feel sad to be virtually erased, as if I was never here in the blogosphere.
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| Sun shines over me at the proverbial "Rivendell" (actually at the Ayala Triangle Gardens after an outdoor yoga practice). |
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| Queen (Dharma, right) and king (Gur, left). Such is the hierarchy of things, according to Gur. |
it is the cat lover's worst nightmare to find your semi-indoor middle-aged cat not returning from his usual stroll, especially when he is neutered and timid and thus not likely to roam looking for females in heat or be picked up by a complete stranger. i'd like to think i have done my part looking for him in the neighborhood, asking people and posting notices at the stores around the block. now i wait and take comfort in stories of cats (even the mistreated ones) strolling back home after months or even years of disappearance.
It was ironic that my favorite yoga teacher focused on openness in today's class. I thought, she has got to be kidding. More than 30 people came to class today - some, including me, could not even figure out where to place themselves. There was barely room to raise the arms sideways. Where has the sensitivity gone?
I struggled to settle my breathing in the introductory child's pose, knowing I will have to constantly adjust myself within my little 24" x 72" rubber of a space to avoid accidentally slapping my neighbors during the Suriya Namaskar. It was at that moment, that it made sense to me, what today's lesson was. As I tried not to get kicked by the person in front of me or not kiss his rear on my way to a forward bend, I learned to take it slow, assess my space, adjust and just embrace the energy of this crowded room. And then I found calm.
Outside the mat there are far more occasions when we will feel constricted - be it by other people, circumstances, opposing ideas or our own thoughts and fears. After the class I didn't feel shortchanged. I felt all the good stuff in the right places in my body - reminding me that I can still make the most out of anything in life even without having my own comfortable space. And for that I am thankful for this class. The teacher probably did this on purpose (she is wise that way).
I quote from an entry I wrote about a dream I had where I was having an adventure with the Oceanic survivors, the day before the Season 5 Finale.
We watched as this man/monster resurrected from its box. Unfortunately for us, he turned out to be a killer... Chaos ensued and we quickly ran down... but when I thought I was far enough to be safe, I also realized that I've separated myself from the others...Read about the entire dream here.
Outside, people were all waiting for their rides home. An acquaintance was talking to me... offering me a ride. But I said I'm staying for a while. When I said that, I wasn't sure why, then I realized I wanted to wait for the others. Surely they'd go out this way, too.
I didn't wait very long, for a small group of my former companions came out of the gate... I took one of their hands and we hugged tight, it was a reunion of relief (that we were all safe) and longing. I felt I belonged with these people... I wept out of exhaustion and happiness at finding these people again...
I asked the girl beside me, what happened to the others? I whispered to her ear "I meant Jack, Kate and Sawyer, what happened to them?... I wasn't expecting the response. I thought they just headed to a different direction or traveled to another time, but when she started to speak with tears in her eyes, a lump formed in my throat.
They were all dead. I then wondered what happened to everybody else not on this jeepney - Juliet? Sun? Sayid?
Photo courtesy of SinoSikat? official site
Photo courtesy of Google Maps.
When we mention Christmas, we usually think of joy, lights, feasts, spirituality, gifts, excess, thanksgiving, happy children and love. When thinking of Tori Amos, one might conjure images of cornflakes, waitress murder, unorthodox takes on religious concepts, celebration of womanhood. As you see, there is very little overlap and that is why Tori, despite her being a minister's daughter, would probably be the last musician we'd ever expect a Christmas album from. But then, she's not really calling it a Christmas album, is she? Midwinter Graces is technically labeled a "seasonal album" instead, so I go and nod, okay, this is characteristic of her, after all.
But what could a "Christmas" album from Tori Amos sound like? Definitely not trite or religious. But surprisingly not at all that would make devouts rally to ban this album from being sold in a Catholic country. For one, she retains the soul of traditional (and Christian) hymns (What Child, Nowell, Emmanuel, Star of Wonder, Jeanette, Isabella and quotes from Gloria in Harps of Gold), and yet fuses them seamlessly with the rest of the album.
"The rest of the album" is the one that I can happily say sounds very Little Earthquakes/Under The Pink-like, where the piano rules. Not lacking in richness - the sorely missed harpsichord makes a comeback, complementing the strings and the perfunctory Christmas bells that lend themselves to some of the songs' old world-ly sound. Precious tracks Holly, Ivy and Rose (where Tori duets with daughter) and Candle: Coventry Carol bring you to an entirely different world. I have never experienced winter where I live but this album puts in my head snapshots of the season over the ages and across cultures like a silent movie.
Meanwhile the cheery, urban side that is associated with the holidays is in the subtly wrapped present that is Pink and Glitter, with its (quiet) big band ballad arrangement. Very anti-Tori title, but nice song. My favorites are Winter's Carol (this is Tori's return to form) and Our New Year (the "saudade"-filled finale that seemed to be a common thread going on with Toast in The Beekeeper and Gold Dust in Scarlet's Walk). There is a love song Silent Night With You that borders on sappy, but forgivable.
Short, sweet, different and spiritual, this album is. Not much about the lyrics, but I like that it successfully set a mood - that is, of bittersweetness. The minor chords and orchestral arrangements can take your mind to a gray and cold Northern village where faint lights bring hope and a spirit of rebirth for the New Year, an overall sentiment of peace, which is what the winter solstice (and Christmas, for that matter) represents for most people.
Rating: ****
Disclaimer: Chords are blog author's own transcription and are therefore unofficial. Corrections are most welcome.
intro: C9-D7/9
F-Fm-C9
(for verse, do intro chords)
me & you
whispering of ripplewind
& faerie wing
me & you
undaunted by
our joyful scarring
(repeat intro chords)
me & you
of twisting fates
in corridors of time
silence is the fire
that speaks to us in tongues
F
what is tomorrow
C
it may never come
F
what is yesterday
C
is now done
C
for we always were
D
we always will
F
we always are
Fm G/G7
we always intertwyne
G/G7
we always intertwyne
interlude: CM7-Am-CM7-Am
FM7-G7-FM7-G7-FM7-G7-FM7-G7
F-Em-Dm-F-G-G7
me & you
finally
beholden grace
in our eyes
in our hands
unfolding space
what is tomorrow
it may never come
what is yesterday
is now done
for we always were
we always will
we always are
we always intertwyne
we always intertwyne
F G7
intertwyne
F G7
we always intertwyne
extro: CM7-Am-CM7-Am
FM7-G7-FM7-G7-FM7-G7-FM7-G7
F-Em-Dm-F-G-G7
eternal sunshine in the backyard... actually a little snippet of my 5-month interior decorating project.
You know you're a rehabbed shopaholic when:
You enter a shop for a pair of slacks that you genuinely need and while sieving through the sale rack, your eyes wander and end up gawking at stuff that aren't for sale - the lovely faux-finished walls, the Turkish lamps, the old-world feel mirrors.
You traipse past hangers, totally unaffected, but your heart skips a beat at the sight of well-styled vignettes on a shelf.
You try on one piece of clothing to check for signs of a relapse, but you look not at your reflection but stand transfixed by the wood and iron clothes hooks in the changing rooms.
As you let sound the chimes at the exit, you head out, emptyhanded and fashion-challenged, but with a smile on your lips and a bagful of ideas.
Been occupied in the past few months that I noticed I haven't been blogging as much as last year. Strangely, I've discovered a new meaning to the word "busy". In that it can mean something good, something that you can actually like being. I guess it makes a whole lot of difference what you're busy with. If it's something you really take pride in letting it consume you - you wouldn't mind so much missing out for a while on other things that also mean a lot to you. In my case - time with friends, yoga, running, the Cinemalaya festival, or just the point I made earlier - writing.
This blog gets a lot of online traffic from people searching for Cynthia Alexander chords, with some visitors asking for more. I got into a transcribing mood over a month ago and here is part of what came out of that exercise. I was going to post another song first but decided on Motorbykle as it is simpler and probably nearer to the actual chords that Cynthia used (thus more useful to whoever stumbles upon this entry).
In a way, the song also sounds more appropriate right now, in light of some recent changes and choices. I hope it is not the road back to the old "busy" definition - I am reassuring myself that there need not always be a highway's end. As Iris advised Samantha in Sophie Kinsella's Undomestic Goddess, "Sometimes it’s enough just to know what you’re going to do next.” And I do. So meantime, let me just enjoy the ride.
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Disclaimer: Chords are blog author's own transcription and are therefore unofficial. Corrections are most welcome.
Intro: G-D G-D
G D
we barely survive the abuses
G D
we inflict upon ourselves
G D
we never mean to be unkind
G D
the colors leave us blind
G D
we get what we deserve
G D
we pay for what we get
G
here is the game
D
and here is the cycle
G A D
while I ride my motorbykle
G-D
Ride
(Use same chord pattern)
we brave the accusations
& stand on burning bridges
blame it all on weakness
& crucify our innocence
& we get what we deserve
& we pay for what we get
here is the game
and here is the cycle
while I ride my motorbykle
G F#m
now we have come
G F#m
to our hi-ways' end
G F#m
run along now & carry on
G D
& embrace the changes
G D
sanctify this distance
G D
we're certified experienced
G D
to do it all again
but we get what we deserve
& we pay for what we get
here is the game
and here is the cycle
while I ride my motorbykle
Ride
1. Both Sandra's characters are orphans.
"Thanks for thinking of me but I'm here now, please open the window."
- Fabrics from last Sunday's Divisoria shopping.
When you can't afford or can't decide to change furniture/paint/drill holes through your walls/embark on a major remodel - using fabric is an age-old solution. It's cheap, and it allows you to be as fickle as you can be. Moreso if you can find mod prints that are dirt-cheap (as the case was in Tabora St. in Divisoria) - the possibilities could even be more exciting than getting a spankin' new sofa.
Funny that this fabric-hoarding day-out can turn out to be an epiphany for much-needed wisdom. I guess it's not so bad when the way to real change isn't paved for us as soon as we would like it. Maybe people need not define himself to be one thing or the other. Maybe they can be like a myriad of fabric slipcovers that are interchangeable at any given time. Maybe they can forget about the old sofa or paint color for a while and just revel in the many things that inspire them and make them feel alive.
There are strange dreams that make you dig deep into your subconscious in vain. And then there are semi-strange dreams that simply mirror your mundane daytime preoccupations. This recent dream was a no-brainer. One of the Top Design Season 2 finalists, Preston Lee, already made a cameo in my dream a month ago (along with characters of a TV show I'm equally addicted to). These days, I cannot content myself watching TD reruns alone, I also watch the replays of the reruns, so I guess it's no surprise for one of the judges to play a starring role in another dream, now infused with excitement about going somewhere after a month's absence.
Here's how it went:
Margaret Russell, editor-in-chief of Elle Decor magazine was my yoga teacher. She was rather cross with the class because the students weren't working hard enough. After a stern talking-to, she shifted her mood to teach us a rather special pose. It involved a pillow and a cabinet, or more like... a box that's very similar to the one in Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes album cover. We're supposed to do an inversion inside the cabinet (box), pressing our bodies around the 4 sides of box, and propped by a pillow.
Margaret said, each individual's version of the pose is as unique as the individuals themselves, so she provided us with individual pillows and cabinets, that came with instructions. These instructions were supposed to be different for each person, which I thought Margaret deduced from her interactions with us. I was impressed and excited about what I will be learning, and a bit incredulous that someone world-renowned (though renowned in a different field altogether) taught at this center. I even whispered in a classmates' ear, "aren't we lucky we're being taught by the best?" 
Soon, a lady from outside began to give us these props, calling each of our names. It's taking a while but I'm thinking, well, I shouldn't mind - this is as personalized as a class can get. In the midst of this, Margaret waved and called out to me by name, in Filipino, "don't leave yet!" which I'm not sure if (a)she thought I was getting impatient about the process (b)she meant not to leave the yoga center, because (in waking life) I was planning to take classes elsewhere (nearer to home) after my 1-year enrollment expires next month. In my mind, I know I'll still come to this center even just occasionally, having felt a sense of community here. And all the more reason to do so, with no less than Margaret Russell in the faculty.
My pillow and cabinet were one of the last ones to be distributed. I was puzzled to see that they were no different from my classmates', even down to the embroidered pillowcases. I absolutely adored the embroidery that resembled those on peasant blouses, but all I could think about was, "what in the world was the fuss about it being personalized all about?" I peeled off the a piece of paper from the pillow-wrappings, hoping that the essence really came from the instructions on how to do the pose, but there was nothing there except for a manual on how to put on the pillowcases.
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* Photos courtesy of Design*Sponge (Margaret Russell) and Wikipedia (Little Earthquakes).
In the wake of a home remodeling, we've been living in rubble for a couple of months now. Our stuff are hauled in boxes and garbage bags, and like ourselves, moving from room to room, awaiting their refurbished cribs.
I told myself not to look at these stuff for now - lest I prematurely be struck by an urge to do serious sorting. I'm saving my energy for that activity for when there'd be enough space around here - and for when I'd have the time, too. I indulged in a little sneak peek reading through over-a-decade-old journals and letters when I took them out of my old closet weeks ago, but that was it. As it is, I have enough on my plate with choice of paint colors, crown mouldings, etc. and working around mini-disasters like discovering manufacturing defects on the tiles I've painstakingly chosen after all of them have been installed.
Today, Mom was moving out the last few stuff from her room and showing me some items of old. Some best forgotten (and bookmarked for disposal come Sorting Day) like a pink "lace" floral scarf with fringes, a telephone cover set with chintz-y prints and ruffles (or were those electric pleats?) in dusty rose - both received as gifts, and a number of thingamajig-ceramic-container-wedding-slash-baptism-giveaways.
But there were a couple of moments when I reached out my hand and shouted "gimme gimme!" One was for a palm-sized Pentax binoculars (we actually have 2 other bigger ones but this will be a more handy device for impromptu bird-watching or maybe stalking). The other was for this... Funny that she asked me, "I wonder who would want this thing?".
I remember having only a handful of childhood pictures from this Polaroid camera - the film was too expensive, and soon we've forgotten we had this. Oh, I hope it still works and I can still find (and afford) film around here.
Such was the case of technology saving the day. And possibly, a dream.
I had some creative material I've been holding on to since 1996 and been thinking of publishing since 1999. One of them, I actually wrote when I was 7 years old. Several factors including forgetfulness, procrastination, lukewarm reception, fear, etc. etc. kept the project from moving.
The recent years that I felt motivated to resurrect the project - I spent trying to locate the manuscript. Mentally, for the most part, but finally this year, an actual physical search.
I did a sweep of all possible hard copy locations in vain. As for the soft copy, I'm not sure if I would luck out on it even if I do find the file, since my attempts at cracking the password since the year 2000 were futile. I was amazed that almost all of my 7 year-old (or older) floppy disks are still intact but I finally found the file in a 7 year-old CD-ROM. My hurrah at seeing it uncorrupted was for naught, though - I still can't remember the password.
I've had pretty standard passwords for as long as I can remember and ironically, the origin of my mother password had something to do with this manuscript. So how can it not be that or any of its variations? Or any other possible and silly thing I can think of? I began to feel depressed that, unless I rewrite these stories from scratch, this project won't ever see print. Not even for just my own kids to enjoy.
Today I found myself clicking that folder where the file was and struck by an inspiration. I asked a friend if he knew of a solution. He directed me to something that worked quite perfectly, but alas, being free, offered limited results. Two more attempts - same limited results. One of them did help by giving clues and I thought, that's good enough for me to remember the rest. But then it revealed that while I did use my mother password to protect file modification, the first few characters of the password to open were totally unrecognizable. Sigh. Nothing is free after all.
Oh but wait... that's not entirely true. For some things, all it takes is decent internet connection and time. And shame. And the offshoot problem that if it works, I have to find some other effective way to encrypt my other private files. Well, it did work. And right now, happiness at seeing my 13 year-old work again trumps this "price" for now.
The password? It's from one of Matt Damon's late 90s movies.
I’ve always said my dreams are vivid and lucid enough to make into surrealist film sequences. But I forgot that once or twice, back in college, I have used my dreams as material for a Filipino poetry class. Looking for something else I wrote in my old closet, I came upon a notebook that contained these. Here’s one that I found the funniest. Written in circa 1996.
To call Tori Amos’ work “mediocre” or “uninspired” is almost sacrilegious to her most loyal of fans, myself included.
I avoided those words when I delivered my review of her 2007 album American Doll Posse with a thin coat of sugar, even if my Posse CD has, since, a mileage of less than 5 full playbacks and even if I barely recall anything more than three-quarters of one song and mere single lines from about 3 others. I owed that to a matter of preference. Tori lost me after her foray into heavier piano-less sound in Choirgirl, and picked up Scarlet and Beekeeper which was for me were a more familiar Tori in instrumentation and spirit.
Yep, call me the fan in the “soft” (i.e., piano) Tori spectrum. While I do respect the range of musical stylings present in Posse, in retrospect, it lacked emotional connection – something that even her most cryptic of lyrics and most bizarre arrangements in her early-90s albums were rich with. And that was what made Tori so great to me – the music transcended the surrealism of her words. You listen to her wanting to kill a waitress, taking the Lord’s name in vain, you conjure dirty abstract images in your head – and yet, you feel the songs speaking to/about you clearly. Like magic, it was as if the Bösendorfer and harpsichords lent perfect sense to them somehow. (Why, people even created graphic novels out of her songs.)
Meanwhile, there’s her recent release, Abnormally Attracted To Sin. And I go, “can I say ‘huh’ now?”
It has its share of heavy and slow tempo arrangements, so I can’t fault it by being too much of a rock album. Predictably, Police Yourself and Strong Black Vine, the most drowned in heavy rhythms are my least favorites.
I do fault it for being… blah. Alright, Fire To Your Plain does have a catchy tune, Welcome To England has the recognizable sweetness in Tori’s elongating of her vowels, and Flavor (my favorite track) mirrors the soulfulness of Beekeeper (plus reminds me of that Bush song from the Buffy The Vampire Slayer soundtrack). The rest seem to be forgettable tracks. A 17-track record is not necessarily too long – but this one is because I’m waiting in vain for a gem. My ears just stop paying attention after track #12.
It’s nice that That Guy starts out nicely like snake charmer’s music, and that there are vibes of other-worldliness and tribal in Give and Not Dying Today, respectively. Touches of eclecticism, sure, but so wanting in the quirkiness and wit that made me love good old Mr. Zebra, Happy Phantom, Past The Mission and Wrong Band so much. Mary Jane has a little hint of that, but not enough to make you smile in wonderment.
Maybe California, with its string accompaniment, evokes a familiar mood as Gold Dust and Toast from a few years ago, and even ends in a similar minor chord. Overall, though the whole record somehow pictures Tori as a more complete and stronger woman – albeit detached and devoid of any vulnerability. Plus, there is absolutely no sign of Tori’s haunting piano anywhere!
What doesn’t help and this was also why Posse didn’t leave me with a stronger impact – was that whatever initial impressions I have of the tracks has little room for "growing on" because... I have no idea what any of these songs are about. And it’s not that they’re odd, it's because apart from choruses… they’re just plain unintelligible! Whether it is the synths and guitars or the accent drowning the vocals, it totally robs the songs of their personalities. While I give up on making out Tori’s garbled speech, I mentally try to find aural cues by finding similarities from old albums just in an attempt to connect to the songs. (For instance, is the title track in any way connected to Original Sin-suality?) But after the comparisons, the connection ends.
As a last note, I can’t help but notice there are some traces of the “dolls” here (yeah, I’m looking at the blonde wig in the Fire To Your Plain video and super-straightened hair on TV guestings). I hope it stops before anybody notices that makeup amount and costume outlandishness level are inversely proportional to quality of music.
Rating: ***
... answers which I hope everyone gets same time next year when Lost bids us farewell. This is just a random list from the top of my head - a few really. If I pool every avid viewer's list I'm sure it'll be much longer. All these questions (not easy ones, mind you, and some are carry-overs from my previous post-Season 3 list) and just about 20 remaining episodes come fall. They better keep their promise! Nobody would want a movie version to forcibly tie up loose ends.
The Season 5 Finale endframe -I posted this status update on my Facebook page the other day:
Then I found myself watching a movie in a theater-like venue and it seemed the movie was about the fates of the Oceanic Flight 815 survivors in the fictional TV show Lost. In the movie, there was an ambiguous part wherein a man (or monster) dressed up like a soldier was inflated back to life. It was unclear in the movie whether this man was a rescuer or something brought to the island to kill everyone. Back at school the next day, the next events that unfolded made me suddenly become part of that show. I was with Jack, Kate, Sawyer and a whole bunch of other people I knew from real life, plus a newfound friend, a really tall handsome (gay) guy who might just be Preston Lee, one of the stronger finalists of Top Design Season 2 (who became blond in this dream). We watched as this man/monster resurrected from its box. Unfortunately for us, he turned out to be a killer.
Chaos ensued and we quickly ran down the bleachers again. I concentrated on sliding down the steps, that wasn't so difficult, but when I thought I was far enough to be safe, I also realized that I've separated myself from the others. Maybe that's just the best thing that could happen. The monster will have trouble getting us all now.
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