Monday, August 31, 2009
Because it's Mission Control's Birthday
Yesterday, Gabby was quietly typing something out on his iPod touch in the car. Unprompted, he wrote this--his first poem--all by himself. Mission Control is his (imaginary) friend mouse. Gabby is four-and-a-half years' old.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Scariest Vampire (and Zombie!) Dream. Ever.
If you knew me well enough, you'd know that I have two types of recurring nightmares. Well, there are a few typical ones (coming to school unprepared for exams, getting caught half-naked in public) but of the absolute worst nightmarey variety, there are two types: (1) those that involve hamsters (hamsters that died years ago are still alive but i've neglected and not fed them all that time, too many hamsters to control and keep from fighting) and, (2) vampires (usually of them trying to get into the house and me trying to protect my parents and sisters).
The ONE time I had a vamp dream that wasn't scary, it was mixed with a school/exam dream. I was going to school at this amazingly beautiful old castle on top of a mountain (and when I say beautiful, think one of the elven sets in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies). It was a remarkably vivid dream, and as I was trudging through the cavernous school halls, I realized all the students were vampires.
Anyway! That was a couple of years ago. I wanted to talk about last night's dream. I was in the courtyard of what kind of looked like the Sorbonne, post-apocalypse. I was part of a motley crew of vampire fighters. Now before I go on, I need to specify that Buffy was NOT in this episode. Still, I wasn't the leader, I was just one of the followers. I didn't even know how to kill a vampire. It was still dusk but I suddenly realized that there were a couple of vampires among us and I shouted a warning. I couldn't understand how they were able to survive sunlight but they were definitely evil and had infiltrated our group. I scrambled around for a wooden stake or something and somebody handed me an arrow. I tried to pierce it in the heart but it didn't work--I only made a neat hole in its chest. Somebody handed me a knife and told me to decapitate it. I did that, but to my horror, it didn't turn into dust. I realized that I had killed a human by mistake.
There was no time to process what happened--night fell suddenly and we were attacked by vampires. A lot of them. We humans ran into the building. I went up a few flights of stairs and along corridors until I found a smaller group of people. We holed ourselves into one of the apartments. This is where it gets familiar. I kept trying to secure the perimeter and fumbled over the door locks. Anyway, even if the wood of the doors were good and thick, the locks were flimsy: just these slim metal hook locks that wouldn't keep little old ladies out much less creatures of the night. So I yelled at everyone to start barricading the doors and windows with furniture. The apartment itself was huge, with a lot of rooms and corridors. I started to push anything I could find against the place's many windows. There weren't enough hefty cabinets or tables, and there were too many vulnerable spots. Nobody seemed to be helping me effectively, everyone was in a mindless panic.
I realized that the rear of the apartment opened up to a rooftop terrace. I rushed to the door but I was a little too late. One vampire managed to claw its way inside. The people I was with finally seemed to wake up from their trance and we were able to keep the other ghouls at bay outside while holding down the vampire inside. I tried staking the vampire: first by puncturing its chest with a knife and second by shoving the handle of a hammer through. But I missed its heart. I found a knife and, with some trepidation, sliced its head off. To my relief, it turned into dust. In the struggle, I also realized that there were zombies outside too. And as I started to wake up, I thought with relief that, earlier, I hadn't killed a human after all. It must have been a zombie...
I shook off the dream and Gabby kissed me a good morning.
But you, Sheriff, can haunt my dreams anytime...
The ONE time I had a vamp dream that wasn't scary, it was mixed with a school/exam dream. I was going to school at this amazingly beautiful old castle on top of a mountain (and when I say beautiful, think one of the elven sets in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies). It was a remarkably vivid dream, and as I was trudging through the cavernous school halls, I realized all the students were vampires.
Anyway! That was a couple of years ago. I wanted to talk about last night's dream. I was in the courtyard of what kind of looked like the Sorbonne, post-apocalypse. I was part of a motley crew of vampire fighters. Now before I go on, I need to specify that Buffy was NOT in this episode. Still, I wasn't the leader, I was just one of the followers. I didn't even know how to kill a vampire. It was still dusk but I suddenly realized that there were a couple of vampires among us and I shouted a warning. I couldn't understand how they were able to survive sunlight but they were definitely evil and had infiltrated our group. I scrambled around for a wooden stake or something and somebody handed me an arrow. I tried to pierce it in the heart but it didn't work--I only made a neat hole in its chest. Somebody handed me a knife and told me to decapitate it. I did that, but to my horror, it didn't turn into dust. I realized that I had killed a human by mistake.
There was no time to process what happened--night fell suddenly and we were attacked by vampires. A lot of them. We humans ran into the building. I went up a few flights of stairs and along corridors until I found a smaller group of people. We holed ourselves into one of the apartments. This is where it gets familiar. I kept trying to secure the perimeter and fumbled over the door locks. Anyway, even if the wood of the doors were good and thick, the locks were flimsy: just these slim metal hook locks that wouldn't keep little old ladies out much less creatures of the night. So I yelled at everyone to start barricading the doors and windows with furniture. The apartment itself was huge, with a lot of rooms and corridors. I started to push anything I could find against the place's many windows. There weren't enough hefty cabinets or tables, and there were too many vulnerable spots. Nobody seemed to be helping me effectively, everyone was in a mindless panic.
I realized that the rear of the apartment opened up to a rooftop terrace. I rushed to the door but I was a little too late. One vampire managed to claw its way inside. The people I was with finally seemed to wake up from their trance and we were able to keep the other ghouls at bay outside while holding down the vampire inside. I tried staking the vampire: first by puncturing its chest with a knife and second by shoving the handle of a hammer through. But I missed its heart. I found a knife and, with some trepidation, sliced its head off. To my relief, it turned into dust. In the struggle, I also realized that there were zombies outside too. And as I started to wake up, I thought with relief that, earlier, I hadn't killed a human after all. It must have been a zombie...
I shook off the dream and Gabby kissed me a good morning.
But you, Sheriff, can haunt my dreams anytime...
Friday, August 07, 2009
Do not touch the life in the pond
An old man plays a harmonica while we dance our youth and inebriation around him. He is 72 but he shares our waking dream, as we move like an organism of 30 heads, 120 arms and legs red yellow and green. Anjeli told me that the last few times she was at Rub-a-Dub, he had been there too. He didn't seem to drink and he wasn't sleazy or creepy. He just enjoyed reggae same as everyone else at the bar.
Drinks were emptied by a thirst in the room that diffused into a warm, slow and syncopated beat of undirected happiness. The music resonated off vinyl records--so old school! The cramped little basement transformed into a beach (an underground, dark and dank one). We carefully plan the sequence of our poisons of choice: Caribbean Queens, Mojitos, Rum&Cokes, Mint Juleps, Piñacoladas. 40 sticks of cigarettes between the two of us.
Anjeli and I staked a claim at the corner of the bar so she could stare at Ichiro, the hottest and nicest among the four bartenders. 'You've been here three times', he tells her in Japanese, 'but we've never talked. What's your name and what do you do?' They have a running conversation in snatches all night--in between, he tends the bar while we gossip and giggle about him. But we never find out what his origin story is so we invent a few for him. He is kept by his lover, an older woman, whose car keys he has strung on his belt. He was orphaned at 17 and left school to work and bring up his younger sister Mariko. His is a samurai's noble beauty with the bushido-grade honor that goes with it, Anjeli argues, and therefore we agree on the Mariko version (plus we give her cerebral palsy).
Eventually, the lights went on and a very jarring Banana Boat song told us that daylight come and we had to go home. The whole bar sang along with some of the me-say day-oes before dutifully stumbling up the stairs to the exit, blinking in the sudden and incongruous sunlight.
And this is how I spent 7 of my 24 hours in Kyoto.
Photo credit: Anjeli via fb
Drinks were emptied by a thirst in the room that diffused into a warm, slow and syncopated beat of undirected happiness. The music resonated off vinyl records--so old school! The cramped little basement transformed into a beach (an underground, dark and dank one). We carefully plan the sequence of our poisons of choice: Caribbean Queens, Mojitos, Rum&Cokes, Mint Juleps, Piñacoladas. 40 sticks of cigarettes between the two of us.
Anjeli and I staked a claim at the corner of the bar so she could stare at Ichiro, the hottest and nicest among the four bartenders. 'You've been here three times', he tells her in Japanese, 'but we've never talked. What's your name and what do you do?' They have a running conversation in snatches all night--in between, he tends the bar while we gossip and giggle about him. But we never find out what his origin story is so we invent a few for him. He is kept by his lover, an older woman, whose car keys he has strung on his belt. He was orphaned at 17 and left school to work and bring up his younger sister Mariko. His is a samurai's noble beauty with the bushido-grade honor that goes with it, Anjeli argues, and therefore we agree on the Mariko version (plus we give her cerebral palsy).
Eventually, the lights went on and a very jarring Banana Boat song told us that daylight come and we had to go home. The whole bar sang along with some of the me-say day-oes before dutifully stumbling up the stairs to the exit, blinking in the sudden and incongruous sunlight.
And this is how I spent 7 of my 24 hours in Kyoto.
Photo credit: Anjeli via fb
Sunday, August 02, 2009
A Farewell of Sorts, Madame President
Corazon Aquino, 11th President of the Philippines, died early Saturday morning, 1st August.
Yellow ribbon on the car antenna, flashing Laban signs and smiles at random people, my sister's Cory doll, singing Handog ng Pilipino sa Mundo in school...
The point of people power was that it wasn't delivered by one single person--it was the Church leaders and workers, the renegades in Marcos's military, the two million people who streamed into the streets. But Cory Aquino was a focus and symbol that mobilized all these individuals; and while not a sufficient condition for democratic transition she was necessary, essential.
As a nation, this was our defining moment. Our historic crisis against which events in the future will forever be compared.The unfortunate after-effect is that someone like me, whose formative years passed during that moment of history, will always look at life and politics through this good-vs.-evil leitmotif. The lines were so easily drawn then between the politicians you could trust and those that can never be trusted. How one behaved under Marcos was a litmus test of human courage and dignity.
Even after Cory's tenure as president, the messianic force of her belief in democracy (or at least in her mission to protect it) continued to mobilize people against any hint of tyranny, echoing the shouts of "never again!" against Marcos.
Her presidency was flawed, however.
We raged when she waffled over securing a moratorium over paying for Marcos's debts (a burden passed on to generations of our people).
We were dismayed that she stood by while Congress riddled the Agrarian Reform Law with loopholes, and we were baffled by the Mendiola Massacre.
We marched against the renewal of the US bases treaty, shouting "Imperialista, Ibagsak!".
I was a child in all of this, trying to mediate my understanding of what was happening around me through imitation: in the Third Grade, I staged a people-power revolution to depose my English Teacher (a temp, who didn't know the difference between proper and common nouns).
When I think of Cory and those times, I can't help but think of my Dad. Hanging out at his office after school, I was once "interviewed" by a journalist (who was there I suppose to actually interview my Dad) on how I felt about Marcos. He told me that my Dad and I were very brave for speaking honestly. I couldn't sleep that night, expecting to be arrested and brought to Camp Cramé. I was about seven.
Then there was the time, post-86, my Dad was doing some consultancy for the Aquino government, specifically the Office of the Executive Secretary. As he was leaving for Malacañang, he asked me to write a few recommendations to the President. I think I came up with about five, written in pencil on a sheet torn from a notebook.
My generation of Filipinos was too young to really grasp the horrors of Martial Law or even remember how Ninoy Aquino's assassination sent a shudder through society. We knew people, people's sons and daughters, who were abducted by the military and tortured but this didn't really mean much at the age of five or six. We could only parrot what our parents said over coffee and cigarettes.
What we will always remember is the heady joy of February '86. The liberating impact of the end of the Marcos regime and the sensation of empowerment that buoyed us along. The crowds cheering. The smiling strangers.
In our mind, yellow will always color the triumph of justice and democracy. And Madame President will always be that lady in yellow.
From the Iglesias Film Vault. Camera work by my Dad. Everyone's so blurry, it looks like a motion Renoir painting.
Yellow ribbon on the car antenna, flashing Laban signs and smiles at random people, my sister's Cory doll, singing Handog ng Pilipino sa Mundo in school...
The point of people power was that it wasn't delivered by one single person--it was the Church leaders and workers, the renegades in Marcos's military, the two million people who streamed into the streets. But Cory Aquino was a focus and symbol that mobilized all these individuals; and while not a sufficient condition for democratic transition she was necessary, essential.
As a nation, this was our defining moment. Our historic crisis against which events in the future will forever be compared.The unfortunate after-effect is that someone like me, whose formative years passed during that moment of history, will always look at life and politics through this good-vs.-evil leitmotif. The lines were so easily drawn then between the politicians you could trust and those that can never be trusted. How one behaved under Marcos was a litmus test of human courage and dignity.
Even after Cory's tenure as president, the messianic force of her belief in democracy (or at least in her mission to protect it) continued to mobilize people against any hint of tyranny, echoing the shouts of "never again!" against Marcos.
Her presidency was flawed, however.
We raged when she waffled over securing a moratorium over paying for Marcos's debts (a burden passed on to generations of our people).
We were dismayed that she stood by while Congress riddled the Agrarian Reform Law with loopholes, and we were baffled by the Mendiola Massacre.
We marched against the renewal of the US bases treaty, shouting "Imperialista, Ibagsak!".
I was a child in all of this, trying to mediate my understanding of what was happening around me through imitation: in the Third Grade, I staged a people-power revolution to depose my English Teacher (a temp, who didn't know the difference between proper and common nouns).
When I think of Cory and those times, I can't help but think of my Dad. Hanging out at his office after school, I was once "interviewed" by a journalist (who was there I suppose to actually interview my Dad) on how I felt about Marcos. He told me that my Dad and I were very brave for speaking honestly. I couldn't sleep that night, expecting to be arrested and brought to Camp Cramé. I was about seven.
Then there was the time, post-86, my Dad was doing some consultancy for the Aquino government, specifically the Office of the Executive Secretary. As he was leaving for Malacañang, he asked me to write a few recommendations to the President. I think I came up with about five, written in pencil on a sheet torn from a notebook.
My generation of Filipinos was too young to really grasp the horrors of Martial Law or even remember how Ninoy Aquino's assassination sent a shudder through society. We knew people, people's sons and daughters, who were abducted by the military and tortured but this didn't really mean much at the age of five or six. We could only parrot what our parents said over coffee and cigarettes.
What we will always remember is the heady joy of February '86. The liberating impact of the end of the Marcos regime and the sensation of empowerment that buoyed us along. The crowds cheering. The smiling strangers.
In our mind, yellow will always color the triumph of justice and democracy. And Madame President will always be that lady in yellow.
From the Iglesias Film Vault. Camera work by my Dad. Everyone's so blurry, it looks like a motion Renoir painting.