901

This is is my 901st post.

I made chocolate chip oatmeal cookies yesterday, and let me tell you, they were damn good. They looked good too. I made them big and flattish - crisp on the outside, chewy on the inside. This was the best damn cookie recipe I've ever concocted.



I also made paella. It was my first time, so it wasn't exactly perfect, but it was pretty good nonetheless. The only major issues were that it ended up a little too wet, and I hadn't plated it well. I should have reserved extra shrimp, fish, mussels, etc to go on top. I should have also made the pieces of chicken a little browner. I will definitely make this again, though!



Note: Did you know that our insistence on saying the "ll" sound in paella as "pa-el-ya" can be traced to the old Castillian pronunciation? My mom says "pa-e-ya" is mexican, while "pa-el-ya" is castillian, and research proves she's partly right. Pronouncing the "ll" as "ly" is, apparently, arhaic Castillian. It survives as a dialect in some parts of the Iberian peninsula, but that's it. When I was in Spain, it was almost always pa-e-ya. You heard pa-el-ya here and there, but there wasn't a lot of it.

It's a little odd isn't it, though? We say "ka-bal-ye-ro" for "caballero" (ca-ba-ye-ro) and "pol-yo" for pollo (po-yo), but we say "ka-ba-yo" for horse, and in spanish, that's spelled "caballo", with the double l too. It's almost like how we sometimes replace the "ch" sound with an "s", as in chayote and sayote, and chili and sili. Anyone have any thoughts on this?Chewy%20Chocolate%20Chip%20Oatmeal%20Cookies.docx

ho-hum

I'm writing fiction again. Hooray. I can already hear the exultations from the citizens of my mind.

It's hard going, though. It was so much easier before I went to grad school. In Manila, the writing world was so small that failure never seemed permanent. There's like a funny layer of mutual admiration there there that really insulates you from the reality of multiple rejection slips. Back then, I operated under the impression that hard work and (a little bit of) talent was enough.

How wrong I was.

In New York, it almost seems like everyone's a writer. Everyone's a member of some writing group. Everyone's crossed cities/countries/continents to grab a bit of a dream. Everyone's got a story of how they've huddled up with a tattered duvet in a low-rent apartment with the heat off in winter, burning the proverbial midnight oil to finish their various masterpieces while they worked a string of midnight jobs on the side, waiting for their big break into the literary world. Everyone's made some kind of heartbreaking sacrifice. And everyone's willing to do whatever else it takes.

When I was an editorial assistant for one of those artsy small presses in Brooklyn, I sometimes scanned through manuscript submissions in the throw pile. And really, some of them were damn good. The amount of quality writing constantly pouring in from all over the world was just amazing. The talent that was pounding on the door was, well, sobering to say the least. Yeah, I learned how to become a better writer in New York, but I also had to come face to face with the "competition", and that encounter has left me, let's face it, incredibly insecure.

Nowadays, when I write, I can't help feeling the pressure from genius (and already published) classmates, some of whom have been awarded $40,000 grants and $100,000 advances. I can't stop myself from hearing the voices of award-winning authors (aka NYU professors) berating me in my head. And it's hell, I tell you. Writing is already hard enough as it is. I don't need an imaginary audience second guessing my every word.

And yet, here I am, once again submitting myself to torture. Heh. I'm hopeless, aren't I?

i miss being weird

Last night, John and I had a home-cooked meal. Which shouldn't really be noteworthy, except a.) nothing happens to me anymore and that's the best I've got, and b.) it was bone-in gator.

Yep, that's bone-in alligator, which, incidentally, I marinated and cooked myself.

I must admit, I was a bit distracted during the slicing and prepping process. I couldn't help myself from wondering about the particular gator that had supplied the meat I was so efficiently mutilating. Was it farm-raised or wild? Had it been reared on a diet of politically correct cornmeal and some kind of fishy swamp hash? Or had it eaten rats, or bunnies, or even people? I shook my head in disgust and continued to cut the "tenderloin" into itty bitty pieces.

And then I marinated the pieces in kecap manis and a handful of still unknown spices, dredged the little nuggets in flour, and fried them to a crisp.

Tasted just like chicken, with less calories. Finger lickin' good... if you don't think about it too much.

Hah. Gotta love that Chinatown.

paperblanks

The Paperblanks Company makes the best journals, bar none.

Their journals (and dayplanners) are available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble, and they really are gorgeous.

I'm using the Generatio from the Book of Kells series right now:



It's very pretty, and the binding (hand-stitched) is unique and practical at the same time - the journal can lie completely flat on a writing surface without much force. Plus the hardcover makes it surprisingly durable and the paper is a nice weight. You can use up to a medium point fountain pen with almost no marking.

I know some people might think that $13 for a notebook is a bit of a luxury, but hey, I like pretty things.

I'm think of getting this next:

yeash

Your Brain is Purple

Of all the brain types, yours is the most idealistic. You tend to think wild, amazing thoughts. Your dreams and fantasies are intense. Your thoughts are creative, inventive, and without boundaries. You tend to spend a lot of time thinking of fictional people and places - or a very different life for yourself.

What Color Is Your Brain?

Of course it is.

new york, new york.

Man, do I miss New York.

As the old aphorism goes, I may have grown up in Manila, but I grew up in NYC.

And boy do I miss it.

I miss Kura and Meskerem and Sunshine Cinema and Angelika Theater and even the dingy dumpling place 2 blocks from the F on Houston. I miss spending my mornings browsing through books in The Strand. Man. I even miss the old libraries. And Washington Square Park. And Macdougal. And Bleeker. And Horus.

I miss our picnics in Long Island and driving to Jones Beach (hay, how I mocked you then...). I miss Lillian's Pizza on the corner, and the wine shop down the block where they know me so well, they don't even ask me for ID. Hay. A slice o' regular and a good bottle of moscato. NY Bliss.

I miss my porkchop special from Lai Fan and roti canai from Penang's. I miss authentic samosas and fried pork buns. I miss kabobs sold on the street by old Greek men in Astoria. I miss pigging out on kilos of meat in Brazilian churrascarias. I miss turkish baba ganoush and hummus. I miss the vast array of food waiting just outside my apartment... every single cuisine in the world ripe for my picking. I miss fantastically good food on the cheap. (Yes, New York City can be had on a good shoestring, if you know where to look!)

I miss the free paper they give out on the subway every weekday morning. I miss the nice old trees on good old Groton street.

I miss dressing as wildly as I want without having to worry about people giving me strange looks while walking on a busy street. I miss the edgy fashion. I miss the plethora of used book shops and vintage stores. I miss Beacon's Closet. I miss H&M on 14th. I miss the oh-so unique vibe of the city. New York makes you feel alive. New York makes you feel like greatness is literally on your door step and everything you want is but an arm's reach away. Living in New York makes you feel like you're living in the center of the world.

I really miss New York. I'm a bit taken aback by just how much I miss it, actually. Then again, I really shouldn't be surprised. After all, it was in one of the walk-ups in the village that I found my voice. It was in a semi-underground restaurant in downtown Manhattan where I found love. It was in that city that I truly realized that we live in a lovely, lovely world. I found a "me" there that couldn't have existed anywhere else. It will always be my second home.

Hay. I {heart} NYC.

nothing. sad.

Nothing happens to me anymore. And I'm much too young to start living in the past.

***

Off-tangent, I now have Vista installed on my lappy. It's very nice. Reminds me (vaguely) of the Mac OS. We're still not sure if we're going to install Vista on all the computers though. John says I can play around with this for a month, and then we'll see.

Hello, queso de bola.

Because it's nearly Valentine's day (that day where humanity somehow feels compelled to pay homage to melodramatic sentiment), here's something I churned out about a lifetime ago. Warning, this is a bit PG-13 (due to violent language). Obviously written during the crescendo of my adolescent angst. Think of it what you will. I merely offer it to the gods.

****

Love songs aren't pretty when they're lived out. Lyrics speak nothing of the pain stretched out in perpetua, the anger mixed into the passion, the violence intertwined with the intensity. They speak of the happiness, and the broken hearts, and the healing, and the moving on, but they never tell you about the wasting away because your heart was never broken. Because your heart was too strong. So instead it keeps on beating against the odds. Even if the one it beats for has already left. Lyrics speak nothing of that kind of emptiness.

No, you learn that for yourself.

You learn it in the middle of the night, wondering if you're the only one on this goddamn earth who actually means her forevers. You learn it when you're watching him play with his kids, a father to someone else's children. You learn it when you watch him struggle with his life, a life he no longer lives alone, leaving you no place in it.

You learn it in the way he looks at you, empathy mixed with compassion. You learn it in the way he holds your hand, like a child with a new-found friend. You learn it in the immediacy of every moment, because every single second you spend together is devoid of a future.

You learn it in silence, because you are not like them who can transfer love like a goddamn potted plant. You learn it in silence because you are not like them who will let time heal all wounds. Because you know your love is not a fucking wound.

You learn it when you're restraining your fingers from touching his face, when you're holding back the words that want to spill out from the madness inside you, when you're smiling like a baboon because he remembered to ask you about your migraine.

You learn it with all the dents on all your pillows, with all the games you play, with all the customized mystique and the meaningless secrets. You learn it with every choice you make because it's a choice you make without him in the horizon. You learn it when you wake up in the morning because he's not there. You learn it when it's someone else's hand holding yours, someone else's lips kissing yours, someone else's body on top of yours in some goddamn car in an empty parking lot.

And you learn it every fucking day. A lesson rammed down your head every fucking day. A pain that threatens to swallow you every fucking day. An image of him in your mind you kiss every fucking moment of every fucking day.

You learn to say that you're getting better. You learn to get over him. You learn to get over him over and over. You learn to remember to forget. You learn to lie to yourself.

And you yearn for an end to it all. You feel like every piece of you is screaming for this to stop. You feel it eating at you every time you try to breath.

Yet you learn to exist in your anguish. To live with it. To live with it over and over. You learn to smile and grit your teeth and go on learning.

Maybe you will learn to live without him wreaking havoc on your thoughts. Maybe you will get married and have your own children. Maybe you will even learn to love another man. But you know that although both loves may be true, their truths will not be the same.

You are a twisted kind of martyr who revels in her misery. Who will content herself with bits and pieces. Who will offer herself on his altar.

You are the princess who will wait in her tower until she rots into a forgotten corpse. You are the prince who will never be able to rescue the only one who really matters. You are the witch who will die unfulfilled.

But not defeated. Never defeated.

Because your love is yours. It does not belong to this world. It does not bow down to anything or anyone. You love the only way you know how. You love the only way you can let yourself love. And you mean forever. Beyond till death do us part.

And because you love him, you will let your demands remain unanswered. You will not collect on promises. You will not make him turn his back on his choices. You will not gnaw your way into his life like a fucking rat.

You will let him move on while he sweeps his footsteps in the sand, so that no one will know he was ever there. You will forgive him for doing what he must. You will forgive him for making you into a memory. You will forgive him for tucking that memory into a dark corner of his mind. You will understand.

And you will give him the only gift left for you to give -- a life bursting at the seams, filled with contentment and paved roads and shining smiles. Without space for you in it.

A gift you will learn to pay for in full. Slowly. One agonizing bittersweet day at a time.

Disclaimer: Lines in italics are not my own. Credit goes to the authors of "Wasted" (Issue #4), stupid clichés, "Einstein's Dreams", over-used wedding vows, and "The God of Small Things". Some were paraphrased.

are we ever as smart as we thought when we were 15?

Sadly, it seems my life has started to resemble a bad string of ever worsening wake-up calls, and the end is nowhere in sight. And that really is just a euphemism for saying I've had to progressively lower expectations as I've gotten older - about the world, about myself, and about, well, my reality.

I wanted to be Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, Margaret Atwood, and Jeanette Winterson COMBINED by age 25. Hah, good luck with that. I'll be lucky if I ever get a REAL publishing deal by age 60 - and no, ghostwriting gigs and "The Babysitters Club meets The X-Files" type propositions do not count.

Today I woke up with the strange (but admittedly not unfamiliar) sense that there are parts of myself I will NEVER, ever, be able to get back. You know, the roads diverged, I took one path, and that's it. My life is irrevocably changed. Forever and ever amen. And it's not until much later that we realize that our life is not merely the sum of our choices, it's also the sum of choices not made. It's not just what we do that matters, sometimes it's what we don't do (a result of laziness, apathy, etc) that counts most of all. It's not just the various presences in our lives. It's also the absences. Sometimes what isn't there is the best motivation of all... empty spaces can take on meanings beyond normal comprehension. And then we find ourselves commandeered by vacuity. But you already knew that, didn't you? And plus, I digress.

There are other things to be, I sometimes tell myself. It's not too late. There are other dreams to dream.

But I don't quite believe myself when I say that.

For better or worse, I am a writer, that's all. In a way, my talent has almost no bearing on this reality. I set the definition, I claimed the title, and it has seeped into my Self. That is the choice I made, that is the life I gave myself. That is the yardstick by which I measure my continuously evolving world. That is my paradigm. That is the "I" I chose (and the one I KEEP on choosing), and that is who I have become. Talent (or lack of) be damned. That's all.

Yes, a logical, practical part of my brain says I can change direction, take another job, and never speak of this again for the rest of my life, and in that way I will be rid of this identity forever. But the wiser part of me is adamant that I will know. It assures me that I will also know that ignoring the truth will not make it untrue. Truth to tell, the wiser part of me is a little sentimental, but that's what makes it fun. Sometimes it's even inclined to think that being a writer is not a choice but rather a decree of fate (destiny, the hand of god, what have you), but I'm not really as gullible as all that. Am I?

I am a writer and unfortunately for me, that is the end of it. All that's left now is to fail or to succeed, to be good or bad, to write dreams or churn out press releases. All that's left is to choose where this path ends. Because I can't get off the road anymore. I'm not sure I could survive it... and even if I tried, I know full well that the person I would have dragged out of here would no longer be me. Who would I be without the cacophony of voices in my head? So I guess all that's left is to see this damn thing through.

I am a writer. I just don't know what kind. Will I be a literary success? A mainstream sellout? An unpublished failure? A starving and unvindicated Van Gogh? A random byline? A mediocre author lost in the labyrinth of obscurity? Who the hell knows?

In the end, I can only write and hope for the best. I have to leave the reading - and the judging - up to you.

And that's the scariest thought of all.

But don't mind me. I'm just talking to myself.

My Brother's Getting MARRIED.

The wedding's going to be on June 2, 2007 at the increasingly popular Transfiguration Chapel at the Dominicans' Caluerga Compound just a couple of minutes outside Tagaytay. The reception is probably going to be at the Chateau Royale which is really just a hop and a skip away.

It's going to be pretty small by Philippine standards. Small and intimate. There are only going to be around 100-150 guests. The color motif is periwinkle. And I think I'm going to be a bridesmaid.

That's all for now.

Moving

Let's see now. I lived in Pasay City for the first 3 or 4 years of my life, then moved to Las Pinas for the next 6 or 7. Then my family and I shuffled through 6 or 7 different houses in Paranaque for the next 8 years. Then I moved out to Katipuan (Quezon City) for college. For half a year or so during that time, I lived in a place called Dormitoryana, and after that, I moved into an apartment down the street with a bunch of high school friends. Then I went back to Paranaque for less than a year, then moved abroad and lived with an aunt in New Jersey to pursue further studies. But that didn't work out, so after less than two months, I moved to Manhattan. Then I moved to Astoria, then Forest Hills. I guess I must have lived in the great city of New York for a total of about 3 and a half years, give or take.

And now I'm on my fifth month here in Las Vegas, Nevada. Bleh.

Talk about moving. I was programmed to be a nomad.