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 to 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.

Christmas Break To Do List

1. Finish reading The Portable Edith Wharton
2. Watch Coco Avant Chanel, Goodbye, Mr. Chips!, The Swan, and The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
3. Watercolor some more

Ah, what bliss! :)

Clarise Learns to Watercolor: Episode 2

So I inked my previous watercolor project. This is how it turned out. :)

Clarise Learns to Watercolor: Episode 1

Learning to watercolor is a lot harder than I expected! I spent all of last night looking through online tutorials, and yet this is what I came up with. I think I need better brushes, among other things.

Notes to self: Softer edges, flawless blending. How exactly does one achieve those? Oh my.

Do not give up, Clarise! :)

Forlorness

"Why am I here? Why was I not consulted?"
--Dostoevsky

I am homeless.

Truth is, I don't have a home, which is just so sad because, well, everyone should have a home.

I am a Scrooge.

So I'm skipping Christmas. No offense, Jesus, but I refuse to let a holiday rub the pitiful state of my existence in my face. I know that already. It's all I can think about, really.

Christmas puts too much pressure on people to be happy. It's only for the loved and successful; to the unloved and poor, it is brutal. What about those of us who do not have a beloved or a family? What of us who do not have money? Do we not deserve Christmas?

Everything- the carols, the decor, the people in the festive mood- reminds us of how unfit we are for the Season of Joy. Christmas is all over the place-- it will not let us forget that we do not belong. For a holiday that aims to commemorate the birth of the Savior of the world, Christmas is quite the snob.

Well, my pathetic life will not be discriminated against! Not again!

I would like to pull a Heidegger.

What I would really like to do is put myself on exile. I would like to live in a forest, all by myself. I am starting to really hate the world.

I am dense and stupid.

I don't see how people can not care about other people. Excuse me, they are people, just like you. Do you not understand the gravity of that statement? I mean seriously.

I am determined.

I have but one new year's resolution: stop being nice. I think I'll start today.

Snippets

Teacher Clarise comes to school one day wearing a tube dress.
Cute little girl: "Teacher, why are you so pa-sexy?!"
Teacher suddenly feels obscene.


Cute little boy abruptly stops in the middle of a session and whispers to me his evil plan.
Cute little boy: "I have a secret."
Teacher Clarise: "Oh, can you tell Teacher Clarise?"
I rub my hands in anticipation.
Cute little boy: "I want to leave my mom and dad behind and go on a vacation all by myself because they annoy me."
Teacher Clarise: "Really? Where would you like to go?"
Cute little boy: "Bulacan!"
Teacher Clarise: "Are you going to take your little sister with you?"
Cute little boy looks at the 2-year-old girl and considers. He shrugs.
Cute little boy: "Okay."
Teacher Clarise: "Wow! But how will you get to Bulacan? You'll drive?"
Cute little boy: "Of course not, silly! I don't know how to drive. I will bring Julio."
But, of course.

Teacher Clarise admires cute little boy 2's drawing.
Teacher Clarise: "Wow, that is so cool! Is that a helicopter?"
Cute little boy 2 sighs. I could almost see a thought bubble over his head: Why is teacher so stupid?
Cute little boy 2: "No! It's a Mitsubishi logo!"


Teacher Clarise introduces the letter 'F' to cute little boy 3.
Teacher Clarise: "This is the letter F! Can you repeat after me? F!"
Cute little boy 3: "Eppp..f!"
Teacher Clarise: "The sound of letter F is fff-fff-fff. Can you say it?"
Cute little boy 3: "Pp-pp-pp!"
Teacher Clarise: "Now these are objects that begin with the letter F. Feather! Can you say it for teacher? Feather!"
Cute little boy 3: "Peather!"

Like lightning

It happened this afternoon. I was preparing my students' worksheets and art projects for the day when it suddenly dawned on me. For the first time since I dared embark upon this strange new career, I felt like a teacher.

Wow, I am a teacher. Who would have thought? I actually have little kids calling me Teacher Clarise. And parents and yayas too. I teach kids how to read jam, sam, dam, and ram. We read The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Last week, we made paper snowmen.

Woohoo! :)

***

I was reading Blaise Pascal's pensees to my younger brother this evening. Nico, who is naturally extremely inquisitive, got very curious about the renowned philosopher/mathematician. I soon found him in front of the computer, doing research. His eyebrows were knitted. He looked very serious.

Here is what we found out: Apparently, Mr. Pascal's computing machine was not a commercial success-- only 50 units of it were sold, and most were used not for arithmetic but as conversation pieces for the living room. I imagine they looked very complicated (and, well, therefore esoteric), kind of like our era's "modern art installations." :)

Blaise Pascal (1623-1662)

Clarise is in the presence of a genius. She is in awe.

The Aspirator

I have been slave to the sniffles for several days now. In the car on my way to work this afternoon, I blew my nose for the thousandth time, and blood started pouring out copiously. Ice the hypochondriac dragged me to the doctor.

At first, I was very reluctant because, well, who goes to the doctor for a sniffle-induced nose bleed? The doctor, busy with real patients with their real concerns, might just send me away, I feared. Nonetheless, the check-up turned out to be quite useful. I learned something new about myself. Apparently, I, Clarise Ng, 25 years old, do not know how to blow my nose. The kind doctor took a peek inside my nostrils and found my poor blood vessels either utterly destroyed or in a fragile state caused by too many years of improper nose-blowing. The doctor's prescription? An aspirator-- that small plastic pump used to relieve babies of a stuffy nose. Somewhat apologetically, she referred me to the department store's infant section.

I guess, like dancing and math (and getting some sleep before the sun rises this morning), blowing my nose is just one of those things I can never do no matter how hard I try. :p

To Serendipity!

Two nights ago, Ice surprised me with a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera-- that all-important book from my beloved film Serendipity, which we watched together over the weekend. He even found it at a used-books stall like Sarah (Kate Beckinsale). How serendipitous! :P

When I tore the wrapper open and discovered what was inside, I could not help but feel like John Cusack's character, Jonathan, when he opened the wedding gift given him by his soon-to-be-ex fiancee-- like I finally found that thing I have been long looking for, like I finally have in my hands that thing that will lead me to the love of my life. Like Jonathan, I even right away inspected the first page for Sarah Thomas' elusive name and number, which of course weren't there. It was all very silly, I tell you.

The whole experience seemed to me straight out of a movie. It was surreal. And, given my lifelong obsession with cinema, you can only imagine how I felt then. I felt like how I have always imagined movie characters would feel when they finally get their happy endings.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my life's first movie moment. :)

Pagdadalaga

"Not all who wander are lost."-- J.R.R. Tolkein

Every time I find myself in an unfamiliar place, I am always overwhelmed with fear, and so, if I can help it, I stay at home-- my comfortable, familiar home. But for once I would like to experience the feeling of discovery. Home has become constricting- too comfortable, too familiar- that I feel imprisoned. It's time I set myself free.

Here is something I would like to do sometime: Take a cab to somewhere and let myself get absolutely lost. When I get lost, I would like to not the least worry about how in the world I will get back as that will only limit the scope of my expedition. Going home is not a problem, anyway, cabs are all over. For the meantime, I would like to have a little adventure. I would like to relish the newness of the place, soak up everything it has to offer. I don't want to assign myself a specific destination, I would like to let my instincts be my guide. I would like to wander. Take me anywhere, feet!

At St. Luke's

I went with Ice and his colleagues to the hospital to visit their friend. This particular visit is worthy of note because it was a real visit, something of rarity. It wasn't the ceremonial kind like a visit of formality, which is just something one must do lest he be branded impolite. No, Ice and his colleagues did not simply drop by the hospital, drop off food and flowers, feign concern, and promptly leave. For two whole hours, all eleven of us stayed in the small, cramped space, which clearly has not anticipated guests who linger. I stood quietly by, smiling at the sight, and listening to the group talk about just about anything. There were talks of concern, of laughter, of work, of Christmas parties, of catheters, of pretty nurses. It was nice to see them all together like that. It comforted me to know Ice has such wonderful friends.

Serendipity and the Wine Connoisseur

I do not think I will ever outgrow Serendipity. It will always make me want to believe in destiny, in true love, and in really, really, really attractive couples. Ice, whom I caught with mammoth tears in his eyes at least twice during the movie, describes it as the perfect rom-com. I do not think I will object to that.

On a side note, Ice also observed that in some angles, Beckinsale looks remarkably like Eva Longoria. What a disgrace! It broke my heart to see what he meant. Sadly, it cannot be denied that he speaks the truth. One of Hollywood's most beautiful faces is now, at least in my eyes, forever marred. She will no longer be the perfect creature I once deemed her to be.

Tomorrow, we will watch Rope and Notting Hill. I think I have very good reason to believe that I am one of the very few people who has yet to see the latter. I fervently hope that it lives up to all the hype it caused years ago, and the overwhelming influence it continues to have today (especially on Philippine cinema and advertising).

Have I told you about my weird thing about movies? I almost never watch a blockbuster film, or at least not during the era it was premiered. I don't know why exactly, I just never understood the urge of people to go to the movie house in throngs because they "simply must watch the film right away." Name a blockbuster and I bet you I haven't seen it. Spiderman, Superman, Batman, and all the rest of the superhero movies, for starters. Oh, an epiphany: I think that maybe this is because I have the same philosophy toward movies as connoisseurs do with wine. Maybe I think they get better with age, and so I wait. That's a sophisticated way of explaining things. :)

Hinahon

Hindi ba't tumungo na't natunton ang
Bahagharing nagpasilip ng bukas
Bakit nananatiling wagas ang dampi
Ng pangako sa pisngi

Tumahan na't nanaig
Ang liwanag sa dilim
Ngunit hindi pa rin nalilimutan
Ang namasdan ng pikit na mga mata

Umuwi na't nanahan sa lilim
Ng karangyaan ng dalisay
Na kalungkutang
Tanging hinahon ang pangarap.

The Librarian

I'm not sure I would like to continue reading Summer. Charity Royall's resemblance to someone hurtful I know is just unbelievably striking that every word said of the character pierces my heart. My father, in turn, I see in Lawyer Royall, although, in their little world, I think he is considered a Lucius Harney.

Edith Wharton, as always, is magnificent. I just have never encountered a fictional character more vile. I do not think I'm ready for Charity. Next year, maybe.

Good morning, Tuesday.

I turned in fairly early last night. I'm sure I have had enough sleep, yet I'm feeling especially sleepy this morning. I have been trying to get up for two hours now, you see, and to no avail. Even as I type this entry, my body is reclined in the laziest manner imaginable. I look like a drunk Cleopatra on her chaise lounge. Hail the queen of sloths!

My fingers are taking forever to type, but if I try really, really hard, I can tap a letter every 5 seconds. My eyelids are so heavy I can barely read this thing I'm writing. My head dangles from the edge of the bed, waiting to be hoisted up by someone, something. Now I remind myself of a bad actor playing an action hero on the brink of death-- still determined to carry out his mission! But of course, my mission probably isn't as noble.

What's weird about this morning's sleepiness, I think, is that it is a sleepiness not only of the physiological kind. It seems that even my spirit is finding it extremely difficult to wake up. Nothing rouses me. My person has apparently decided to stage a coup de tat today. Clarise absolutely refuses to partake in any social activity. Let her be.

Around 2 hours of Summer

I received a text from a very upset MM the other day. She refuses to believe that I do not think 500 Days of Summer, which seems to be everyone's current favorite film, a work of art. How dare I dismiss a movie she thinks equals Woody Allen's genius? What was I thinking?

Allow me to explain.

The identity theory of communication tells us that we like a medium, say a film, because it mirrors our own experiences. Given this, let's just say that 500 Days of Summer was not a big hit with me because no matter how hard I try, I just cannot identify with any of the characters. Let's just leave it at that. Let us not attempt to explore the possibility that it is simply a poorly made film lest I further provoke my sister's feelings of resentment. And anyway, I actually rather appreciate the director's efforts to model it after Jean Pierre Jeunet's works, which, of course, are simply spectacular. 500 Days could not find a better role model, I think. So there.

I guess I have nothing to blame for this feeling of discontent but my age. I fear I am getting to old for this kind of things. Another simple joy gone. I am starting to really understand the Little Prince.

The Man Who Knew Too Much

"You have muddled everything from the start, taking that child with you from Marrakesh. Don't you realize that Americans dislike having their children stolen?"
-- The Ambassador, The Man Who Knew Too Much

The Hitchcock Movie Marathon begins!

For opening weekend, Ice and I watched The Man Who Knew Too Much. Actually, our first choice for this- ahem- momentous event was Shadow of a Doubt, which the master of suspense himself regarded as his best film. This bit of trivia rendered us curious-- Ice was curious a normal amount, I was bordering on hysteria. We thought it the perfect movie to start off our little marathon. Nevertheless, due to a technical difficulty, we had to settle for The Man. I say "settle" because while the fact that it is a James Stewart starrer made it very promising, I was less enthusiastic about his leading lady, Doris Day, whom I think annoyingly bouncy. I mean, don't you?

Anyway, Doris Day or no Doris Day, The Man is just wonderful. I was at the edge of my seat all two hours of the film. Indeed, Hitchcock never disappoints! No other filmmaker can send my heart racing the way he does. I love everything about his movies. I love how every single detail in a Hitchcock movie is important-- nothing is there just because, everything has a purpose. I love guessing how every character's every little movement, and how every seemingly nonsensical prop will figure in the almost absurd puzzle. Such attention to detail can only come from a man so dedicated to his craft. I admire Hitchcock for his passion, most of all. I think he draws his remarkable genius from that.

What about next week? I am dying to introduce Ice to Rope, my favorite Hitchcock film of all time. I cannot, cannot wait! That movie is just amazing. Amazing, I tell you. Amazing.

Simple Joy #2

Today I came home with my forehead streaked with marker ink, nails all dirty, and hair in utter disarray.

I feel great!

***

Here's Simple Joy #1:

1.1 Finding a 1980-edition of Roald Dahl's James and the Giant Peach in Booksale
1.2 Succumbing to Ice's prodding to buy the 80%-off copy of Hollywood Picks the Classics at Fully-Booked
1.3 Buying focaccia outside Bizu while eating yogurt with Ice
1.4 Watching That's Entertainment
1.5 Watching 30Rock and The Office with Ice
1.6 De Pickles!
1.7 Watching Ice watch the Pacquiao fight (Did I get his name right?). I forgot I was against boxing. Watching Ice stare at the TV screen with such concentration was just priceless.
1.8 Chatting with my siblings
1.9 Alfred Hitchcock, my man

Great weekend. :)

That's Entertainment

"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."
-- Rick, Casablanca (1942)

"Old movies always make me cry."

My love affair with old movies started when I was very young. I do not know exactly how this came to be, but even now it holds me a most willing captive. There is just something about an old movie that is undeniably magical and compelling. There is just something about it that breaks the heart. Je ne sais quoi.

For a film major, I was never the prolific movie watcher. What shame. You can rely on me to be perfectly clueless about contemporary cinema. It is a disgrace, I tell you. Nonetheless, when it comes to oldies, oh boy, have I seen a lot of those! And I do not mean important films like Fellini's or Bunuel's. No, I will not even attempt to dignify my brand of cinephilia. I love formulas-- sappy, simple, predictable, and yet magically, to this girl, still very new.

Hence

Hello, I'm Clarise.
Just in case you think I'm a decent person:

1. I start things that I cannot (or will not, for some reason) finish. Hence, there is not a single thing I am amazingly good at. I have about a handful of mediocre, underdeveloped talents, though.

2. I am not a multitasker. On the contrary, I am extremely obsessive. Hence, my every activity demands 100% of me. And hence, if you give me two things to do all at once, I will promptly obsess my way to insanity.

3. My ultimate coping mechanism is to read books. For reasons I think is related to my relationship with my mother, I believe that people will like me better (and hence, my life will be better) if I am smarter.

4. I cannot talk about money. Hence, I will inevitably die very, very poor.

5. I know I should be in the missionary (or something like that), but I love myself too much to give myself up. Someday I will have to start thinking about other people. Grant me charity and selflessness, but not yet.

6. I am in desperate need to meet someone like myself-- not just someone who shares my interests, but someone who shares my reasons behind those interests. This quest drives me insane.

7. I am a sloth, but I secretly think that I have the right to be so because I deem my interests "important." Also, I believe to think about one's interests this way is just nauseating (What arrogance!) but I somehow cannot stop.

8. I honestly, sincerely believe that I am not qualified for anything. I refuse to wallow in self-pity, though. I'm working on the growth of my sad person, hence the books.

Clarise, meet Roald.

So today I read Roald Dahl's The Twits and Esio Trot. Tomorrow I think I'll read Matilda and Witches. And then some Geronimo Stiltons. Now there is an unexplored path, children's literature.

And my English. I have to practice speaking in kid English. Note to self: Refrain from using "perhaps," "so as to," "otherwise," etcetera. Sentences have to be as simple as ever can be. What a daunting task. I expect my vocabulary to deteriorate, and fast.

The other night, I came home dead tired and burdened with emotions. Usually, when I'm like that, what I do is I write. I'm usually fairly articulate when it comes to writing about my feelings, but somehow, that night, all that came out was the poem in the previous entry. My emotions have learned a new language, apparently-- kid speak! One day with Shel Silverstein and my painfully-acquired vocabulary (all those hours spent with the thesaurus!) is down the drain.

Oh well.

***

Yesterday my very pretty student told me, "You are a nice teacher!" Oh that made my day.

Last week I overheard a little boy tell his teacher, "Teacher, when the other teacher (ahem, me) comes out of the washroom, you won't be my teacher anymore. I like her. She'll be my new teacher." That was awkward, I admit, but nonetheless very cute!

Last, last week, a student from the baby class threw a fit at dismissal time. She was crying so hard, refusing to go home. She insisted on staying with Teacher Clarise, you see! The next day, she made me carry her all throughout the class. From then on, whenever she would cry, I would call her to me and she would sit on my lap, appeased. Oh what cuteness!

That same week, a girl from another class demanded that I sit beside her all the time. Whenever she would notice that I am someplace else, she would loudly say in a singsong voice, "Someone's not sitting beside me!"

I hope to never forget these. :)

Mrs. Moon

There was a teacher by the name of Mrs. Moon,
Her students, they chased her with a gigantic spoon.
"Mrs. Moon, do try our jam, it's yummy strawberry!"
To which she replied, "No thanks, it's too gooey!"

Her students, upon hearing this, all became very sad,
And then in a second, they became very very mad!
They tied Mrs. Moon to the school's smelly flag pole,
And force-fed her jam from a super humongous bowl!

Poor Mrs. Moon, she went home extremely full,
Her tummy was so round-- this wasn't at all cool.
When Mr. Moon saw her, he just had to laugh and laugh,
And then he poked her belly with his magic purple staff.

Sure, Mrs. Moon's tummy soon became quite small,
But, oh dear oh dear, was Mr. Moon in such big trouble!
For head to toe Mrs. Moon turned a bright, bright purple!

The Phoenix

I think it was Nietzsche who once said that man is something to be overcome. I cannot even begin to attempt to understand what he meant by that (I don't think I'm entitled), but I like the sound of that line. I like the idea of a clean slate, of new beginnings. Transform, transform.

If I were to start anew, what would I make of myself? I wonder. I cannot see even a miasmic figure in the horizon. No, not anymore. I wonder if that could be a good thing.


"You cannot step into the same river twice."
-- Heraclitus

Daydreaming in the morning

I confess, I am a sloth.

If my life were up to me, I will not work. Anyway, I do not care for a career. Instead, I will fill my days with hours and hours of pleasure.

My idea of pleasure is this: I will read all the books I want, paint all I want, watch movie after movie after movie, learn to cook French food and feed them to anyone who'd take them, write about things that matter to me, maybe even study sculpture, backpack across Europe and, eventually, retire in a quaint apartment in Paris with the love of my life and spend the rest of our days lovingly raising a family.


***

I never wanted a big house, never had a thing for mansions with their countless rooms and sprawling gardens. I have always wanted a small home, snug and cozy. I do wish for a library, though. The room could be miniscule, but I am very particular about the bookshelves. Often, I dream about wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, complete with a sliding ladder. Oh how lovely my books would look on them! Sometimes, I find myself buying books not because I have any intention of reading them but because I think they would look simply divine in our little library.

***

In a well-lit corner of the library would be my workstation, alongside my Ice's little nook. There he would read or type away, and I would paint and do carpentry for hours on end. I have always wanted to make a Louis XIV chair. I wonder if I will ever get to make one.

I miss the smell of paint. I miss how it makes me feel oh-so-important, like I'm creating something that will someday matter.

***

Always, when I study my life so far, I find myself complaining, "This is not the way to live." And so, I try to make amends. I get out of my current job and search for a new, "fulfilling" one. I discard old habits, and form new, "better" ones. I have destroyed and rebuilt myself quite a number of times already, but, every single time, ended up feeling terribly unsatisfied. "This is not the way to live."

Sometimes I fear getting my dream life. I fear that it would disappoint me. And when it does, I fear not knowing what I am to do next.

Aristotle's Great Crime

"The development of thought since Aristotle could, I think, be summed up by saying that every discipline, as long as it used the Aristotelian method of definition, has remained arrested in a state of empty verbiage and barren scholasticism, and the degree to which the various sciences have been able to make any progress depended on the degree to which they have been able to get rid of this essentialist method."

--Karl Popper

Hehehehe.

The Precocious Adult

There is something very poignant about Eloise. Here is a six-year-old who is outwardly most happy. She is not quite fooling me.

Are we sure?

"Everything comes to those who wait."

Remembering love

Nowadays, my siblings and I share a slogan: "Sana hindi na lang nagpakasal si Mommy at Daddy." Sana, sana. Their relationship has become so unbelievably disastrous that we would honestly and sincerely choose non-existence over life in this kind of circumstance.

I look at my father and mother and I see two people so filled with hatred for each other. It would be easy to just part ways and move on with their own separate lives, only they have us to deal with. Nowadays, having been born to these two irreconcilable people has become a grave sin. We are their proverbial ball and chain, and they will not let us forget it.

To imagine them as two people who once saw love in each other has become impossible.

This makes me think. Would Ice's and my future children share this sentiment? Our differences, after all, are undeniably striking. I fear that we would end up exactly like my parents. Oh please not.

I cannot imagine that the time will come when I no longer care for him, when I cannot even see in him the man I once loved. I wonder if when that time comes, I will have forgotten about the poems he wrote for me, the warm hugs, and his little surprises just because. How sad will it be if I forget.

And so, tonight, let me talk about love. Let me talk about the things I want to remember when things take a turn for the worse.

Tomorrow we fight, but we do not know why.

I wonder if this is how soldiers feel the night before a battle.

My siblings and I, we keep reminding ourselves of our goal. In the middle of all the planning, we would find ourselves stopping and going back to the very beginning. Perhaps it is because we do not really know what we're fighting for. Or perhaps, it is because we do not want to fight even given our reasons. All we know is that we have to fight. And fight, we will.

Maybe tomorrow, in the middle of the battlefield, the reason will strike us like an epiphany. When it does, I hope, with all my heart, that it is worth all the blood shed.

Scribbles

Over the past few weeks, I have developed the habit of recording my thoughts in this little notebook I carry everywhere. They're just thoughts, really, nothing of importance. Still, I feel the urgent need to say them out loud, and so I write them. They could be random observations, or an insight I have on a book (nothing extraordinary, though), or a passage from a book that I liked, or a line from a movie or a song. They're just nothing, really. I wonder why the urgent need to write them down.

Here are what I wrote most recently:

"He's probably just very lonely." (Here, I am pertaining to my father.)

"That couple wearing tracksuits. I wonder if they have something in common other than jogging." (Here, I talk about that seemingly content couple at Greenhills.)

Funerals

My mother was crying when she called me on the phone tonight. She needed someone to talk to, she said.

In the car on the way home, I was thinking about funeral processions. You know, every time I see one, what I do is, I scan the mourners. It's like instinct. I search their faces. I look for someone crying. I wonder, always, if the people are sad to see the person go. I wonder if the dead person was loved.

I have never seen anyone crying, ever. I don't know what to think about that. Ice says that maybe they just won't let people see them cry, that grief is a personal thing. Or that maybe, they are just saving their tears for the funeral.

I hope so.

But anyway,that just occurred to me on my way home.

Blindness

"However, since there is no love without hope, and since he loved, he hoped."

-- Voltaire, The One-Eyed Porter

Betrayal

"Then he went to preach tolerance at Croton; but an intolerant man set fire to his house: he, who had rescued two Indians from the flames, was burned. Escape if you can!"

-- Voltaire, An Indian Adventure

Betrayal comes in the dead of the night. It comes when you least expect it: when you are in deep slumber, when you are most defenseless. With a sword that you have made with your own hands, it strikes you. Stealthily, quietly, but it strikes you still.

Betrayal paralyzes. You are numb to the pain of the wound; betrayal takes a while to sink in and penetrate your senses. Nevertheless, stunned, you bleed to your death.

Betrayal is a spineless soldier. It will leave you, unable to stare you in the face. It will not watch you die.

Things to do

1. Write a book.

2. Vacation in Paris (or, since we're shooting for the stars, retire there).

3. Paint a masterpiece (not necessarily a masterpiece by the world's snooty standards, but something that I will be proud of).

4. Join the missionary.

5. Spend a year somewhere quiet and (really) read the Bible cover to cover.

6. Let the people I love know just how much I love them.

7. Save someone's life.

8. Read and understand the Great Books.

9. Get married to the love of my life.

10. Die prepared.

The last animal

"It is true that you have given [man] what you call reason; but in all conscience, that reason of his is too ridiculous and comes to close to madness."

--Voltaire, Plato's Dream

Conversations

Sometimes I get theories about things that, to be honest, do not the least matter, but for some reason acquire this weight of importance for me. They are silly ideas and they spring in the middle of nowhere and out of the blue, not at all worthy of thought and discussion, but Ice attempts to make sense of them.

My theory about the death of the rom-com genre, for example, he developed into this elaborate and very sound exposition of society today. It was something that hit me while I was in the shower. All I told him was that the rom-com is dead. It has been replaced by this emerging new genre and sub-genres that claim to present the truth, "raw and unmarred." The element of romance is no longer there, I complained. No more gallant alpha males as leading men rescuing unbelievably beautiful damsels in distress. No more grand gestures to sweep the other off his/her feet. No more fairy tales. No more promises of happily ever afters. Instead, we are presented with subtle, "truthful" characters and plots. Who wants that, I grumbled. If I wanted truthful, I'd look at my own life, not watch a movie. I was grieving; it was my favorite genre, after all.

He was about to leave for school then, but still he listened to me intently, as if he had all the time in the world. It is true that the rom-com is dead, he said, and it has been replaced by the pseudo rom-com. Unlike the original, he continued, this new genre aims not to serve as a form of escape for the audience, but as a form of self-psychoanalysis. This may be a good thing, he tried to assure me. This hadn't occurred to me, so he proceeded to explain why. I saw why. Excellent point! But then he said that this new genre is the fruit of reality shows. I begged to disagree. This trend has been ongoing since the birth of cinema itself. The goal of film being, more than anything, to replicate life. He then struggled to defend his point amid protests.

This went on for about 30 minutes.

I think everyone deserves to have an Ice. :)

Edith

The extraordinarily-gifted Edith Wharton wrote most of her short stories and novels during her travels. She wrote while aboard the ship to and fro her destinations, and for a great deal every day of her trips. Everyday she wrote. She so fervently believed that this was her life's purpose that she wrote literally until the day she died. I think this is why she traveled so much: so that she could have something to write about. It is no wonder she authored such wonderful works; she had so much to draw from.

How I wish I could do the same.

You see, it has occurred to me only now that in all my twenty-five years in this world, I have never truly written for myself. To be sure, I have written numerous things for school, and still some more for work. But now that I think about it, I do not think I have ever written for myself. Realizing this unfortunate fact, I was hoping to begin doing so now. However, I find myself hopelessly at a loss for a topic. What would you like to write, anyhow, Clarise? A short story? A novel? An essay? A poem, perhaps? And what about?

I honestly do not know.

The Amateur

I am going to be a preschool teacher. Finally, finally. I have been dreaming about this moment since I was just about 11, and now that it is finally here, all I am feeling is this numbing fear. No excitement, not even the tiniest tinge of joy for the mission accomplished. All that came to mind when they offered me the position was the thousand and one very cogent reasons why I cannot possibly do this. How can I? No one could be more ill-suited for this job, really. When I went to the school this afternoon for my interview, a boy of around 3 or 4 was there. He looked at me, and I stuck my tongue out at him. I stuck my tongue out at the harmless little boy. He ignored me, of course. Obviously, I am not to be taken seriously.

God willing. God willing.

Before Sunrise

"I kind of see love as an escape for two people who don't know how to be alone...It's funny. People always talk about how love is this giving, unselfish thing when really there is nothing more selfish."
-- Jesse, Before Sunrise (1995)

Transition

I wonder how a person goes about deciding to love someone. I wonder about that all-important, life-changing, pivotal moment when I am a perfectly sane and rational being one second, and a helpless captive to my emotions the next. I wonder, because I have never really noticed. I seem to have been blind to this transition. I have honestly never noticed, that I am starting to doubt the existence of this so-called deciding moment. Was it really ever up to me? Because, really, why would I voluntarily subject myself to all this agony? Why will I inflict pain upon my poor self when I can choose not to?

And why will I decide to love this someone, anyway? This someone who, just seconds ago, did not mean anything to me? I was complete even before I knew him. My life was perfectly well prior to meeting this someone, and yet here I am, all eager to devote my present and tomorrows to this person who might as well be a stranger. Why will I put my fate in his hands?

"The moment my eyes fell on him I was content."
--Emerson

Pag-ibig at Kamatayan

"Kapag sinabi mong mahal kita, kasabay nun ang pagtatalagang hindi siya mamamatay."
--Gabriel Marcel