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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

Wednesday, March 07, 2007
2:16 PM

Booktalk

After Maita, Kael, Margie, Joel, Waps, and Larry:

Every year, a version of this survey comes my way -- and my answers seem to keep changing. This time though I'll follow the rules and stick to just ONE book per question.

1. One book that changed your life.

I Like This Poem: A Collection of Best-loved Poems Chosen by Children for Other Children in Aid of the International Year of the Child, published by Puffin Books in 1979, and edited by Kaye Webb. This was a hand-me-down from my brother and sister, so pages were already loose by the time I inherited it at 7. The very first poem in the first section (for ages 6 & 7 -- I think the book sections went up to age 13) was the witches' chant from Macbeth, the one that went "Double, double, toil and trouble,/ Fire burn and cauldron bubble." Not bad for a first lesson in poetry (and life?). This was the book that first made me think poetry was, above all things, FUN, and that I could write it. And that it was silly to put an age requirement on reading material -- which is probably why I read my sister's Harlequin Temptation books at 11...but that's another story.

2. One book you have read more than once.

A Lover's Discourse, by Roland Barthes -- because you can't read these fragments straight through just once. I first read this in 2003, in a creative/ emotional/ academic crisis, and seem to return to it every time a romantic chapter ends -- and I always find something true, something piercingly intelligent, something elegantly written. Hmm. I'd lend my copy only to people I really trust -- the ideas and heavily pencilled sets of initials in the pages' margins are both laughable and incriminating.

"To know that one does not write for the other, to know that these things I am going to write will never cause me to be loved by the one I love, to know that writing compensates for nothing, sublimates nothing, that it is precisely there where you are not -- this is the beginning of writing."


3. One book you would want on a desert island.


Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time (also translated as Remembrance of Things Past) -- because it's seven volumes long, because I've never read it, because there's no better time to immerse yourself in someone's meditations on memory, time, and art, than when none of these things seem to matter.

4. One book that made you laugh.

Recently? Split Horizon, by Thomas Lux, whom I find less glib than Billy Collins, and less given to sentimentality than Stephen Dunn. There's a delight and ferocious tenderness and intelligence and, yes, accessibility, in his poems that I like. Some titles in this collection include: "I Love You Sweatheart," A Streak of Blood That Once Was a Tiny Red Spider, Pecked to Death By Swans, and Edgar Allan Poe Meets Sarah Hale (Author of "Mary Had a Little Lamb").

5. One book that made you cry.

Edwidge Danticat's The Farming of Bones, which I read for my Postcolonial Lit class two weeks ago. The climactic chapters focus on the massacre of Haitians in the Dominican Republic in 1937, when General Trujillo wanted to cleanse his nation of the foreign laborers. The soldiers administered a linguistic test on the streets, making people say perejil, the Spanish word for parsley. The Kreyol-speaking Haitians, who could not trill their R's, would be executed. Brutal, lyrical stuff.

"He asked for “perejil,” but there is much more we all knew how to say. Perhaps one simple word would not have saved our lives. Many more would have to and many more will."

6. One book you wish had been written.

A guide to living as an expatriate scholar and artist, without starving or shivering in winter, without being loveless, and without losing love for your country. Written by Jose Rizal, of course, who managed to finish a medical degree, write two groundbreaking novels, travel all over Europe, love women of different nationalities, and fight for political reforms. All before returning home, before being martyred, before being made national hero. How in the world did he do this 120 years ago?

7. One book you wish had never been written.

Cop-out answer: I wouldn't wish oblivion on any book. Many problems are not the results of the books themselves, but because of the twisted intentions of the people who write them, and the blatant misreadings and manipulations of the people who read them.

But look, two years ago, conservative scholars compiled a list of the 10 most harmful books of the 19th and 20th centuries.

8. One book you are currently reading.

One? But I leave too many bookmarks between too many pages! Fine, the double publication of The Weight of Oranges and Miner's Pond in one book then. By Anne Michaels, who will most probably be my writing mentor next year, so I want to immerse myself in her elegies and sequence poems before meeting her.


9. One book you have been meaning to read.


Sophie Calle's Exquisite Pain. I learned about her just a month ago -- Paul Auster apparently used her as inspiration for a character in his novel Leviathan. The voyeuristic impulse and "forensic qualities" in her work (she's primarily a conceptual/ installation artist obsessed with strangers' private lives, and with displaying her own) intrigue me. Here's a synopsis of the book:

"When a lover failed to meet Calle as promised in a hotel in New Delhi, after she had completed a 92-day journey through the Far East, Calle was devastated. As ever, she had kept everything from that journey – photographs, ticket stubs, visas and letters – and in the book, each one is rubber-stamped counting down to the fateful day of her heartbreak. On her return to Paris, she asked a group of friends to answer the question, ‘When did you most suffer?’. Their stories of pain, each of them accompanied by a photograph, interplay with Calle’s own story and daily reflections as she gradually comes to terms with the rejection and her equilibrium is restored."

10. Tag people for this meme.

Because they haven't been tagged (or haven't answered) yet: Egay, Peachy, Jeline, Kit, Den.

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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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Sunday, January 21, 2007
2:56 PM

on mozarello and other artists

So at 3 a.m. the other day, as I was being lulled to sleep by Pound's Cantos (we had to read cantos I-LI for one class, roughly 207 pages of dense, fragmented, highly allusive stuff), one fragment jumped out at me -- about the inelegant death of Mozarello, a 16th century Mantuan poet who was murdered by villagers:
"...Mozarello
Takes the Calabrian roadway, and for ending

Is smothered beneath a mule, a poet's ending,

Down a stale well-hole, oh a poet's ending."
If only there were more moments of levity in the Cantos, between the sections of heavy-handed preaching and historicizing that sometimes feels like an extended exercise in alienating the reader. We had a good discussion in our Limits of Attention class, though -- about why many political poets are accused of being anti-lyrical; about our era's obsession with internal moods as opposed to passions that have a stronger capacity to effect ethical change; about the quality of difficulty in poetry; about how Pound compels attention by accumulating details and trusting the reader to make connections between stories and Cantos. Ah ewan. Basta I'm not a fan of Pound; and can now say I've actually read him. On to the Pisan Cantos next week...

* * *

Despite the antisocial tendencies, I'm starting to enjoy talking to strangers who turn out to be interesting, creative people. Last night, at Laura's birthday party, I met Hamutal, who's taking her Ph.D in Philosophy and has the saddest eyes I've ever seen on a woman, and her childhood friend Arieh, a photographer and blogger. Here's his shot of a typical Toronto subway car with red seats, empty as Morpheus' dream train.

* * *

The other night, I watched Lars von Trier's Five Obstructions with Richard, and was both amused and blown away. The premise is simple, if a bit sadistic (yes, coming from the director who made Breaking the Waves, Dancer in the Dark, and Dogville -- probably the most disturbing and "thoughtfully disgusting" film I've ever seen): von Trier asks his film idol and teacher, Jorgen Leth, to remake a short film, Perfect Human, Leth made in 1967. The catch is that he has to remake it five times using restrictions von Trier formulates (ex. remake it as a cartoon, or using just 12 frames per edit, or set in "the most wretched place on Earth" -- which, to Leth, is the red light district in Bombay, shown here in the picture behind a transparent screen). It's a wonderful film about creativity blossoming under restrictions, about amorphous mentor-student relations, about an artist's need to risk failure. The fifth "remake," written by von Trier from Leth's point of view and spoken by Leth but making fun of von Trier, is a deliciously layered exercise in perspective, and a moving reflection on art. At the end, I found myself wishing someone would push and impose those sort of restrictions on me, to jolt me out of this complacency.

* * *

Great late night music: Yo La Tengo's The Sounds of the Sounds of Science, -- eight tracks the band composed to accompany underwater documentaries by Jean Painleve. Dreamy, textured, ambient layers of music with such titles as "How Some Jellyfish are Born" and "The Love Life of the Octopus" make me want to dive under the duvet and sink deeper into the calm ocean of sleep.

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Saturday, January 13, 2007
5:06 PM

back to school

(The grey building with the red tower is the English department, in winter)

So the first week of winter term classes just ended, and I'm excited about getting into the rhythm of work again, after being lazy and winter-mopey for weeks. Last Tuesday, I had my first (free!) beer of the term with three Creative Writing buddies after class -- and Helen told us funny stories about a couple of writers she knows who spent 3-4 months in the wilds of Alberta to be forest fire-watchers while working on their respective novels. Daniel and I contemplated this career option, and he promised me Bloody Caesars during his launch/reading on Thursday for sending copies of his poetry book, Predicting the Next Big Advertising Breakthrough Using a Potentially Dangerous Method, to the Philippines. At the launch, I got to talk to poet Don McKay, who graciously allowed me to join the poetry writing seminar he's conducting as part of his Writer-in-Residence job.

(This is the same view of the English Department, in summer)

For my Limits of Attention class, we're going to read from Pound's Cantos, Ginsberg's Collected Poems, Ashbery's Flow Chart, and Stein's Making of Americans to...umm...test the limits of our attention, and pay attention to the encyclopedic impulse of these poets. And for my Postcolonial Lit and the World on Paper class, we're going to read at least 9 interesting novels by Achebe, Soyinka, Naipul, Brodber, Danticat, Ondaatje, Marechera, Vladislavic, and Kincaid. Looks like the next 12 weeks of the term are going to be reading-heavy. Here we go!

==> And this is Robarts Library, where I borrow most of my books. Looking at this picture cheers me up -- how can you not admire the talent and humor of an architect who designs a major library in the shape of a turkey/peacock?

* * *

On another note, I've been thinking about how amazed I am when encountering generosity in others. How generosity has less to do with class and resources, and more to do with spirit -- and how the experience of it inspires the recipient to be generous in turn. Generosity has gifted me with Calvino's Hermit in Paris and Auster's The Red Notebook. Generosity has allowed me to borrow and to share Wong Kar Wai's Chungking Express. Generosity has baked me fish and made me salads and left me milk in the fridge. Generosity had me running around different shops in search of the perfect journal. Generosity shakes the cobwebs from childhood stories, reawakens the fingers' talent for backrubs, and lets you sleep in just a few minutes longer on a lazy Saturday morning.

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