Aporia

I'm afraid I no longer know where to find God. I am overwhelmed with sadness by the reality that I no longer know how I may love and serve Him because I know that He exists. He exists, deserving of my love, and yet I lie here, immobile. Woe is me.

Understanding Sylvia

Death is all over Sylvia Plath's journals. I can relate to her lamentations, to her many grievances and desires, and because of this I am frightened. I am frightened because I know what ultimately became of the great poet. You're not alone in your loneliness, Sylvia. Not at all.

The Chandelier

The chandelier has been waiting for us for a week now. When we finally dropped by the antique shop this afternoon, its sockets have been altered to accommodate energy-saving light bulbs, and its crystal drops have been stripped of several layers of dust. It glistened in the daylight. My heart surged with excitement; I could already picture it hanging from our ceiling, luminous, sparkling.

A bigger antique shop recommended by Ice's colleague was just a few blocks away. On our way home, we decided to take a look. We looked at chandeliers. We asked how much the nicer ones cost, and then, whenever a saleslady replied, we would furtively throw each other smiles of victory-- our chandelier's a steal. "I could give you a discount," they would hastily say as we started to walk away. "Thank you very much, but no. We're just looking."

I have to say, I never enjoyed window-shopping more.

:)

I see failure in the horizon. :'(

Audrey, Edie, and Orson

Promotional still for Sabrina

1. Audrey Hepburn was an artist-- and I'm not talking about her movies. The lady painted really well. Her watercolors from when she was little are just amazing. You must see them. Also, before she became an actress, she was an accomplished ballerina. She was too tall to become a prima ballerina, though. But you probably know that story already. What I am certain you do not know is someone who is more beautiful and talented than our fair lady.

Vogue, 1965

2. Edie Sedgwick was also a ballerina. Back when Sedgwick was just on the verge of becoming America's it girl, Diana Vreeland and her infallible eye for the beautiful and trendy-in-waiting featured her in Vogue. The article had photos of her wearing those famous black tights, and being flexible, and looking fabulous. She was also quite the sculptor, you know. She once made a life-sized sculpture of a horse (she was also an equestrienne). She took an insanely long time to finish it (or did she even finish it?), because she was never quite satisfied with her handicraft. Psychologists say her obsession with the horse may be attributed to some very intense father issues.


Promotional still for Citizen Kane

3. Orson Welles, the lead actor, writer, producer, and director of the greatest Hollywood film of all time, read a book a day throughout his life. No wonder he was such a genius. When screen goddess Rita Hayworth finally divorced him after five years of marriage, her reason was, "I could not take his genius anymore." Wells also once said that he never prayed. He did not want to bore God.

Van Gogh is Bipolar

It was a long drive to dinner. We were having difficulty looking for Van Gogh is Bipolar, and our meryenda-deprived stomachs were starting to grumble. With the help of a friendly soul, we found the elusive restaurant serenely tucked away in an obscure compound in UP's Maginhawa St. The only telltale sign that one-half of the stark white duplex is a restaurant is the small group of 40-somethings seated around a couple of garden tables, quietly talking over cocktails and tea. The Christmas lights were of no use. This time of year, the streets are filled with houses more extravagantly garbed in tinsel and lights. Nevertheless, we stepped out of the car. The sign at the door said that no shoes were allowed inside. The inside, I soon found out, was enchanting.

As with most quaint restaurants, the owner of the place occasionally slipped out of the kitchen and table-hopped. He did not inquire after our needs-- he was not a waiter. What he did was talk. First, he informed us that as a rule, diners were to make reservations beforehand in order to be accommodated. We were embarrassed, all apologies. I feared that he would send us away, but then he began talking about the place, his way of saying welcome. I have always loved this bit of the dining experience.

"This," he said, his eyes sweeping across the room, "is actually my house. I open it to diners at night." True enough, no restaurant could be more homey. Everywhere we looked, we saw a piece of personal memorabilia. Framed photographs of his family were all over the place. I tried my best not to stare at them; I felt like an intruder. The furniture were all antique-- heirlooms, perhaps. The wooden table by the kitchen window had etchings all over it. The owner later told us that those were the writings of previous visitors. I stared at the table more closely-- it appeared that everyone was eager to leave a mark.

Everything in the place, it seemed to me, had a story to tell. I was eager to find out. I wanted to ask him about the chairs; no two chairs in the place are similar. I longed to know how they came to his possession. Which were gifts and who gave them? Which ones were thrifted and for how much? Which ones were made especially for him (perhaps by a friend or a lover)?

Our own chairs were mismatched Louis XIVs. Lovely, lovely. We were seated at the center of the room, at a small white round table canopied by sheer white curtains that rustled gently with the wind. Tea-light candles cast a romantic glow across the table, making our bottle of water sparkle. Every now and then, the restaurant's resident black cat sashayed to our table, checking if we had a treat to spare. Our little spot was just perfect.

The other guests looked just as comfortable. Behind us, two girls were lazily propped on cozy multicolored floor pillows, eating from an exquisite white-washed coffee table. Behind them was a window with sheer white curtains, and beneath the curtains was a strand of tiny blue Christmas lights, framing the window like a stream breaking into two waterfalls. The scene charmed me; it looked like it belonged in a romantic movie. I longed to take a picture.

College friends were catching up on each other's lives at the table next to ours, if a little too loudly. There were about six of them, and they occupied the biggest table in the place. It was an old rectangular table, dark wood; the kind that belongs in my grandmother's house. Above was a chandelier, with shiny colorful Christmas balls dangling from its tiny loops along with the original crystals.

Paintings and sketches adorned the walls of the tiny space, hanging from thin, almost invisible, nylon strings. They were studies of people, mostly. I asked the owner if he made them, and he told me that they were given by friends. He takes photographs though, he said, gesturing to the wall behind me. They were black and white photos of a nude woman. Somewhere in the middle was a photo of a penis. Ice and I wondered if it belonged to the owner.

Van Gogh is Bipolar had a self-service policy. This made ordering food quite an experience, an adventure. Here is an account of our adventure:

***

The 24th

Happy birthday, my dear Jesus. I wish I knew how to celebrate Your day. I am certain it's not about the lights and the tinsel and the food and the gifts. To be sure, Christmas is not about these worldly things. The first Christmas, after all, was most simple. Your birth was a story of perfect humility; nothing at all like the obscenely ostentatious, over-the-top holiday we have somehow managed to create around it. Christmas isn't supposed to be like this. To be sure.

I wonder how You are feeling right now, seeing the world celebrate Your day the way it does.