at night, flowers of corals bloom

At night, flowers of corals bloom orange and yellow--
branches of underwater cherry blossoms, heavy and ripe.
Soft sponges of tangerine and grape juice pad the walls
while their pulp carpets the low stair steps
that climb down deep from the sky.
Lionfish spread their gossamer tendrils
and take flight on their vermilion wings, mane aflame.
Thousands of eyes, more than their sisters in heaven,
shine light back and keep an unblinking watch over the evening.
Bright red fish with gashes of iridescent warpaint
that shout glances in insult throughout the day
sink like weary children into beds of anemones, at its end.
Feather stars languidly stretch their arms and curl back,
daintily skip home over oiled staghorns and antlers.
Spanish dancers that whirl their skirts in tempo
to the percussion fish beat on the reef,
slow down to bow and curtsy,
as the hush spreads over like a blanket.

At the heart of the sea
lies a little boy
who slumbers with his fists fast against his cheek
whose breath pulls the tide in
whose every sigh rushes it back to the shore
inexorably
again and again
until the dawn.




Bohol, 29 December 06

Meanwhile, Outside Manila

Tagaytay
"Should I stand outside the church and stand guard in case a group of assassins arrives?" Junior asked Daniel and Gay, just before the wedding started, referencing Kill Bill 2. The running joke was that church looked like it oughta be in the middle of tumbleweeds, dusty wind and Mexico. Eric, the best man and who'd never been to Asia (much less the Philippines) before, didn't get the joke and asked me ten minutes later: "Uhhh, does this kind of thing happen a lot here?"

Ah well. Welcome to the Philippines. Where all sorts of unimaginable things are plausible.

Anyway. The wedding and our stay in Tagaytay was somekindofwonderful.

Sonya's Garden was simply amazing. This place is tucked away in Tagaytay, run by a former civil servant who found her calling in creating this space. It is a flower garden, with a bed-and-breakfast, a bakery, small store, arboretum and spa. Flora you'd never seen before, with the prettiest large and small butterflies flittting through it.



Images courtesy of clutteredthoughts

I couldn't get the geography in my head right, but it is full of winding trails with hammocks, day beds and little nooks at random corners. The cool winds above Manila run through bamboo, metal and glass chimes scattered throughout the property. Each cottage and room is an eclectic but lovely mix of wood, colored/stained glass and fabric; with Filipino-Spanish architectural and interior design influences drawing furniture and artifacts from all over the region. The showers are in airy rooms with white cotton curtains and over a pebble and loam ground that soaks the run-off into itself. The food is hearty and the salads are crafted from home grown plants and spices.

Bohol
Currently in Bohol. The hotel has wireless access for free in the lobby, wouldn't ya know. Three sets of honeymooners and a baby. No thoughts, just diving. Hoping to reach the stage where I just close my eyes, or dream, and I'm still plumbing the depths of the deep blue. I miss diving in Tioman, where I knew the lay of the land (or in this case, the sea) pretty well and where my best memories of diving remain. Sitting on the deck of Roger's Wreck with Junior, watching schools of fish wend their way over and above us. The night we tried to establish first contact with a couple of octopi (I was still under the magical influence of the book, Secrets of the Underwater World). The manta ray that swam with us until we finally ran out of air.

Things of note we've seen so far over the past couple of days (unfortunately, am not diving with a camera so will just steal shots from others to approximate).


Black frog fish. Almost didn't see it. It was as black as a singularity. I could only tell that it was alive when it opened its maw and shone its tiny, brilliant white pebble-like teeth.


Dragon fish. Seeing them made me want to draw dragons again, like I did the summer before highschool.


School of barracuda. Hundreds upon hundreds passed within three or four feet of us. I tried to ask them for directions to Sydney but was ignored.

Have TV, Will Travel

Makati
The trip to the Philippines so far has been about lounging at the Shang, taking care of Gabby, stealing time+space for cigarettes, and getting ready for my sister Gay's wedding. And killing my brain with iPod+TV.

Be warned, here there be spoiler alerts.
1. Who guest stars in "Veronica Mars" Season 3? A bunch of familiar faces. Ed Begeley, the guy who plays Maxwell Sheffield on "The Nanny". But the only comparable cameo to Joss Whedon in Season 2 was Laura San Giacomo, picking it up with Enrico Colantoni where "Just Shoot Me" left off. Oh, and the word "frack" makes an appearance in episodes 2 and 3.

2. Where does BSG leave us mid-season? "Unfinished Business" was excellently scripted and shot, but the morning after? Lee and Kara frack it up again. No big surprise there.

3. I've discovered that the Cartoon Network in Manila is way cooler than the kiddified, sanitized version we get in Singapore. Adult Swim rules! So far, I've caught Aqua Team Hunger Force and Sealab 2021. Hee-larious.

4. Bones! Brennan's finally re-united with her family, only to be left behind again. And her father is one scary SOB. But he loves her. So that works.

5. As for Voyager: Seven of Nine finally makes an appearance! But, more importantly, Season 3's cliffhanger with Species 8472 is concluded and Kes finally kicks ass! But why lose Kes, I wonder? If they wanted to bump off a cast member to accommodate the Borg chick, why not get rid of Neelix? He annoys people--and who wants to be reminded that Kes actually had sex with that guy? Shudder.

Related to my sudden acquisition of Voyager seasons 1 through 7 is a little trip to Greenhills. After scouring what used to be the marketplace for pirated DVDs for a couple of hours, Jr and I (with Gabby in tow) gave up, dejected. Well, I was dejected. Due to recent raids on the swashbuckling Freedom of Information Fighters, nobody would help me find them. Irony of ironies, 15 seconds after we started waiting for our ride to pick us up, a shady character sidled up to Jr and asked him if he was interested in porn. I asked him if he had Star Trek Voyager instead. We were led away from the clean, well-lighted place to sordid alleys colored in urine and littered with construction-site rubble. We were led through narrow paths past unmarked doorways, into a room with a whole passel of dubious characters, purveying gems like 6 Feet Under, Queer as Folk, Deep Space Nine and so on. For better or worse, we only had enough cash for Voyager. The others will just have to wait.



I realize my brain is dribbling out of my ears

the most recent end of romance in this world

Good idea: seranaded in bed by my husband
Bad idea: he sang "Sit on My Face" by Monty Python

"Sit on my face, and tell me that you love me
I'll sit on your face and tell you I love you, too
I love to hear you ORALIZE
When I'm between your thighs
You blow me away

Sit on my face and let my lips embrace you
I'll sit on your face and THEN I'LL LOVE YOU TRULY
Life can be fine if we both sixty-nine
IF WE sit on our faces in all sorts of places and play
'Till we're blown away"


Need I say more?

Amsterdam

After a few days in Brussels for work (1), I took the 20-minute flight to Amsterdam for a couple of days. I'd never been to Amsterdam before but had always wanted to visit.

Walking through the streets past the canals, I think of you and wonder whether I step over the paths that you took over ten years ago. Beneath the smoggy stars above us, we dreamed of sailing here together. You were supposed to show me where you learned to blow glass, in a tiny room in one of these beautifully bricked buildings with their slanty attic rooms. This dream was one of many touchstones that allowed me to keep the faith, so many years ago.

So here I am. Where are you?

Walking around Amsterdam puts one in a perpetual state of arousal. Not so much due to the big-breasted, dead-eyed women in the windows of the kitschy red light district; but more due to the inordinately dense, transient population of potheads and others of altered mental states.

Thank goodness I was here with Aki.



Alone today, my last before going home, I walked through thankfully sun-lit skies with a clear head. I jogged around the park in front of our hostel in the morning. I started writing a new story. I walked to the Van Gogh museum. Van Gogh was one of my favorites (I even had a reproduction of wheatfields--or one of his wheatfields???--on my bedroom wall, when i was a kid). But I was oddly unimpressed.

To make up for that, perhaps, I got all emotional at the Anne Frank house. What slew me was an interview with one of her childhood friends, who saw Anne again--for the last time, shortly before Anne's death a month before liberation--in a concentration camp in Bergen-Belsen.


my brain is cynical but my heart still bleeds

(1) Post script on Brussels. The meeting itself was very good and pride-worthy. But more on Brussels included, inter alia, hanging out with the indomitable Alba Lamberti, Crisis Group Lobbyist Extraordinaire. A brief drink on Thursday night with her and a motley of Brussels's thinktank types, one telecoms exec (who was not Indian but decidedly English, emphasis his) and one unhinged Hungarian or Israeli (he couldn't decide which) artist. He was ostensibly a sculptor. (2)

So, on Saturday afternoon, finally free, I hung out at her apartment, which was maddeningly close to my hotel (the outrageous directions Alba gave me, I will not repeat here). A few hours of gossiping with her and her friend Rachel, and I was then off to catch my flight to Amsterdam.

(2) Conversation apparently went like this, translated from French:

Alba: So, whaaat are you doing in Brrrussels?
Dude: Eeuh, I'm an Artist.
Alba: Oh reaaally? What kind of an artist?
Dude: (pause)
Alba: (helpfully) A sculptor?
Dude: Oh yes, yes; a sculptor.
(thereafter, about an hour later, he introduces himself to me as a sculptor.)

doodles from a boondoggle

there is a growing gulf between
who i think i was,
who i think i am,
who i'd like to be;
what a friend i was,
the friend i am, to whom,
what a friendship means.

looking at myself in a mirror
is like looking through a window
at a construct for which
action dictates thought.

there is a speeding disconnection between
why i think i love
who i love, i think;
what love promises,
what death means to me;
what love means to me,
what death promises.

inch by miniscule inch,
day by absurd day,
i push the boulder further up
along a slanted point of view.

the door is closing
on what i thought i know,
on my self i thought i knew.
the link is breaking between
what i write
and think;
why i think i write.

brussels, 2nd dec 2006


instead of paying attention to the state of
managing hazardous substances
in the world today