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Whose train of thought?

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Old subway lines

January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007

Favorite terminals

Aliza, the hodgepodge
Brian, the happy obituarist
Carljoe, bayaw sa klase at kanto
Daryll, the free migrant
Den, the travelling feline
Egay's friendster kundiman
Egay's lj kundiman
Em, the punch-drunk daisy
Gabby, girl with ribbons undone
Gloria, going places in her jeans
Ian, sandwichspy eating the sun
Jeline, with her random shrapnel
Joel, the rambling soul
Kit, with an eternal itch
Kuya Zivan, high on acid42
Larry's highest hiding place
Maita, going beyond the sunrise
Margie, in a dirty shirt
Mika, the dog woman
Mikael, may abo sa dila
Mitzie, between moons and eggs
Nikko, with his pebbles and sex
Ning, in her little tugboat
Peachy, with patolas and doughnuts
Rabbi, posing on the proskenion
Tintin, detoxing on the couch
Twinkle, traveling light
Vlad, the dirty pop machine
Wanda, warcar at pansitan
Waps, on the old road
Yol, nababaog na nga ba?
Zia, wandering without subtitles

Monday, January 29, 2007
8:45 PM

I Get a Shiver in My Bones Just Thinking about...

Ok, so the weather's been on my mind a lot. I check the online weather site every day to see how cold it'll be and how many layers I have to wear (for this entire week, it'll be between -4 to -15 degrees Celsius, which means: 3 layers on top + hat + scarf + gloves + tights + thick socks + jeans + sneakers = waddling like a penguin in the snow). So don't snap at me if you happen to catch me online and I go on about slipping on icy sidewalks or how this is almost 40 degrees colder than what I've been used to my entire life. Yesterday, Elmo reminded me, "kamusta means how are you?, not what's the weather like?" Oo nga naman... Well by the force of will my lungs are filled and so I breathe...

* * *

Funny how winter's affected my in-class persona. I've been a lot less hesitant to speak my mind, reciting 2-4 times in a 2-hour session. I think, tangina, I walked for fifteen minutes in the fucking snow, and will walk back home again, I'd better make this worth my while. I've gotten the hang of this grad school discussion thingy (where I don't let words like "thingy" slip), of asking open-ended questions, of not colliding with someone else's voice at the last minute.

As for my appetite... let's just say that today I baked some sole fillets (with lemon pepper and olives) roasted some potatoes (with butter and parsley and rosemary), tossed a salad (with roasted red pepper and parmesan vinaigrette), and snacked on turones de kasoy. In the fridge, I have leftover chicken tikka masala, basmati rice spiced with cumin and turmeric, a bowl of mixed berries, and copious amounts of orange juice. I'm eating better
(look, Ma, a well-balanced meal! and Irish oatmeal and fruit for breakfast!) than I was months ago, when I kept having meat cravings and never had fruit, but I think I'm also eating a lot more. I'm such a fan of my own cooking, haha. My new specialty, thanks to cousin Summer, is creamy orange chicken (with cremini mushrooms, peas, carrots, and white wine). Hala. Well, as Maita always says, It's winter. Time to get fat.

* * *

V. S. Naipaul's A Way in the World has been a joy to read. Compared to the previous novels (Achebe's Arrow of God and Soyinka's Isara) I've had to read for my Postcolonial Lit class, this one held my attention from the very first paragraph -- probably because the narrator, a wannabe novelist who always feels like a stranger/tourist even in a place he used to call home, seems very familiar to me. Every few pages, I have to stop and let an idea sink in (which is probably why I'm still only halfway done), or underline a passage that resonates with stuff I'm beginning to think more about. Like the question of race and identity in this city with its surface multiculturalism. Sometimes I feel this internalized pressure to not forget where I've come from, to not give the impression when I'm interacting with people that I'm at home in this city... because I'm not, and I'm aware of being a racialized/ exoticized/ sexualized other even in the classroom... But at the same time it's been pointed out to me I may be insisting on this difference, even when I don't have to. This is murky stuff I have to deal with in my mind, in my own time. I wonder though how this experience is changing me, has changed me, and what it'll be like when I do go home to Manila, whenever that'll be. Naipaul's narrator says:
"To go back home was to play with impressions in this way, the way I played with the first pair of glasses I had, looking at a world now sharp and small and not quite real, now standard size and real but blurred; the way I played with my first pair of dark glasses, moving between the dazzle and the coolness; or the way, on this first return, when I was introduced to air-conditioning, I liked to move from the coolness of an air-conditioned room to the warmth outside, and back again. I was in time, over the years, and over many returns, to get used to what was new; but that shifting about of reality never really stopped. I could call it up whenever I wished. Up to about twenty years ago whenever I went back I could persuade myself from time to time that I was in a half-dream, knowing and not knowing."
But despite this half-knowing, he also says, at the end of the first chapter:
"With learning now I can tell you more or less how we all came to be where we were.... I can give you that historical bird's eye view. But I cannot explain the mystery of Leonard Side's inheritance. Most of us know the parents or grandparents we come from. But we go back and back, forever; we all of us go back to the very beginning; in our blood and bone and brain we carry the memories of thousands of beings. I might say that an ancestor of Leonard Side's came from the dancing groups of Lucknow, the lewd men who painted their faces and tried to live like women. But that would only be a fragment of his inheritance, a fragment of the truth. We cannot understand all the traits we have inherited. Sometimes we can be strangers to ourselves."

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