For the sushi questions:

The sushi I ate last night was very fresh, but also had a very mild and clean bite to it. The sashimi is not overpowering and it doesn't have that burst of fishy goodness which you may or may not like, depending on your tastes. It's on 55th street, near 8th avenue. There's a Karaoke place on the second floor, and it has a lot of Japanese patrons.

I mostly eat downtown, so most of the sushi places I can recommend are in that area. Most of these places won't charge you an arm and a leg for the good stuff, but keep in mind that sushi is really generally expensive, and you don't really want to mess around with raw meat, so it's better to plunk down the cash than to get food poisoning from an unqualified chef.

East Village:
Kura, 67 1st Ave. Nice, laidback, fresh food. I mostly come here with John and I always get the salad instead of the miso soup.

Hasaki, 210 East 9th st. People will tell you to expect a wait, but if you go at odd hours, then you shouldn't have any problems. Clean taste, fresh, simple sushi place.

Yakitori-Taisho, somewhere in St Mark's, between 2nd and third. Lots of Japanese people, good food. I like their yakitori more than their sushi though.

Greenwich Village:
Tomoe, 172 Thompson. Now this place, although good, is not really a favorite. I included it anyway because they still serve amazing fish (fresh and big are key words here), and the only reason I don't like it is because it can get extremely crowded and it's a bit more expensive than most.

Aki, somwhere in West 4th. It's really REALLY small, but the sushi is to die for. It's near enough NYU that I can come here whenever I get a sushi craving. The thing is, I wouldn't recommend this place to a first-timer. Some of the things on their menu are a bit experimental (banana on a tuna roll?). One of my first NY sushi experiences (also the venue of my first ever NY date). Good stuff.

There's also a good sushi place on Bleecker St, but I can't remember the name. It's either 147 or 149 Bleecker st, on the second floor. On top of a bar called The Bitter End, which is near Peculier Pub and Asylum. Venue of my first sushi date with John.

Well. Just as I thought my birthday was coming to a close, just as I was contemplating the merits of a nice quiet dinner at home with John, just as I was about to write the day off, guess what he does?

First he got out of work unusually early and said that we were going to the city to watch a movie at Angelika, something we used to do a lot but haven't really done in a while. So I got into the car and we drove away.

I should have really suspected something when we took the Queensboro Bridge instead of Williamsburg, but I just figured he'd been listenning to the traffic updates. Then there was that parking thing he kept looking at, which I found odd and even commented on, but then again this is New York and people are always doing odd things. So yes, stupid me, I was totally clueless.

Ofcourse when we parked at 48th and 10th, which is nowhere near where we were supposed to be, I began to suspect that something was up. I didn't know what though, and I thought we were just going to watch a special foreign movie at a special movie theater, or something like that.

Walking along 52nd, however, I suddenly found myself being gently ushered into Virginia Theater. Surprise, surprise, we had tickets to see the Broadway production of "Little Shop of Horrors"! Yay!

It was so funny! Plus we got incredibly good seats (8th row from the stage, which meant, of course, that he had gotten our tickets way in advance because apparently, a lot of the shows are sold out until mid-February). It was just a really, really fun and entertaining show. That part in the end where the monstrous giant of a killer plant actually jutted out of the stage and sang over the audience's heads was so cute. And the standing ovation just proved how great it all was. It was just the thing to get me over my mortality blues.

We hadn't eaten dinner yet, so by the time the show ended (at around 10pm), I was really hungry. He led me to this Japanese resto on 55th, which I shall forever remember as a place with some of the freshest, most well-made sushi I have ever eaten in New York. (And boys and girls, considering that I used to eat sushi here on a fairly regular basis -- at least twice a month? -- that statement actually has some merit.)

A humongous platter of delicious (if mostly uncooked) fish filled half of our table, literally. Ahh.. exquisite mouthfuls of salmon, tuna, whitebait, eel, and a slew of other goodies very quickly found their way down my throat. The thing is, he doesn't even really like sushi. The first time he had it was with me, and to think that his mom and his sister actually love the stuff. Oh, plus we also had chicken teriyaki and miso soup. And a little jug of hot sake.

It was so nice because John had obviously spent time thinking about the whole thing, which is, sorry to sound cheesy, the thing that really matters most. Gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside -- just the thing to ward of hypothermia in this numbing cold.

Sigh. Perfect.

Happy Birthday to me.

Since when has Louie Talan been playing bass for Cynthia Alexander???

Just dropped in Jeline's blog, and her reply to my comment left me feeling so out of everything! She said something about Toni being back on the kahon, and I didn't know that she'd even been off it! Plus when did the whole kahon explosion (that apparently lead to Toni's absence from kahon duty) take place anyway? Sigh.

This year marks the first time in nearly a decade of consecutive celebratory bashes that I am not doing anything for my birthday. No parties, no gimmicks, no inumans, no nothing. Considering the fact that I've only been alive for 23 years, and that some years I even had two or three (or four) things going on, this sort of feels weird.

I mean, even though last year was pretty mellow, I still managed to get friends to come to NY. And we did eventually end up in Atlantic City that weekend (thanks to Pat and her aunt), so that was still something.

Plus I'm obviously not getting a lot of gifts this year.

Plus when I was a kid I always thought I'd be married with children at this age. (My mom was married at 22.)

Just thinking about that absurd notion (me with a kid?!) has somehow made me reflect on how much we actually change through the years. And how much we will change in the years to come.

It's a little odd to finally feel the full weight of my mortality sink in. I'm not impervious to reality and the rules of the world. I will not be young forever, and some day I will eventually lose my looks, my hair, my youthful zeal, and my license to be daring, stupid and carefree.

Some day I will wake up with wrinkles and eyebags, a negative balance in my bank account, a mortgage, loads of "unfulfilled potential", and a mid-life crisis.

And some day I won't even wake up. Period.

In the immortal words of Jessica Simpson: "I'm, like, twenty three. That's, like, almost 25. And 25 is, like, almost mid-20's."

And mid-twenties, boys and girls, is practically a step away from the nursing home.

Oh well. Older and wiser indeed.

Oooh, I'm getting a new phone for FREE.

My obstinacy and general brattiness, coupled with John's two-year relationship with T-mobile, has resulted in them finally giving me a brand spanking new Nokia 3595.

Happy happy joy joy. At first I didn't think they'd do it, since the warranty had already expired on my old phone, so technically they weren't really liable for anything and all that, but they gave in. The 10 angry (okay, and slightly accusatory) emails must have done it, hehe.

That Motorola V66 sucked anyway. I only got it because it was the cheapest (free PLUS a $50 rebate) triband phone there was. This Nokia should be infinitely better, even if it's just dual band.

I'm now back in the land of polyphonic ringtones, intuitive interfaces, alarms with snoozes, and multimedia messages, not to mention voice dialling, caller groups, and all those other ultimately useless but still fun stuff I used to take for granted. So who cares if it won't work in the islands? I'm sure someone's got a spare phone there anyway -- what with the continuous upgrading my siblings tend to do.

I should get it in 3-5 days. And I don't have to pay for anything. Not even processing fees, or shipping, or upgrade charges. It is absolutely and completely free.

Ah. The universe always finds a way to remind me that it likes me.

My phone just died. Not the battery, the phone. So I'm using John's old phone. The thing is, I also lost all numbers and other data. Please send me a text message (with your name, preferably) or email me your contact info so I can rebuild my phonebook. Thanks.

And to everyone who has AB+ blood type and is able and willing to donate, Bea Liwanag, a 16 year old girl who was diagnosed with cancer, needs your help. You can go straight to the blood bank at Makati Med and give the name of Bea Liwanag as possible recipient.

The First Big Splurge

Just went out with a bunch of people to The River Cafe for my birthday lunch. Such fun. Admittedly pretensious literary freaks (but pretensious only on occasion) in what they could only hope was their natural environment -- a mildly stuck-up, intimidatingly intimate and deliciously expensive little resto, complete with a view of their beloved city, serving up food flown down from heaven.

It was awesome at midday, but I couldn't help thinking that it must be way, way better at night. I can so imagine the view when it's dark... romance on a silver plate. Sort of like Cafe Lupe, I guess, only this one has a river, is set in New York, has an excellent chef, and the impending dining bill will probably mean chinese takeout for weeks to come.

It was very pretty even in this snow storm, charmingly set as it was, in drifts of virginal snow. Probably prettier in spring though, or in summer. And the food was certainly sinful. I still don't know where it is exactly... I'm thinking Lower Manhattan or maybe Brooklyn, and someone did mention that it was a secret tourist spot (say what?), but whatever, it was a very nice natal day experience, made better by the fact that I didn't have to contribute to that astronomical bill. Plus, our timing was perfect. Their normal dinner prices are atrocious, but it came out cheaper today because of the snow storm. (They got cancellations so we got a few dishes and desserts for free -- a good thing we told them it was my b-day.) Steak was divine. Perfectly moist and tender.

I actually even toyed with the idea of taking John there for Valentine's, but apparently they could be all booked. Still not sure if I want to be placed on the standby/waiting list... I mean, I'm not sure John will want to dress up and all that, as gentlemen need to wear a dinner jacket after 5 pm.

Then we went to the Village for after-lunch, err, coffee. Met up with the people who couldn't join us earlier for various reasons. And talked and laughed away. We left just as the sun was setting -- supposedly. I never really see the sun set here. It just seems to slowly fade away.

All in all, a near-perfect little day. Scrumptious.

Breaking News: JOB OPPORTUNITY
Call center work, 80K (Php)/month, no experience necessary, must be willing to relocate to Singapore. Resumes must be in by January 30. Interviews begin on the first week of Feb. Email me for more details.

This site has just been atom-enabled.

My week-long hiatus was actually forced. The upstairs people left and when the router acted up, no one was there to fix it... more importantly, no one had the keys to the apartment where the router was, so we couldn't fix it ourselves.

Plus I've been too busy (read: too preoccupied with keeping myself warm in this abysmal cold) to make the trek to the school computers.

So what has my brain been up to the past week? Stories have been taking shape. Also had quite a few debates with the other weirdos in the violet lounge.

And to flesh out this post, let me share some excerpts from my journal:

Sometimes we get so caught up in patching up the past, that we forget what it is we're building in the present. Sometimes we get careless, and we forget that the present can be weak too, that we still need to fortify foundations, that she can also be confused and lonely, and that she's not as sure a thing as we might have believed. She's only human after all.

Should we strain our nows to support yesterday? Why risk what we have for something we should have already let go? Because in the forgetting, in being careless, that's what we're doing isn't it? We're straining our nows. We're risking what we have.

Let's not forget exactly what closure means -- that something must be closed.

***


There are many reasons behind the things we may or may not have done, the things we will or will never do. There are rationales, there are conditions, there are circumstances we can't even control. And sometimes we can't satisfy all the requirements, can't answer all the questions. And it's painful, and hard, but it's also necessary to make a choice, to choose what is most important. To know which one is worth it.

***


I feel a need to see the universe from a point outside myself , from another center, from another person's eyes. And yet, when all's said and done, I realize that none of it matters, because after all, the totality of everything around me is just a trivial speck in space and time.

***


And finally from Virginia Woolf:
To look life in the face
and to know it, to love it for what it is.
And then to put it away.

Randomness

I catch my own reflection sometimes, and it always displaces something inside when I realize that I have changed. I surprise myself like this. Unanchored from convictions formed so carefully. Staring at barriers that leave me frustrated.

The universe has shifted, and somehow I have awakenned in a strange place, where everything is only vaguely familiar. Nostalgia is reeking from the daydreams, but it is a remembrance that floats, that seems to have no beginnings.

Pulled in so many directions.

Do I doubt myself, or do I doubt the world?

Maybe I was wrong to want so much, and ask so much. Maybe sometimes there is nothing else and this is all there is. Maybe it's good enough.

Only good enough has never been good enough for me.

Odd how new things can feel so old.

Thursday, October 10, 2002:

"I can’t see the stars.

It’s been months since I went out at night, something I used to do a lot. And I don’t mean going out with a particular destination in mind. I don’t mean out to a party, or out to drink, or out with a man. I just mean out. Out of the door to feel the wind on my face. Out to the park that’s just a stone’s throw away. Out of the car to look at the stars.

I can’t see the stars.

I am getting stale. My mind is thinking second-hand thoughts, and my dreams are tired imitations of each other. I am asking the same questions and I am getting the same answers, and it feels like I am breathing the same air all over again.

I want to get away, but I’m not sure what I want to get away from. I feel like my brain is restless inside my skull, and the insides of my skin are crawling deeper into my flesh. I want to suck in the world in one passionate breath, but it feels like my lungs are too small, and my chest will burst.

I am not sure what makes me want to run away, but I know where I want to run to. I want to run to the place where the images are clumsy and I can feel ecstasy over a seamless metaphor. I want to go back to where not all things must be caught shining on the edge of a gilded phrase. I want to go back to where depth is not a duty, and I am still free to be just like them.

My eyes are tired of seeing the same brilliant images. My mind is tired of hearing the same profound thoughts. I am tired.

I want to get in my car and drive to wherever the stars take me.

But I can’t see the stars."

Oh yay!

Hehe. I won third place in the Whitehardt Short Fiction Contest for minority writers. Yippee.

Anyway, we were talking about spending power and suddenly the topic of Bill Gates came up. Someone watched an E! special on rich people, and boy, is that man rich. Did you know that Bill Gates was worth 46 BILLION as of Novemeber 2003?

That means that if he was a country, he would be the 52nd richest country in the world, right after Bangladesh.

That means he can spend $1000 every minute, non-stop, for 85 years, AND still have more money than the Hilton sisters, Jennifer Lopez, the Olsen twins, P. Diddy (or whatever he's called nowadays) and Oprah Winfrey (who is the first black woman BILLIONAIRE). Combined.

That means he is ONE RICH NERD.

Oh wow.

Okay. There are too many sweets in the fridge. I'm in on definite kitchen mood this week. Made chocolate chip cheesecake yesterday -- my own recipe, bought ice cream cake for John's birthday as well, and bought flan the day before that. Today roasted some cornish hens for dinner (plus made gravy from scratch!).

And I'm also planning to make strawberry shortcake... well, once we finish at least one of the other cakes in the fridge.

Happy Birthday John.

John's birthday tomorrow.

Bought flan, daing na bangus, and sauce mixes today, mailed some things, saw some friends and exchaged our cheesy gift things (we made a pact that nothing could be store bought -- an attempt at decreasing our holiday expenditure while increasing creativity-- so I gave them all specialized "something-I-promise-to-do" cards, which were so obviously last minute, but hey I've been busy).

Then went home, kind of excited to cook because it's going to be the first time John and I can sit down and have a home-cooked dinner since I got back. Rested a bit, wrote a bit, read a bit, and then I made the rice, began thawing the fish, and even made soup.

Alas, dinner seemed doomed from the start. He called early on in the evening to say he was going to be really late, and that I should probably eat ahead. As I don't really like eating alone, I figured I could wait, and I told him I so. But then after a while, I finally realized that he meant really late, and as I didn't want him to go hungry, I rang him up him to tell him to eat there if he could, which was just in time because he was actually on his way to get some pizza when he got my call.

Hay. So I just made myself a nice hotdog sandwich and pigged out on bread. Decided to cook the fish anyway, so he can have it for lunch tomorrow. That way, the rice won't go to waste. The soup will probably keep in the fridge.

Poor boyfriend. At least there's the Florida weekend to look forward to.

All the tension and anxiety bubbling in my system was bound to reach its boiling point sooner or later. And it did, last night. Ofcourse I just had to lash out at the most convenient target. Sorry John. It was mean and undeserved, but I have to admit, I do feel a sense of relief. I'm a little calmer now, I think.

It was really retarded, ofcourse, just as all my little emotional outbursts tend to be (my familiy can attest to that). I wasn't really even angry at him. Subconciously, I guess I was just looking for a release, and he happened to trigger it. That's a very simplistic way of putting it, but it'll have to do as I don't really want to go into the mundane details. In a twisted way, I'm a little bit glad that it happened though. It assures me that I can let him see the ugly side of me, and we'll still be fine. It might surprise him at first, but it won't scare him away. And in the end, he does understand. Good to know.

I promise to look for another victim next time.

Anyway, I'm going home today, yay! Just have this advisory meeting to go to and then that's it. Can't wait.

I feel so stupid sometimes, re-reading past posts and past journal entries. I sound too shallow and frivolous, even to myself.

unrevised poem excerpt.

Perhaps it is time.
Moments held too long
too close
Must be set free.

Newly-mended wings
Must learn how to fly again.

Must feel the wind shuffling through
From tip to tip
As belly glides over naked space.

Must soar and drink in the mists
Up in God's eternal heaven.

Must maneuver through angry bullets
And playful rocks thrown across
From guns and slingshots by men and boys,

Must dart through trees and fields
Riding the emptiness
Swimming through air.

But first, before the musts can be done
Unwrap the bandage from the limb
And gauge how painful
Each flap of wing will be.

***
(excerpt from my year-end review -- not a poem)
2003, lessons in spurts.

My passions and my ambitions will often be skewed.
My sense will never be common.
My choices will be erratic, but heartfelt, carefully weighed, and firm.
I ony think I remember who I once was.
I only think I know who I will be.
I find my joys in other things. And that's okay.
Sorrys are over-rated.
My best memories have been embellished.
My best poems are all lies.
Love is not gift or a prize for your life's toil.
Love is hard work.

I'm almost going home. Just one night more.

We workshopped my stories today, and apparently I have a new awareness of my choices in writing that I hadn't noticed until just now. So I guess the program is working. My new advisory group is an eclectic mix -- A published novelist (two books and counting), a naturalist, a Harvard Medical student (I know, what the???), an elderly woman with only three years of craft to her name, and a nice Jewish fundamentalist who's exempted from everything today because it's the Sabbath.

I think I got pretty good reviews. Their style of writing is very different from mine, but that's okay.

They moved people out of the Froelicher house today because they haven't had hot water for three days and their heater is irreparable. They're now staying at a hotel called "The Lagoon", about 15 minutes away. The cheesy 60's decor and Flamingo pink walls are not much of an improvement over our bare, white rooms. The only thing that can qualify it as an upgrade is the heat. And that's not saying very much.

By this time tomorrow I should be in a cab on my way to Burlington Airport. I cannnot wait.

I am trying to overcome the anxiety churning in my stomach, but it's hard. Thanks to those who called, even if you did wake me up from my afternoon nap. It was much appreciated, and yes, it made feel a little better.

I've been on a rollercoaster of moodswings these past few days, and it's really taking a toll on my mental health. I'm thinking that it's just PMS compounded by the freezer weather, the stress of getting so many things done in so little time, and the homesickness. I want to talk to someone, but I don't want to talk to anyone here. I don't know what's wrong with me.

The migraines I've been getting don't help any either. Thank God for Tylenol PM's.

What's disconcerting me, as I've mentioned to JR a few hours ago, is that I've been faced with a lot of self-doubt -- something I'm not used to. I find myself questioning my abilities, my accomplishments, if it's worth it, if this is something I really want to do. I feel certain that this phase will pass, but obviously that knowledge doesn't make going through the phase any easier.

Maybe it's all the silence reverberating through the landscape.

Perhaps my homesickness is not as much a longing for a place as it is a longing for a previous state of mind.

I find myself filling most of my days here with attempts to sleep. Of course it hardly ever works, but it's surprising how much time can pass while you try to coax yourself into unconsiousness. And really, that seems like all I'm doing here. Waiting for time to pass. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

I eat even though I'm not hungry, just because it's something to do. I skip breakfast, because the chirpy good mornings grate against my ears. I straggle in for lunch when everyone is almost done. I come way too early for dinner. And I only eat half of the food on my plate. The rest I throw away. I remember the starving children in Somalia, but I tell myself that it doesn't much matter if it ends up in the garbage bin or in the toilet. It will be wasted anyhow, and this way, I can save the cleaning lady the effort.

I have no appetite. Not even for the chocolate chip cookies Jeremy managed to steal from god knows where.

I talk in the afternoons, when everyone is swapping stories of children, girlfriends, husbands, friends, but the whole time I am staring at the clock to see how much time it takes the mouth to form the average word. I try to count, but the lips open and shut too soon. Seconds are too long.

I know how many cracks there are in the celing in my room. I have memorized the maze that stares down at me as I lie in my bed. I know where the paint is chipping on my door. I know exactly how soon the hot water in the showers will cool. I know whose footsteps pound down on the stairs at 1 in the morning. I know not because I want to, but because there is nothing else here to know, and I must know something.

I try to read the entries in my journal, but I can't make out the squiggles I once called Assumption script. I feel illiterate. I feel like I am getting dumber and no one seems to notice. Or maybe they do but refuse to tell me. What does it matter? What does anything matter?

To you who are reading this, don't worry too much. This too shall pass.

WE have a power shortage.

sanwiches for lunch. with paper plates and plastic utensils. Oh take me home.

Dear People,

Grrr. Nothing scheduled from 3-6 because they cancelled the Farm Tour due to ass-freezing, sub-zero, freezer weather. Nothing except the nude workshop... something about liberating your soul, tapping into your energies, and all that flaky crap. I'm not going to that one, and not just because I'm not too comfortable with putting my body out there, but more so because I don't want to subject myself to the trauma of seeing men and women double or triple my age, weight, and body mass in all their gory naked splendor. I'd rather pass.

So I'll probably just stay in the house lounge. If you're not doing anything, feel free to give me a call. I think my number here is (802) 4548311 ext 639. It can get incredibly boring here without the workshops. We don't have TV's or radios (I use my laptop), and we can't make outgoing calls. Hell, some rooms don't even have phones to make calls from in the first place. Plus there is absolutely nowhere to go. There are no malls here in Plainfield. The nearest multiplex is 40 minutes away by car. They only play three movies. There is only one store in the whole town, called the "Plainfield General Store" aka "The Red Store", which is about as big as your local 7/11. It also serves as the cafe, the hardware shop, the local grocery, and the gas station. The only other institutions of note are the Post Office, and one bookstore, which only opens when the owners feel like it. And all these things are found a corner away from the only stoplight in town. I kid you not.

There are no kids. It's so eerily quiet. I can't remember ever being in a place as damnably quiet as this. In the Philippines, even if a town is poor and backward, even if it's the smallest place on Earth, you'll probably find something to do. Something to buy. There will never be just one store in town, because there will always be vendors hawking their wares on the sides of the street, or a sari-sari store just around the other corner. And there will always be a group of men drinking somewhere, arguing/talking loudly, gulping down whatever alcoholic beverage is handy -- basi, tuba, lambanog, beer, gin. And there will always be the ubiquitous posse of old women, busybodies who know everything about everyone, and who don't mind telling you all the details.

This is a place that turns in on itself, I guess, compact, very introverted. Severe, too, in a way that a tropical archipelago can never be. They smile and greet you good morning, and they try to be helpful in anyway they can, friendly in their own way, but there is always an underlying stoicism. Uptight. An aura of silence that echoes the hard white landscape, the almost bare terrain. So far removed from the generous smiles and the easy noise of people raised in sunny warmth. It's the interior difference, I guess between the Vermonter and say, the Dominican. They can both be friendly in their own way, but there is a marked difference in the explication.

Not to say that people here haven't been hospitable. It's just different. I'm not sure that anyone else notices it though.

It's weird, sometimes. People here choose to live the way they do. That's another difference, I guess. People in countries like the Dominican Republic, or the Philippines are always struggling to give you what you're accustomed to, always upgrading, always so eager to please, and here they're very unapologetic about being so outdated. It's as if they've chosen this kind of cloistered lifestyle. It has a huge impact on me, because it makes me realize how Filipino I am. I could never choose to live like this. I'm already having a hard time sleeping in all this deafening, broad silence.

Back to work. Hoping for a shower, if the hot water is back.

Let me tell you a little about the weather:

Today
High of -3, Low of -21 FAHRENHEIT. (In celsius, that's -19 and -29)

Tomorow
High of -1, low of -22 F. (In C, -18 and -30)

And on and on. Right now it's about -7 F, or -22 C. I don't think I've ever been this cold in my life. Good thing I bought that ski jacket when I did (see, John?). It's the only thing that keeps me even remotely warm. Oh and something hapenned to our hot water. We no longer have any. So I haven't bathed today yet. I was going to gripe and complain until I heard that some houses' heaters have been acting up. I've now learned to count my blessings.

Also, whenever I come back to my room, there's always a collage of blue and pink sticky notes on my door. "Wanda, drinks and some cookies at K201, around 8. You'll feel better after a gulp, honey. -- Anelle" or "After dinner - K208. The Boys." or "Just get your ass to the 2nd floor lounge. Beer, baby". It's actually kind of nice. Reminds me that I have friends here.

Mood's picking up a bit. The boys have been really good fun. Still miss having a roommate, but since we all live in the same house, and they're all just above me, I guess it's the next best thing.

A PLEA:

Titles and authors of novellas, please. I need 15. I need them by tomorrow. Please.

So. Apparently I am no longer writing a collection of short stories. I just learned that the first draft of my completed manusrcipt is due by June of this year, and that instead of a collection of short fiction, I am now engaged in writing a novella.

When and how did this happen? Only God and Goddard knows. But if I were to hazard a guess, I would put the blame on Mr. Chee. Alex has always encouraged me to write a novel, and I guess to ease the transition from short to long prose, he settled for a novella instead. So that's what I'm doing. We'll see how it goes.

I'm still sick, but feeling slightly better. Dinner today was good. We had roast chicken leg, ziti with sun-dried tomatoes, some broccoli, and a nice creamy mystery soup. Also the apple juice dispenser is back, so I had some of that. If you've never read any of my previous Goddard posts, let me explain how food is distributed here. You go through a line (much like a school lunchroom), and pick out the things you want on your plate (usually there's a meat option and a vegan option), and then you go down to the center where the drinks are. Lots of choices: different kinds of soda, water, different kinds of juices, different kinds of coffee (lots of mountain blends), different kinds of tea, and sometimes some spiked cider. They stopped giving us hot cocoa last residency though, so I brought my own (Thanks, John). After the drinks, you get to what we call the incidentals. There's pasta in there, with at least 2 kinds of sauces, some beans and rice, and a variety of breads. Further along you get to the desserts (usually a cake or a pie with ice cream or maple cream -- a Vermont specialty). The best thing though is you can usually go for seconds. Even thirds. Yum.

I've been trying to eat alone since I got here, by coming really early or really late, but it hasn't been working. Someone will usually find me and sit with me, and I can't very well say no. I'm not in a very extroverted mood right now, and the conversations are just not what I want right now. Must be my headaches -- period's coming soon.

That's all folks. Check back in soon.

I need to be at my new advisor/mentor's office at 1:45 this afternoon, and then I'm free for the day. Before that happens though, I need to present a draft of a study plan -- which I haven't even begun to work on yet. Oh boy.

Today was so-so. Got registered and finally got through the financial stuff. So sleepy and tired. And sick. I'm sick with a low-grade fever. Yes, I used a thermometer, so it's for real. I knew that bottle of Advil would come in handy. Thanks, John.

I hate all this snow. I hate all this cold. It's so cold that someimtes I get numb and don't feel the cold anymore. Until I get int this stupid room that is. The computer lab is so warm it thaws you straight to the bone. They can never seem to find a good balance. Antartica in some places, tropical Manila in others. This kind of thing is sure to make anyone sick.

Later. Have to start the bullshit rhetoric. Yes, I'm talking about the study plan.

This day was UGH. (Revised due to atrocious grammar and spelling)

First, waited at the Burlington Airport for hours. I was supposed to get picked up by my friend, Reina, but she was nowhere to be found. Called her, had John call her (because my celphone doesn't work here) a million times and still nothing. Finally, after over 3 hours of waiting, I just got into a cab and ended up paying $81.

When I finally got there, I leaned that Reina had been in a serious accident. A large truck hit her car while on the way here. She sustained a broken pelvis, a broken clavicle, and a broken arm. Doctors estimate that it will take at least 2 weeks before she can walk. She is still at the hospital.

My head still reeling from that news, I was pulled aside by the accounts woman and told that my student loan hadn't gone through yet and I would have to pay $700 to be able to register. Slipped and slid to the Pratt Center (this is how you get anywhere in this campus --just walking is impossible) to settle the bill, but my cards wouldn't go through. Could probably have written a check, but my checkbook was at home. Moment of panic. At this point, I just really wanted to go home.

I was tired, in mild shock, incredibly wet, and extremely cold. I had been up since 6 am. My legs were ready to buckle. I'd been lugging my suitcase for so long that it seemed surgically attached to my arm, . I had not eaten the whole day. I hated the stupid loan officer. I missed my boyfriend. And I did not know where to get $700.

But, being the level-headed person that I am, I pushed my exhaustion to the back of my mind, and sorted things out. First, called Chall, Reina's husband. No answer, left a message. Second, shot an email to mom for the financial aid, which we eventually decided to route via John. Third, took a 30 minute power nap (best thing I did). Fourth, snuck into the kitchen to get some food (thanks guys!). Fifth, got two books (Dogeaters and Dream Jungle) signed by Jessica Hagedorn, who told me I was pretty (talaga, promise!) Sixth, partook of the reception refreshments -- some sparkling cider (a Goddard Staple) , some salmon sushi (never had this here before), and a tiny sliver of cheesecake.

I was also approached by most of the residents about Reina. We're kind of associated with each other here, I guess. It was a bit weird recounting to so many people the little bit of news that I did know. Please include her in your prayers, if you do pray.

Now I'm just off to have some hot cocoa in the house lounge. I live in a mixed house, and it gets pretty noisy will all the loud guys here, so instead of kidding myself with feeble attempts at sleep, I just stay out until I'm so tired that not sleeping is not an option. Just the usual Goddard guys -- Matt, Jeremy, Josh, Jim, and this other guys I can't remember the name of.

Realization: I'm no longer used to sleeping alone, especially when the bed right next to me is so glaringly empty.

I hope she's fine.

Did a weather check on Plainfield, Vermont and guess what? Lows of -14 F. That's -25.55 in Celsius. Why don't we just kill me now so I can spare myself the trouble of coming back frozen in a block of ice? Now I remember. This is another reason for my resistance. I don't like living in a freezer.

Anyway, found this:

If you know Pinoy cooking, you know it involves lots of rich sauces, juicy cuts, organ meats (tripe and liver are favorites), and rice. We are staunchly carnivorous. We never eat lite if we can help it, and cutting away the fat from our holiday ham is considered sacrilegious. If the essence of other people's holidays is the spirit of giving, the essence of ours is dining tables groaning under mountainloads of food. Food is life, and we like to make passionate love to life.

So true, don't you think?

I mean, I went through these past holidays without the food extravaganza, and I must say, it was positively strange. December without lechon or ham, or the chaos and the noise and the buffet tables of scrumptious food oozing with calories dipped in cholesterol?

To a pinoy, it felt like the world had veered off it's orbit.

I'm surprised at my own resistance to go to Vermont.

I mean, It's definitely not hell, don't get me wrong. It's pretty enough -- the farms and the fields and the acres of snow. It's fun enough -- parties every night and sleigh rides and snowballs. People are nice enough, and what's more, they're smart. The conversations are usually stimulating enough -- it's the only place I know where you will eventually find yourself debating the merits of a vignette as against the short story or the novel, or the true relevance of postmodernism in contemporary literature (you know, lit-geeks stuff), on a regular basis.

When I'm there, I feel okay, and I do enjoy myself somewhat. I mean, I would never think of staying there for more than the standard eight days or anything like that, but I don't think of my residency as time wasted either.

And yet, truth be told, I don't really like Goddard. After much wondering and analyzing, I think I've come up with the reason why: It's pretentious. Incredibly so.

Writers tend to be, I guess, especially when surrounded by people who can actually understand them when they spew out terms like "prosodity" and "interior plot architecture". At first, it's okay and it's fun. You feel like you've finally found a world where eveyone understands the secret language.

And then suddenly it just gets too damn much. I've often had to listen to long-winded conversations where people try to top each other by outlining their complicated, slightly autobiographical, Plathic plots, and describing their so-called brilliant poems inspired by gut-wrenching mental ordeals, poems which, incidentally, also follow the traditional pantun form imported from Indonesia. All very good for some, but personally, it wears me out. I mean do I really need a good story described to me in infinitesimal detail? Shouldn't it be able to speak for itself, excellent as it is?

I'm sure they're all very sincere writers, who are very much into craft and what-not, and I don't mean to be harsh, but my god, the size and weight of all those egos piled up on top of each other on any given residency day in the lunchroom is enough to drive any sane person mad. Good thing none of us are sane to begin with. I guess it's the result of the mental confinement most writers go through when working on a piece... you stay in your head for long periods of time... and when you come up for air, I guess sometimes you just want to talk it all away. Catharsis. It's also a form of self-assurance. It's all still there, I am still intact.

There's also fear of being inadequate. There are so many beautiful books that will never be read by the people who will love them the most. A lot of brilliance will stand to dim before anyone will ever notice. And I guess it's just human nature to be scared of not being understood/appreciated. This is, after all, their life's work (Goddard residents are usually double my age, if not triple). The pretension is a coping mechanism, I guess. A hundred rejection letters will somehow, inevitably, take their toll. The lit-intellectual babble is a way of telling yourself that it hasn't been all for naught, and that you are not as shallow, disappointing, lackluster, boring, dumb, etc. as the various great editors make you out to be.

Even if takes a lot to be on constant intellectual guard, ou don't want to put your defenses down because you don't want to be found out and exposed for the poseur/wannabe that you worry you might be.

That is, until you realize everyone shares that deep dark secret.

I guess for most of them, Goddard is the only place where it's okay to unfurl the ego and air it out. It's also the only place where the patterns will be appreciated, the colors understood, the rips and tears noted then overlooked. And people take their time doing that, they savor their moment in the sun. Because when the residency is over, their brilliant minds will have to fold up again. It's back to being unrecognized teacher, unread author, minor critic, boring housewife.

It's sad, but there you go. And I do understand.

But I'd still rather stay home.

This year's New Year's was like Christmas - kind of quiet. Just me and John, basically. No fancy dinners (or lunch, or brunch) or anything like that. We did drink a couple of glasses of Sangria on the eve though, and on the afternoon of the 1st, we went out to watch "The Last Samurai", which was nice and entertaining. Very visual movie. Thought it was good, all the normal asian issues and Tom Cruise notwithstanding.

(About Tom Cruise: I have nothing against him, but everytime I see him in a movie I can't quite get over the fact that he's Tom Cruise. I never see him as the character he's playing... which can be a bit jolting sometimes. )

Flying to Vermont on Monday. I wish I could muster up some enthusiasm, but I really don't want to go this time. I just want to stay here. Ugh.

Also, changed my celphone number. John and I are now on a family plan, which means we share our minutes, text messages, etc. It also means we get unlimited talktime for nights (after 9), weekends, and mobile to mobile calls.

I'm going to post my "year-end reflection" later on today. Stay tuned.

My head hurts like HELL.

Somewhere around my right eye, to be specific. It starts on the upper righthand corner of the eyeball, and then it goes on right to the back of my head. A searing, burning pain that makes me feel like it's going to explode.

It was so bad last night that I was actually crying in my sleep. Plus, I felt a kind of motion sickness (which doesn't make sense since I was already lying down on my incredibly still and stable bed) that made me want to throw up, although I didn't. And about a half hour before that, I found my eyes suddenly sensitive to light. I had to turn everything off -- to the point that nobody could see anything anymore.

Help.

Oh boy. I just got my first BAD review from Alex, and like all the serious teachers I've met here, he does not mince words. He said my recent submission was a disappointment and the most lackluster thing I've ever handed in. He also said there's a "strange disorganizing principle in my intellectual work" right now. Oh boy. Good thing I've got a thick hide.

Well, that's the writer's life for you. We're not machines after all. Sometimes it works, sometimes it's shit. Right now, only rejection slips are consistent. (And everyone says they'll probably be there for better or for worse, till death do us part.)

I feel a bit bad, of course, but on the other hand, I'm glad too, because that makes his praise of previous work that much more credible. He wasn't just spewing out confidence-building, generic crap. It was for real, and that makes me smile. If I start writing shit, he'll tell me I'm writing shit, and that's the kind of objectivity I need from a mentor.

I don't want gentleness when it comes to writing. I already know I have what it takes. Now I need to know how to use what I have wisely and well. Spare me the wishy-washy words and just help me get to where I want to go.

Sound arrogant? Well, that I probably am. But then again, where would all the great people of this world be without a little conceit?

Anyway, back to the drawing board. Stories must be written.