Yesterday: Vacuumed a little, did the laundry, assembled the closet, cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen, swiffered, mopped, did groceries, bought red wine, made chocolate chip cookies. Does it not seem that the Martha Stewart in me has been awakened? Must be the New Year brouhaha messing with my brain.

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU TOO.

Jessica Hagedorn’s Dream Jungle

So. Here she is with a new book (released September 2003), another story that has Hagedorn digging into Filipino soil with an American-made shovel. It’s strange, isn’t it, that one is always drawn to the stories of one’s roots? The mind rests and lives in another place, but the stories always seem to originate from somewhere deep inside the archived labyrinths of the archipelago.

For those who are familiar with her, the book will seem familiar to you as well, even on the first page.

As always, she tells her tale through a cast of characters contrived to be as varied as pinoy-ness itself. There is the requisite mestiza from a buena familia; there is the poor bastard/whore/servant who is born into a life of shit, shit with which s/he must, somehow, make do; there is the rich and powerful man who rules over lives and lands; there are the other extravagant personalities, the geniuses and the intellectuals, to help us along with the analyses and the thinking; and there is the ubiquitous undercurrent of lust and desire that seemingly fuels the most ambitious among us.

As always the novel traverses multiple, almost disparate points that come to meet in a singular, unified end.

And yes, as always, it’s a story that I like, and for the staunch Filipino in me, it resonates and echoes across the mind.

As I don’t want to spoil your fun, I will not expose even the slightest twists and turns of the novel. All I will tell you, is that it’s set in the tumultuous 70’s against the backdrop of two specific events (loosely fictionalized, ofcourse) that transpired in the Philippines during that time (circa 1971-73, I think): Elizalde’s “discovery” of the Tasaday (Lopez de Legaspi’s Taobo in her book) and the filming of Francis Ford Coppola’s masterpiece, Apocalypse Now (Tony Pierce’s “Napalm Sunset” according to Hagedorn). It’s a nicely-researched piece, and I like the narration. It’s a good glimpse at the Filipino psyche, as interpreted by someone who is neither inside nor out.

Over all though, it’s just a very enjoyable read and worth your while. Buy it now

I can't believe I'm saying this, but yay, I can clean the house now! Power's back on in all of the apartment, so bathroom, kitchen and living room can now be cleaned and vaccumed. And not a moment too soon either.

BTW, pictures won't be coming out... server maintenance or something or the other.

Female Hygiene day today as well. Must de-hair and such, because, yes, dear boys, empowered female that I am, I still find the need to subject myself to waxes, and creams, and whatnot. I want to clarify, however, that I do this not in an attempt to "pour myself in the mold" of beauty that our patriarchal society has imposed upon my half of the species. I do this solely for myself. After all, even empowered females shirk at the prospect of looking like a monkey.

Start the YEAR with kindness...

The Paranaque branch of Bata (Bigay Awa at Tanglaw sa mga Anghel) Foundation, a shelter for kids under 10 years old, burned down a couple of nights before Christmas. Any kind of assistance will be appreciated.

They urgently need a new home for these kids. They've found a place and will be needing money for rent of P15,000.00 (roughly a little under $300). The proprietors are asking for 1 month advance and 1 month deposit.

They would appreciate anything you can give with which they can rebuild the shelter: appliances, clothes for little kids, mats, bedsheets, blankets, anything at all. Their house was burned to a crisp so nothing was left. Therefore, they need anything and everything you can spare.

You may contact:
Merlyn +639198397959/7765398 (She's taking care of their Paranaque branch)
Dodos dela Cruz dodos_1@lycos.com (He's the Project Director for this shelter.

MAMAJUANA

After researching the various how-to's of this Dominican rum concoction, I shall attempt to make it tomorrow night. It's a drink that contains odd bits of bark, roots, various other flora, and even (supposedly) miembre de carey (if you don't know what this means, you're better off not knowing), the requisite dose of rum, some honey, and red wine. It's supposedly a drink for men, as it's rumored to increase... errr... vitality, but it's also touted as an aphrodisiac for both genders.

According to instructions, I'm to put all the ingredients in a large container and let them fester ferment for 15 days. The solid bits have a shelf life of seven years so I can just keep on refilling the old thing with more rum, wine and honey.

Anyway, wish me luck. Hope I don't send anyone to the hospital.

How excited am I to learn that Jessica Hagedorn will be the writer-in-residence for this residency in Vermont?

Must buy all her books to be autographed!

Goddard has been on an Asian rampage ever since I got there (I am now one of two asians in the writing program). They got Alex Chee to be a mentor and Marilyn Chin as Writer-in-residence last semester, and now Ms. Dogeaters herself. Happy happy joy joy.

Five Books I wish I had right now:

1. Jessica Hagedorn's Dream Jungle
2. something by Annie Dillard, just because everyone I know has read something of hers, and I haven't.
3. The Waves by Virginia Woolf
4. The Sandman by Neil Gaiman
5. A really, really good book of poetry.

This is a plea to all the writers/voracious readers out there: I'm making my book list for next term (to be approved by my mentor and all that, ofcourse) and I would like your help. I need book titles. Give me titles that will stoke my mind, will make my muse have multiple orgasms (and hopefully stay with me until after the morning after), will threaten to push me on the verge of implosion, will shatter the universes in my head...

I am so dry of insipiration right now, I don't even want to open a book. Holiday/vacation brain rot is threatening to swallow me whole. Give me something. Anything. Please. This is a desperate cry for help.

Let me let you in on a little realization I had today in the middle of pseudo-lunch with Alex (pseudo because all we had was juice and cake) and enrolling in a writing/teaching class that may possibly be credited towards a NYS certification.

I am not a good poet. In fact, I don't think I even know what poetry means. I write short fiction "poetically" but I can't write a decent verse for shit. It's a bittersweet day when one finally accepts the delusions of one's life for what they really are.

Back in Manila, poetry was seen as a reflective process, a sort of sifting of emotions, funneling them down into compact symbolism. The words, the worlds that the words stood for, and the beauty of the words were enough. Therein lay the poetry.

Not so in the bigger scheme of the wide, wild world. One realizes that free verse doesn't mean put a word wherever the hell you want. One becomes concerned with the way one writes a verse as well as what is written, and one realizes that this is a more sophiticated realm of literature. If one wants to be a serious poet, one must be aware of the positions of the words on the page, the bend of the symbolism, and yes, the meter, the ryhme... by rhyme I don't meant cat in the hat... but that's another thesis altogether.

Poetry is taken out of the instinctive and into the conscious. One learns to decry cheap tricks and self-serving gimmicks, learns to pick out the poems with substance from the ones that will fade and die on the second read.

And one realizes where one's poetry falls.

Suddenly I am an ignorant soldier armed with line breaks and spaces that I don't really know how to use. Suddenly the flow of words must be controlled, the rawness polished, the diamond broken out of the rough.

One must be aware of the lyricism, must be able to shape it, mold it, make love to it. And, boys and girls, that I evidently lack. I'm not aware enough of form... not aware enough of the poem, period. I can probably spew out passable strings of metaphors, and I may even get away with it, but do I really want to? I have reached the zenith of my poetic capabilities. Furthermore, I have lost the poetic drive, which makes me wonder if I really had it in the first place... if it wasn't just a misplaced hunger for writing in general.

It's very strange... I'm realizing now that I never really had that deep an affinity for poetry. I recognize it in others, and I admire it, but it's not something I can't live without. A sad, sad thing, this. I realize now that all the little verses I pen are really part of my stream of consiousness, fodder not for poetic imaging, but for prose.

Down the line I may find the passion once again, in a couple of years I may eventually be more aware, who knows?

For now though, my mind tells me that I'm a fictionist. A storyteller. The clarity of this epiphany makes me feel like Moses has just parted the red sea of confusion and chaos in my head. And, boys and girls, it's a sad, beautiful thing.

Ah. Just finished eating my lunch (thanks John). Power is still out in half the apartment. The upstairs people are still out as well, so we can't get the keys to get to the garage to get to the panel where the switches are.

So no power until they come back.

Anyway, was just reading through blogs and I saw this:

"Good thing, though, that the general excitement is winding down. We're now in that particular limbo that is the week between Christmas and New Year, when all the mad steamrollering in the malls is over and people suddenly find themselves with nothing to do and feeling slightly off-balance because they think they're supposed to do something but just can't figure out what."

And it's true. If I were in Manila, we would be neck-deep in parties and beaches, methinks. Dad's birthday on the 26th, a beachtrip until the 29th or the 30th, food prep for the party on the 31st, and then hello, New Year is upon us. Plus all the little get-togethers with various dearly beloveds in between. The limbo state where people feel like they should be up to something usually translates into an inuman/roadtrip for the people I know.

Right now however, here in the land of the city that never sleeps, things actually have to BE DONE, so limbo is a luxury. Sigh. Don't I miss the sandwiching of holidays and the merrymaking of Manila.

Daily life calls. And Wanda must answer. To do list for today:
1. Sort laundry.
2. Unpack and hide maletas.
3. Hide comforters, get rid of the multitude of boxes sprawled around the living room, clean tables.
4. Return overdue library books.
5. Go to Woodside and buy flan, daing na bangus, and other Filipinistic things. (optional - might do this tomorrow instead.)
6. Go to either Key Food or C-town. (Can't do this until the power comes back on though.)
6. Go to Flushing and buy dinner.

Must also:
1. Call to confirm shuttle service from Burlington airport to Goddard (and back again) for when I go to Vermont.
2. Send Holiday package to Manila.
3. Jobsearch.
4. Write and meet deadlines for calls or submissions.

I don't really want to go to Vermont, but I guess I have to. Ugh. Just want to stay here. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

And oh yeah, one thing about that trip...

Lots of breasts, bare and on the beach for everyone to see. I'm not talking model-breasts here -- these are not the kind that stand proud and taut in the sun, tapering down to a firmly indented waist. No, I mean breasts of all shapes, ages, and sizes.

Sagging, mottled, speckled, deformed, twisted, over-sized, tenuously attached to both men and women (yes, man-tits count as breasts too), the perfect complement to a hairy back ladled over a loose stomach falling over the too-tight bottoms that are straining to hold gargantuan cellulite-dimpled thighs.

To go topless should not be deemed as a right. The sight may cause irreparable psychological trauma.

Ditto for tiny speedos. The wearing of tiny Speedos by men with melted marshmallow bodies should be outlawed.

On another note, I'm still itching. Bug bites galore. I look somewhat speckled myself. Still, tiny bumps are a small price to pay for an otherwise excellent vacation.

Los cumpleaños felices a mi padre, Maligayang kaarawan sa aking ama, Happy Birthday to my dad!

I am still so stuffed. I must have gained at least 5 pounds from the vacation. Actually, you'll probably get to see the weight gain from the pictures. Day 1: me with a little belly. Day 6: Me as a ballena.

And then we had to go and gorge on more food for dinner last night. Oh and I actually got to open a gift (wrapped and boxed, yay) on Christmas day, from John's mom.

So anyway, today is catching up day. Groceries must be shopped for, mail retrieved, apartment cleaned, and so forth. Oh and here's the picture gallery. It's mostly of me because, as everyone knows, I'm a narcissist. I'm thinking of putting the pictures in a slide show/album format for easier viewing. But maybe I'll do that next time.

On a sad note, my family's dog, Limo, passed away recently. He got scratched on the back by stupid stray cats, and the gashes probably got infected. He collapsed on the street and then died. My siblings cried, and now they have a new dog, Timber, a golden retriever. Which means that my family's home probably resembles a regular menagerie what with cats, fishes and dogs all over the place.

Back on US soil.

Pictures up soon. Here's a little taste.



We got to Saba's place at around 4:30 am, where Nissy was already waiting. Our flight was scheduled to leave at 7:11. LaGuardia Aiport was already full when we got there. Well, the American Airlines terminal was, anyway. Went through check-in and security checks fairly easily. Flight itself was not a problem, although we didn't et the lunch we were expecting.

Touched down at the Dominican Republic's Puerta Plata airport after much circling around. It was not unlike a domestic airport in the Philippines. It had that lazy provincial air, just the perfect atmosphere for a vacation.

Just one thing about the drive -- it was just like home. Narrow roads, cows on the wayside, kids by the road, cars weaving in and out trying to pass everyone else. Makes me wonder if these driving skills are just one of the many "gifts" the Spaniards left behind for their former colonies.

Bahia Principe Resort was about an hour to an hour and a half away from the airport. It's a gated resort, and functioned very much like a self-contained community, with housing units scattered around a sprawling estate. The rooms were cute, the landscape was pretty and the food was plentiful. Extremely plentiful.

Since we had booked an all-inclusive getaway, there was really no need to worry about prices. And they weren't stingy either. There was a generous buffet that usually had rice or paella, a variety of beef, chicken, pork, seafood, and vegetables, bread and pasta, and a selection of desserts (not that good though) for every meal, plus there was always an open snack shop to serve burgers, fries, salads, hotdogs, pizza, and chicken. The drinks flowed as well, and the bartenders were more than willing to spike your every cup with rum.

There were four pools and a swim up bar in the main one, a show every night, a disco, a casino, and yes, even a karaoke place.

The non-motorized sports were free as well, so we got our fair share of snorkelling, boogie boarding, mini-golf, and kayaking. Plus there were a couple of sports that we didn't even try like windsurfing, sunfish sailing, horsebackriding, etc.

I think right now I'm as brown as I'll ever get. Save for the bugs that feasted on us, it was a really nice vacation. Gave me a chance to brush up on my spanish too, although Dominican Spanish is different from what I'm used to.

The flight back was uneventful. Lots of empty seats on the planes.

Today John and I just took it easy and watched The Return of the King, ate shi fan for lunch, and are now getting ready to eat dinner with his family.

More in the coming days. Just wanted to let you guys know that I'm back. Merry Christmas.

By this time tomorrow, I should be on my way to the Bahia Principe San Juan Resort in the Dominican Republic. Sand, sun, and lots of sea.

In light of this, all warcar activity shall be suspended until at least the 24th. Yes, I know I can probably find myself an internet connection if I really wanted to... but would I really want to? A break is a break, yes, even from blogging.

So as I stuff my suitcase with skimpy beachwear, pack up the sunblock, the books, and my trusty sarong, and prepare to take a week-long hiatus from snow, sleet and squirrels, let me just say that I had fun keeping all of you somewhat entertained (I hope) with the little dramas, gripes, exultations, rants, and raves (or the lack thereof, as the case may be) that has comprised (in coughs and spurts) part of the untidy sum of a life I've lived this year.

I hope you all have a nice time over the holidays. Don't forget to check back soon.

Maligayang Pasko sa atin lahat!

"I know that the best among us will always be under the shadows of lesser mortals more famous." -- Kuya RB

So.

Tonight is Noche del Alma or, just simply, The Nox. In the world of the Graduate Programs in Fine Arts, that means the last big showcase before the year is over. Or so I'm told. As this is my first time, I don't really know what to expect, but just by the excitement of the staff, I'm guessing it's a big deal. For our program anyway. The whole Fine Arts faculty is supposed to be there, deans and professors and visiting artists included.

I'm one of the, err, chosen few (supposedly a big honor) tapped to do a 10 minute reading of their work. I was notified about a month ago, but I haven't been thinking about it, because honestly, the last few weeks have had me preoccupied with finishing a particular story. I just went to the various meetings, submitted the pieces I was going to read for approval, and then just pushed it to the back of my head.

However, right now, I'm just the biggest bag of nerves. We all know how nervous I can get with these things. Oh boy, here we go.

We actually have a *General Rehearsal*. This is the first time I've had to go to a general rehearsal for something like this. The mere thought is making my stomach spawn new civilizations of butterflies.

And we actually have tickets. For which people actually have to pay. We have them because they'll be serving a fancy dinner. A fancy dinner. Can it get any worse?

Oh yes it can. I'm going alone. I gave my "date" invite to a friend whose going to be in a one act play. John's not going to be able to make it, so I figured I'd just give it to her so she can invite her dad too, since he's in town for the holidays.

At least she's picking me up, so I don't have to walk.

Wish me luck. [Insert barfing sound here.]

Christmas Gifts

I don't remember when I started giving gifts, but I know it was at a pretty young age -- at an age when I didn't really have the money to buy gifts. And I know the first Christmas gifts I gave were to my mom and dad. I think I was probably in third grade, maybe even second. I'm talking in grade levels instead of my age in years, because I remember buying my mom's gift at school, and it was either in Ms. Mendoza's class (Grade 3) or Mrs. Mata's class (Grade 2).

My gift to my mom was a pathetic little frame of a nipa hut and a coconut tree with a green felt background. If you're Filipino, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. This is one of those delicate things supposedly made by big burly men serving time in Bilibid, who have been drawn back into the flock, and who now while away their time carving out indigenous flora from scraps of wood.

For my dad I got a shirt from one of those small stores at the mall that sold "one size fits all", "buy one take one".

And I saved for those things too. I remember foregoing a couple of weeks' worth of soda and a slice of "chocolate moist" at the canteen so I could buy my parents Christmas gifts that year.

And I was so excited. I mean, I know most children tend to be at the holidays, but I firmly believe I was more excited than most. For the first time, I had something to give. Me. I felt incredibly grown up at the tender age of 7 or 8.

When you get more money, however, and when the list comes to include people you hardly know, the excitement sort of wanes.

It becomes a chore. A laborious, bothersome chore that sees the depletion of your hard-earned money. And you can't even fight it. And you actually have to do it with a smile.

When I was dorming in Katipunan, I felt obligated to give gifts to the building staff, the security guard, the maids, and the garbage man... people I hardly even ever saw. I also gave a gift to my roommate, whom I didn't really like. I was actually a little thankful that the apartment I eventually moved into didn't have much of a building staff. All we had was one security guard.

Then I would also give gifts to various professors (a suck-up tactic, yes I know), gifts to various so-called "friends" (because I was on their list), gifts to family and real friends, gifts to the Baguio scholar I was sponsoring, and candies and stuff to whatever charity was up on our list that year. (Funny how the person I give to charities with changes every year too.)

The desire to make the people you hold dear feel happy and remembered and appreciated can be a very tiring thing.

Sigh.

Ofcourse now that I'm here I don't really have to give gifts to anyone.

Bigger sigh.

Because I am feeling nostalgic. And it's Christmas. And I'm not in Manila. I give you Olops. Listen and enjoy.

Added Mikx to the links... she's another Pinay in Queens.

I can't believe John has to work a full day today AND tomorrow. Plus he worked late everyday this week (and that includes Sunday). Good thing vacation time's coming up.

I really should get laundry done, but it's so warm in here and so cold out there. Maybe in a little bit.

Extremely excited about our trip, and the prospect of being in a tropical paradise for all of seven days. Can't wait.

BTW, someone just told me that my new layout looks like a travel brochure. Haha. I guess it kinda does. But I like it. And come to think of it, I like travel brochures too.

Would you like to see your blog on my links list?
Tell me now, or forever hold your peace. Discarding dead links and putting in the new ones... just give me the URL and the title.

Oh yeah. if you're curious, my banner picture was taken in Boracay. I will be changing it to a collage soon, but I'll probably still put this in somewhere. The other pictures are from Aisa's place in Nasugbu.

I came across an article about Boracay a few minutes ago. About it being voted one of the best beaches in the world. It's very pretty and all, but I wonder what people will say when they go to Palawan or even Malapascua. Gorgeous, gorgeous.

Hay. This is the longest I've gone without a beach trip. I miss our beaches, by the way. Not the sorry excuse for sand and water they have over here (sorry, John). I miss intense sunsets and sunrises, and crystal clear blue water and fine powder white sand. I even miss rocky Batangas and that pier. I miss snorkelling and diving, and banana boating, and kayaking, and riding on a banca. And I miss the beer. I miss the long talks under the stars.

I miss having my own spot in the world. Soft sea breeze and waves crashing into each other. Slow times, slow everything, just me and me and me. Horizon quietly changing from lazy azures to fire.

I miss the beach. From the Mindoro slam (or whatever tha hell that drink is called) in Puerto Galera, to the jam jars in Moondogs, to the never-ending rum coke at bombom, to the pizza we used to eat everyday, and all the grilled goodies at the market (what the hell is the market called again?), to beer in Nasugbu, and beer in Ligpo, and beer everywhere else.

And Manila. Oh take me back in your arms. I miss going out on weekends and thursdays, and every other day we could spare. Drinks after work, and one for the road. I miss creamy, cholesterol-laden sisig, with garlic fried rice and, of course, ice cold beer. Sanctum and Padi's and Cafe Lupe and err... that place in Makati where Cynthia played on Thursday nights (bad, bad memory), even Odd Manila and Tapika, and Dencio's and Gilligan's. Even Malate, although I always had issues with the crowds. I miss Tapa King and Goodah, Hen Lin braised beef, Select siopao, 7-11 cheese dogs, HapChang noodles, Tropical fried chicken with rice, and all the other little places open to serve food at 3 am.

I miss the music. Everyone I know back there is somehow connected to a band. Every house you go to will find you a guitar. Or a piano. Or at the very least, a voice. Most had all. I miss impromptu gigs, and on-the-spot songwriting. I miss last-minute serenades. I miss getting collectively sentimental with a lonely voice singing to a lonelier guitar.

I miss Kyra and Lizze McGuire and powerpuff. I miss coming home to noise and laughter and chaos and cartoons. I miss cats on the couch and having food served to me. Clothes washed, pressed and folded, beds made everyday, water brought up with the ring of that little silver bell. I miss weekly family get-togethers (and I mean aunts and uncles and the cousins and the whole clan called Planet Medina). I miss, I miss, I miss.

There are days I wonder what has brought me here. Days I forget the why.

Oh, severe nostalgia. Winter's getting me down.

To quote Ais: "what I wouldn't give for a san mig light right now".

Oh god, what I wouldn't give.

Potato wedges with cheese at Padi's, bangus belly and that rice with the crab fat, feet on the table, comfy dilapidated couch, ashtrays and ice cubes... maybe a beach... what I wouldn't give.

Tara beer after finance. Or was that philo? I forget the class. Apartment after? Bahay mo na lang, Ais. Biahe sa probinysa?

Pare, meron akong problema.
Tama na yan, inuman na!

Sige na, utusan mo na lang yung boys mo! Use your player skills. Oo nga naman. The game. The never-ending game that finally met its end.

Tama na yan, inuman na. Hoy pare ko, tumagay ka.

I am OD'ing on Parokya.

Tayo na nga
Sino pa ba ang hinihintay natin dito
Naiinip na ako

Sige na nga
Apakan mo na ang silinyador ng oto mo
Iwanan na natin ang mundo

Tayo na sa beach
Tayo na't mag swimming
Bilisan mo na
Gusto ko na magsunbathing
Time to relax
Time to go slow
Makinig kay pareng bob
At sasabihin nito

Pagsapit ng dilim
Lumalamig ang hangin
Sindihan mo na
Ang bonfire natin

Time to relax
Time to go slow
Maupo ka na lang
At panoorin ang mundo

Kalimutan muna natin ang trabaho
Masisira na ang ating ulo
Kailan ka ba naman huling tumambay
Patapusin ang walang hanggang paghihintay

"It's the fear of what comes after the doing that makes the doing hard. But we're almost always able to live with the consequences."

You can love someone with a love that isn't perfect. With a love that will sometimes fail. With a love that sometimes doesn't fly high enough, doesn't work hard enough, that sometimes runs out of gas.

You can love someone very much, and yet not love her with everything you have. You can love someone and live with shadows and what-ifs. You can love someone with trepidation, with reservations, with other voices, other faces swimming inside your head. And yet love her enough to be with her day by day, to listen to her, and hold her, and console her, and comfort her, and make her feel safe.

You can love someone like that. You can tell her you love her and not lie. You can tell her she comes first, and not lie. You can tell her everything's okay and not lie.

Right?

I'm not going crazy, don't worry.

A real fairytale, care of an email from another like-minded princess. Because some of us have no problems being the wicked witch.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, a beautiful, independent, self-assured princess happened upon a frog as she sat, contemplating ecological issues on the shores of an unpolluted pond in a verdant meadow near her castle.

The frog hopped into the princess' lap and said: "Elegant Lady, I was once a handsome prince, until an evil witch cast a spell upon me.

One kiss from you, however, and I will turn back into the dapper, young prince that I am and then, my sweet, we can marry and setup housekeeping in your castle with my mother, where you can prepare my meals, clean my clothes, bear my children, and forever feel grateful and happy doing so.

That night, as the princess dined sumptuously on a repast of lightly sauteed frog legs seasoned in a white and onion cream sauce, she chuckled and thought to herself: I don't freakin' think so.

I feel like an eskimo.

The greenhouse part of our apartment is covered in snow. Since greenhouses are made of glass, it also feels like we're in some subterranean polar cave. It's dark and cold, and it looks a giant freezer just exploded in our backyard. It's very eerie, in a cool kind of way, I guess.

Until the claustrophobia sets in. Then it's just eerie, period.

I am so bored I'm actually making up imaginary tasks to accomplish, which get progressively more insane as time passes. (At 3pm I will daydream about coats. At 4 I will create a universe in my head. At 5,I will eat my brain.)

Ugh. So far, the only conversations I've had today involved John and the voices chattering in my head. And I hate to say it, but the chattering is getting old. (Just between us, I think some of the voices are losing their touch.)

Me 1: Do brains taste good with salt and pepper?
Me 2: No, better with hoisin sauce.
Me 1: With a side of potatoes?
Me 3: And tomatoes.

And on and on. On and on and on until I find myself floating up up and away, where the little angels play... oh it's only me, it's voice number 3. One day I will land me in a mental asylum. Maybe I should whack myself sane before that happens. I should, I should.

Me 1: No don't! Asylums can be fun! It'll be like Girl, Interrupted.
Me 2: Only you'll be Whoopi.
Me 1: Stupid bitch.
Me 3: Alleluiah, Alleluliah...
Me 1: Hey, you fat-bummed cherubim, how come so many people believe in the devil but refuse to acknowledge a god?
Me 3: Allelu-Allelu-Alleluiah...
Me 2: (whispers to Me 3) 'Cause people are pessimistic at heart. And evil is a lot easier to believe in. Reason's tangible. It's logical. Steal this, gain this. Murder this, lose this. Rewards and consequences are here on earth. Goodness has a lot of things left up in the air.
Me 3: And we always want the marshmallow as soon as we can eat it.
Me 2: What the hell are you talking about with marshmallows? (Turns to me) She's crazier than you, and that's pretty bad.

Ugh. There are some days when I can't stand being alone. I scare me.

I hate to be anal about this, but that stupid git disguising himself as a professor should be decapitated. His head isn't working anyway. Hell, his head is probably empty, so all they would really be getting rid of is superfluous biological matter.

Guillotine! Guillotine!

I mean how do 3 A's and 2 A+'s average an A-??? Only in his deranged, mentally challenged, RETARDED universe.

And the nerve to tell me that although I had potential (I am in a graduate program, after all, thank you very much) he wasn't sure that I had the DRIVE. DRIVE. I flew in from across the frigging Pacific! What more drive does his conservative, chauvinistic pink butt want?

And then to follow that up with "I think maybe you should just concentrate on finding your own niche". (Translation: dig a hole and bury yourself. You will end up writing press releases exalting the attributes of canola for heartless congolomerates anyway. It is your ONLY destiny.) Said in that patronizing voice that would grate against anyone's ear.

I'm well aware of the fact that not everyone will like my stories. I prefer it that way, actually. After all, I am a snob at heart. But to tell me that because he apparently thinks I don't have the what it takes to take on a world-wide audience...GRRRR.

He makes me so mad I want to gouge his eyes out.

Only I can tell myself what I can and cannot do. Only I can question myself.

NO ONE ELSE.

Definitely not stupid gits.

Grrr. Old men living in their own version of an ivory tower disgust me.

It's snowing. Our yard is covered in white angel dust. So is the green house. So is the street. And in a couple of hours, so will I. I'm just taking a little break, and then back to papers and stories. Lots to do, boys and girls. Lots.

Let me count my layers... tank top, white button down with long sleeves, black sweater, dark blue fleece hoodie, and later on, black coat. Tights, socks, pants, knee-high boots. Plus scarf and hat. Yup, feels like winter. Feels like it very much. Thank God for the caribbean in less than two weeks. I cannot wait.

La-la-la-la.

BTW, go to Witness Project in a couple of days. "Dinuguan" should be there, although I don't know where there exactly. They're a new publication. They publish journals and the journal theme for this quarter revolves around immigration. I got an email from them asking my permission to put the story on the website.

Ang Pasko ay Sumapit...

It just struck me that I will not be in Planet Medina for Christmas. For the first time in my whole entire life.

No noche buena and simbang gabi/misa de gallo. No puto bumbong and queso de bola. No noisy little children bargaining for a sooner gift openning time. ("Mom, can we open gifts noooowwww?" Repeat in requisite whiny voice every 7 seconds.) No wading through a sea of wrapped things -- and I mean this literally. No big black garbage bags of presents. No bigger black garbage bags of wrappers and ribbons and cards. No countdown to midnight, at which point an eruption of kissing and hugging and merry-christmasing ensues, to be followed by frenetic dives into the aforementioned sea of gifts, to be followed by frenzied tearing of paper.

No noche buena. Oh I said that already.

No eating until pant seams burst and zippers must be unzipped. No hanging around the table for hours, even after the food has been packed and all the dishes cleaned. No crazy relatives with even crazier stories... insanity is a staple in my gene pool. No Christmas carols... (all together now: tenkyu, tenkyu, ang babarat ninyo, tenkyu!) No last minute shopping, last minute wrapping, last minute shopping, last minute wrapping... (oh no, we're out of tape... ah... stapler...oh no, we're out of staples... Gimme your gum!...crash boom...) No mano po ninong, mano po ninang... wait, did we ever really do that anyway?

No Kyra. (Ate, I want a bratz doll, okay? Ay no na lang pala, I want powerpuff...)

No little children getting drunk on champagne... ay New Year's pala yun.

Sigh. No noisy, extravagant, chaotic, mad, great big bang of insanity known as Planet Medina.

Pasko, pasko, pasko na naman ulit... Sigh.

The COAT Story.

John thinks I have gone mad. His favorite adjective to describe the coats I like is "scary". But I can't help it, I love them all, yes, even if they will make me look like a poodle (check out the first one I'm in the process of buying... total poodle-dom).

It's not like I buy everything I see. I've actually foregone buying TWO coats: a long denim one with faux fur lined with thinsulate, and the other a vintage one in cream-colored leather, yes with fur trim.

But anyway, I've decided that this will be the last COAT entry. So let me indulge. (Scroll over the picture for a brief description.)

The coats I found and lost (to unscrupulous vintage store employees and other buyers with more money). Sigh.


The coats I had but had to let go (because they were too big):
     

The most recent coat I bought:


Coats I am in the process of buying:
    

And then there are the coats I still have (a gray wool full length, a leather with real rabbit fur collar fitted trench, and an olive green wool peacoat), not to mention the faux and real leather jackets (a purple zip-up and a black button down with collar snaps), and that's just for winter...

I've been writing a lot lately, and I've been putting down a lot of "episodes" for my novel. The problem is, they're all just episodes. Ugh. I need a plotline.

It snowed today. And it isn't even winter yet. Actually, it isn't supposed to be winter for three more weeks. See, boys and girls (esp John)? My newly found coat fetish wasn't just a spoiled brat's manic desire to own the world's supply of shearling (real and fake). It was really a survival instinct. My body is telling me to bundle up or die.

Speaking of the weather, I nearly got blown away to Oz while walking home today. I mean this literally. I'm so tiny that it was a real struggle keeping my balance. Thank goodness I had a heavy shopping bag to weigh me down.

New finds from the vintage shops include green cord Earl jeans (very nice), a little girl's hoodie with faux fur lining in soft navy fleece, and a cute knit sweater in shades of dark purple and midnight blue.

Since a lot of my friends are doing it, so will I. Of course I don't really expect to get any gifts this Xmas, and everything I write down here I will probably have to get myself, but still, it's a fun exercise. I'll cross things out when I get them.

The List:
1. Dream Coat: Vintage 70s, black leather or very dark blue leather, Snug-fitting with a slight flare from the waist, no belt, luxurious white fur collar. Better if it's lined in something warm.
2. vintage-y cropped and snug little bomber jacket in corduroy, fleece, leather, fur, down or poly filled. Just something cute and warm.
3. ballet wrap cashmere sweater like they have in Victoria's Secret, in ivory or lavender.
4. hippie coat with fur trim at the collar, wrists, and hem, in a light color (white, cream, powder blue...), at least knee-length.
5. sheer mohair sweater in a fairy color.
6. white crochet bikini.
7. black leather bootleg pants.
8. roundtrip ticket to Manila. Actually, better make that two.
9. lose at least 5 lbs.
10. teaching job, preferably at the college level. OR
11. writing job, but not at a newspaper.
12. more stuff published.
13. Kyra.

I think sooner or later my entire wardrobe will be divided into 3 categories: Bikinis, coats and others.

Yes, I am in the midst of developing a coat addiction. A vintage coat addiction, may I add. I just love them.

I've already bought 2 from ebay, scheduled to come in 10-14 days. Meanwhile, I am hopping from apartment to apartment because the word's out that I'm looking for xs-s vintage coats, 70's style fitted or princess cut, with fur collars, and people have been telling me to take a look at theirs.

Some of them are pretty nice and on their way to my closet, but my dream coat, a sexy black leather/suede one, at least until the knee, with white fur trim, no belt, just buttons, is yet to be found.

Ah. Coats and bikinis.