milkshake

For this one, Mr. Tenorio challenged us to write a shorty in three paragraphs. Here's the prompt: an aging professor is recently denied his tenure in a small university in a small town, and the professor is now sitting in a bar, thinking about it. The first paragraph must have at least five sentences and must cover a maximum of ten minutes of his life, the second paragraph must not have more than five sentences and must cover a minimum of five years of his life, and the last paragraph must show him hailing a taxi to go home.

The idea is to stretch time like in Raymond Carver's short "The Cathedral".

***


Tom Willis fingered the rim of his glass. It was his third milkshake. His first one was chocolate. “I need the happiness,” he said to the bartender, “And nothing else gives me bliss like a healthy serving of chocolate.” The second one was strawberry. “Because pink is such a lovely color. Like my bedroom,” he said to a man who sat beside him. The man moved two bar stools away after an awkward silence. And now it was vanilla. “Like most aspects of my life.” Tom ran his right middle finger around the mouth of the tall glass, tracing it. With his right thumb and index finger, he held the white bendy straw that jutted out of the snowy top of the milkshake. Tom slowly pulled it out, concentrating on the lush squishing sounds that the straw made as it slid out of the calorie fountain. He had asked for whole milk. He needed to binge, at least tonight. Some of the vanilla goodness stuck to the straw. Tom put the straw near his lips and licked it clean, the sweetness transferred to his tongue. He grasped the cold, hard, clear acrylic glass and put its mouth to his and began to swallow the icy content. He needed to binge. At least tonight.

After twenty years of teaching, nay, dedicating his life to that dismal Liberal Arts College, in that dismal, provincial town, Tom’s tenure was denied. As soon as he got to his apartment he had been renting on a monthly basis, he packed his bags and took the first plane to Reno where his parents were. As the plane made a descent to Reno-Tahoe International Airport, he felt himself waking up from a nightmare. No more close-minded students, no more pesky colleagues, and no more board of ungrateful school directors smelling of cheap colognes. He smiled as he remembered his exact words to the members of that board when he announced his resignation.

Tom looked at his third glass of milkshake. It was half empty. He was smiling now but it was a different kind of smile from the one on the plane. That one had been a smile of small victory. This one was a smile of great defeat. Tom lifted his head and he caught the eyes of the bartender. The bartender couldn’t be more than thirty. He had red hair that matched his neatly trimmed beard and eyes that had that proverbial sparkle. But he was only a bartender, Tom thought. A bartender wouldn’t know Moby Dick if he sat on one. But he was so full of life, unlike Tom, who, by now, was wasted and drowning in unforgivably high amount of calories. But Tom couldn’t care less. Let those years of working out be damned. He would stop dying his hair to hide the silvering lines. The bartender was still smiling at Tom, but Tom couldn’t read his smile. Was it an ironic smile? Tom couldn’t tell. In a week, after daily visits to the bar, after sitting on the same place every time, the bartender would strike a conversation with Tom and Tom would learn that his name was Jerry and they would laugh, and that would be Tom’s first real laugh in six years. In a month, Jerry and Tom would kiss, and Jerry would tell Tom how he had fallen in love with a sad-looking man who looked like Ernest Hemingway and had three milkshakes in a row and Tom would cry on Jerry’s chest and they would talk about The Old Man and the Sea. But for now, Tom only smiled back at the bartender, finished his milkshake, paid the tab, and walked out of the bar to hail a cab that would take him back to his parents’ home.

***

tuxedo

For this assignment, we were challenged to write by borrowing a "template" in Sabrina Murray's short story "The Caprices". The elements that need to be there are: "This could be any...", "What you are witnessing here is...", and "It is a/an ... (time of the day) in ... (year)".

And here's what I came up with. 

***

This could be any concentration camp. The dank and dirty smell that fills any newcomers’ eyes with acrid water and grants the nose a sense of cherished numbness could be scented in any camp. The big door swings open and soon the inhabitants of the camp are roused from their meandering dreams and daydreams. One by one, their cell doors are opened and they are led outside. Some, the youths and the elderlies, are celebrating in their hearts, hoping for freedom, but others know better. Outside, a grave has been dug. This is the last time they are going to see the rays of the sun. Still, no one fights when they are placed inside a chamber, bones pressing against one another. They are too tired, too weak, too ready to give their last breaths away in exchange of a momentary release, for a little peace. Their rib and hip bones stick to their skin as if they were bosom buddies. The gas seeps in, an apparition that brings more than terror, but some of the prisoners don’t mind. Maybe at last this is their release, their little peace. 

What you are witnessing here is just a day on the job in a kill shelter. 

A gangly old man in a blue jumpsuit and a gas mask that hides his face opens the door of the metal chamber and shovels the bodies of the dogs inside a brown burlap bag. His assistant, a young man still in college, as lanky as the older man, has dug a big hole in the ground in the shelter’s vicinity. It is his first day there and he didn’t ask why. He just did what he was told to do and now he has a million feelings inside his head, and heart, and gut. The older man has been doing this for ten years and he can’t remember what he felt when he first assisted the execution. He remembers the thrills of chasing after strays, and this he tells his young colleague like a parent telling bed time stories to a child. 

He sees the young man’s knees shake but he doesn’t scoff. Instead, he puts a gloved hand on the assistant’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze, quietly acknowledging the uneasiness. We still have the other room to do, he says, but let me take a cigarette break first. 

It is an afternoon in 2012.   

The younger man nods as the senior hands him the burlap bag, heavy with bones and skins and blood, but devoid of life and emotions and breath. The older man opens his gas mask and his blond beard springs to life, catching the light as he walks outside. As soon as the older man turns the corner and vanishes out of sight, the younger man runs to the other room, the one next to the dogs’. 

It takes him a moment to open the door, a longer moment to process what he is looking at, and an even longer moment to know what he feels he has to do. Then he sees a little cage dead right in front of him, of a white cat nursing a black and white kitten. And he feels his feet move toward the cage. 

***

Moral of the story: Adopt, don't buy. Hopefully this photo of a caged dog will change your mind. 

the year 2011 in review

January 2011: Arriving in San Francisco, CA for 5 months of unknown future with EF

***

February 2011: Playing hooky from school and taking American Tribal Style® General Skills, Teacher Training 1 & 2 at FatChanceBellyDance® thus fulfilling a very, very large dream

***

March 2011: Experiencing Spring Break and more rain in California (AKA: Nothing much happened but I just put something in here anyway to fill in the void. And I think the photo is pretty).

***

April 2011: Receiving an acceptance letter to the Creative Writing - Fiction MFA program at St. Mary's College of California, thus fulfilling another large dream.

***

May 2011: Playing hooky YET AGAIN by going to the most awesome dance festival on Earth: Tribal Fest!

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June 2011: EF Graduation and flying back to Indonesia

***

July 2011: Being tattooed for the first time (AND DEFINITELY NOT THE LAST!)

and

July 2011: Teaching FatChanceBellyDance® format of American Tribal Style® for the first time

***

August 2011: Flying back to California

***

September 2011: Starting school

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October 2011: Performing with BlueDiamondsBellyDance, student troupe of FatChanceBellyDance®, at Tannourine Restaurant.

***

November 2011: Performing with BlueDiamondsBellyDance again, this time with live music by Helm. Also at Tannourine.

***

December 2011: Finishing the first semester at St. Mary's College and dancing at a surprise party for the proposal of a dance sister (Photo courtesy of Aaron Suedmeyer)

***

Well, so I guess it has been a pretty good year. I don't have a list of resolutions for 2012. All I know is that I'm just going to focus on dancing and writing.

And... Probably having flatter stomach.

See you next year and Happy New Year!

let them eat fruitcake: the confession

So, here is the second part of the Jennifer Egan-ish version of using time. Here's the link to the previous part.

Again, this is from Rosemary Graham's class when we were to write two episodes, each for one character and later reveal the relationship(s) between the two. I've written about the older character, and now here's the younger.

***

“Craig, I want you to meet someone,” Janice, my boss at De Young Museum said as I was just laying a piece of fabric on my work table.

“I’ve heard great things about you,” an older woman said, extending her right hand.

“Ms... Ms. Marshy,” I said, startled. “How do you do?” and we shook hands, I felt a firm grip for a woman of her age. I looked at Janice who smiled proudly at me.

Carolena Marshy was a legend. She had been the curator of the textile wing at the museum ever since it was opened and Janice was her protégé. I was told that she once gathered 25 fabric restorers, including Janice, to work day and night so De Young could present its vintage French lace and damask collection. The team pulled it off in just two weeks. The mere thought of seeing and basking in the luxurious views of endless rows of antique lace and burnt velvets made my heart flutter. Ms. Marshy was responsible to begin the heydays for fabric restorers. In a recent interview at a local paper, she said that nobody was taking the job seriously anymore and she felt concerned that it was going to be a lost art.

“He’s been working here for just four months and he’s done wonders in restoring the old Uzbekistan Saye Goshas,” Janice said.

“Yes. I saw his work last month when I visited the museum,” Ms. Marshy said, nodding her acknowledgement.

“Oh, God. I don’t know if I can accept that praise,” I said, ironically looking over at Kimberly and Miller, my two seniors who dumped everything on me. They were in it for the galas, free-flow booze, and mingling with the socialites, they said. I was tempted to tell them they should’ve become poets instead, because they would’ve gotten away with less work and more booze, but I just shut my mouth.

“And modest too,” Janice added. Ms. Marshy smiled. I cringed, worried they would sniff a layer of fakeness.

“Ah, Tulle bi Telli. You’re in for a treat!” Ms. Marshy exclaimed as she saw what I was about to work on: a half-century-old Egyptian tulle shawl with bits of silvery and golden metal pounded and woven into it in geometric shapes as well as figures of the sun, the palm trees, and the huts, making the wearer look as if she or he was draped in liquid silver or gold. These days, two yards of this thing could fetch up to two thousand dollars.

“Yes. This one is in pretty bad shape,” I said, pointing at the holes on the ecru colored fabric and some pieces of metals that were missing. “But still, she’s really pretty.” I must have said that sheepishly because Janice and Ms. Marshy chuckled. I could feel the warmth of her eyes behind those thick lenses. The wrinkles around her lips deepened as she smiled.

“He’s restored three so far,” Janice said.

“That’s seventeen more to go,” I sighed. “And we’re only given ten days.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can do it,” Ms. Marshy said. “Well, off you go, then. You need to get this thing finished before next week so we could preview it, yes?” There was benevolence in her firm, commanding voice.

I nodded. I saw Janice and Ms. Marshy walked around the room but didn’t bother to say hi to Kimberly and Miller who suddenly found something to work on to look busy. I smiled deeply at this, suddenly feeling that I had the best job and the boss in the world, even though I was sure I’d go blind in ten years. And this I confided in Ms. Marshy on the opening night twelve days later when De Young showcased its Egyptian Textile collection, including the twenty gleaming Tulle bi Telli. Ms. Marshy had the ecru with the heavy silvery metals draped around her as a shawl. And later, as we took our champagnes to a corner and let the guests mingle, I told her about how my fascination with fabrics actually began when a thirteen year-old Craig O’Reilly defied his father and bought his first Barbie doll with the money he had made from making pencil cases and tote bags from denim pants that no longer fit him.

***

let them eat fruitcake: closed door

My attempt to pull a Jennifer Egan's Visit from the Goon Squad. In the book, she plays with time to confuse the reader as to when and where the reader is. She does it so well, however.

For Rosemary Graham's class, we were to write two episodes, one for each character, and to reveal the connection(s), beginning with the older character.

***

Lilian sits at the dinner table. Across her is her husband, Duncan. Their two sons, Craig and Ben, are sitting on each side of the rectangle table. It’s a special night and they’re feasting, celebrating Lilian’s fortieth birthday and her and Duncan’s fourteenth anniversary.

She has cooked her famous Beggar Chicken, whole chicken stuffed with herbs and spices and wrapped inside thick layers of dough that preserves and simmers the aroma of the herbs and spices and forces them to blend and mix with the juices of the chicken. After an hour of roasting, when the loaf is sliced open, it reveals the naked skin of the chicken, glowing with a mouthwatering golden hue that first catches the eyes, then lets the nose agree, and finally makes the stomach demand.

The side dish is slices of Silk tofu with mushroom and thick vegetable broth. Lilian knows it’s Craig’s favorite dish. That’s why she made it. Craig first discovered it while they were at Uncle Tang’s. It was served under a different name, something that promises and celebrates good life with words as poetic as the ones written on the tiny paper inside the Fortune Cookie.

“Honey, this food is just… delicious,” Duncan says as he closes his eyes when the first forkful of chicken and herb and spices and warm white rice melts on his tongue. “Really. I’m at loss for words.”

“Don’t make that a habit. Or you lose in court and we go broke and can’t afford dinner,” Lilian answers with a grin. Duncan laughs so hard that his body shakes.

“I promise I won’t,” he says, and gazes lovingly into her eyes. “So, Craig, how’s school?” Duncan asks.

“Oh, not much. I’m… I’m joining the Sewing Circle,” Craig answers hesitantly. Lilian realizes that he hasn’t touched his tofu. He is just making circles around the broth, tracing the edges of the tofu with his chopsticks.

“Sewing?” Duncan asks, raising his left eyebrow. His smile faded. “For what?”

“Oh, I… I don’t know. Maybe I can patch the elbows of your jackets like the ones in the fancy catalogues, or make my own jacket, or make pencil cases and sell them at school,” Craig says. Lilian smiles softly at her elder son, ready to do business at such a young age, just like his mother.

“Why would you want to do that?” Duncan asks, interrogating Craig, like when he barrages questions into whoever is giving testimonies against his client in court.

“Oh, I don’t know. To make some money, I guess.”

“For what?” Duncan repeats. “So you can buy that Barbie doll? We’ve been through this and the answer is no. Not even with your own money!”

Suddenly, Lilian feels her face tensed and she looks at Craig. His head is bent down. He’s staring at the dish under his nose, still stirring it with detached intensity. She switches her gaze to Duncan. Her husband is still looking at their elder son. She can see rows of emotions flashing in Duncan’s eyes but she exhales her relief softly when she realizes no hatred is emanating from them. Just concern, confusion, and perhaps fear.

Craig sits there in silence.

“Stop playing with your food. Show your mother some respect and eat it. And Craig,” Duncan pauses, “Look at me.”

Lilian sees Craig lift his head and meet the gaze of his father.

“I never, ever want Roger to paint your nails again, do you hear?”

“But Dad, it’s clear polish!”

“Never again, Young Man, understood? It makes you look like a sissy,” Duncan hisses.

Craig nods, but stays silent. In fact, Craig stays silent the entire night, even as Ben exclaims that he was asked to join the Debate Club and Duncan slaps the table with a roaring and approving laughter, high-fiving his younger son who says he said yes. Craig stays silent even after he has finished his meal, even after he has finished helping Lilian wash the dishes. The silence follows him to his room and fades with him as he closes the door behind him.

That night, even through the thick wooden door and layers of blanket and pillow over Craig’s face, Lilian can hear his hiccupping sobs. And with great burden, she retreats her hand, cancelling the thought of knocking on the wood and taking her son in her arms and comforting him. And softly, she moves away from the door, letting Craig be with himself, as he has always been whenever he cries.

***

Second part will be published next week (it's written and scheduled!)

let them eat fruitcake: setting sun (spin-off)

This is the spin-off / continuation of the Lady of Two Lands piece that I wrote for Ms. Graham's class. For this assignment, we're told to do yet another Point of View change, so I chose to write it from another time too so it can all make sense.

Please bear in mind that this is a work of fiction. The characters are (presumably) real, but the events depicted are (probably) fictitious.

***

I watched Amma from the door of the chamber that had been left ajar. She was being helped to lie on her bed after the maids had finished putting on her royal blue crown and scarab necklace. The bed was a gift from a Hittite King whose name I could never remember nor pronounce. It was made of fine fragrant wood, strong and sturdy and never gave signs of tear even after years of being jumped on by her seven daughters, including me. Then from the corner of her eye, she spotted me.

“Ankhsenpaaten,” she said, calling my name. A smile crescented on her full lips. She stretched her arms, calling me inside the room. I pushed the heavy wooden door and strode in. I was no longer a child, for I had been made a woman, a queen, ever since the ruling Pharaoh, my cousin, made me his Great Royal Wife. But then and there, as I half-hopped inside the room, I felt like a little girl. Amma patted the cushion next to her bed, signaling me to sit. I obliged.

“I never really like my new name, Amma,” I said, looking down at my fingers that interlaced on my lap. I felt her steady gaze on me, like Aten shining all over Kemet, our land.

“That is why, when we are alone, I always call you by your old name, not Ankhsenamun. You have always been a gift of Aten, not of Amun. Nevertheless, times have changed. The people have been trying to return to the olden ways, the ways of yesteryears. And your husband has been nothing but very supportive of destroying what Akhenaten, your father, our one true king, had established during his reign,” Amma said.

“I miss Abba,” I replied as I lift my head to meet Amma’s gaze. She smiled, her lips curving like the shape of the scimitar.

“I miss him too. But now I’m taking solace in the thought that we will soon be together again,” She replied.

A soft knock was heard from the door and we saw a hunched figure. It was Ife, our loyal maid. She was wrapped in white garment, her hair covered with white shawl. “It is time, N’abat Imet,” she addressed Amma in her usual greeting: Lady of Grace. Amma and I looked out the window and saw the sun setting.

“It is time,” Amma said, taking my hands and giving them a faint squeeze. I felt the squeeze right to my heart that pumped tears down my eyes. “Binti,” she called me. Daughter. “Mer itin, mer itin,” she repeated. You are beloved to me, you are beloved to me. And we choked in our tears.

“By Aten, we must not cry. Our eye paint is starting to run,” she said and laughed as she looked at my face. I laughed as I looked at her and Amma took a soft papyrus and with her frail, trembling fingers, dabbed at the runny blackness from under my eyes. I gently took the papyrus from her fingers and dabbed at her under eyes, erasing the traces of the manifestation of her sadness. “I’m sure that barbaric whore is laughing at my demise right now,” Amma chuckled, reminiscing of how she had banished Kiya, Abba’s other wife and Amma’s rival back to Mitanni where she came from. “I’m sure that she sent dark barbaric magic that brought me this disease.”

“Let’s not talk about her, Amma,” I sighed.

“My Queen,” Ife said, rushing us. Amma nodded. I leaned over and kissed her forehead. Then, unknown to me, she lifted her arms and placed them around me, drawing me closer to her, and we embraced. I felt our blood bonded, our hearts pulsing of anticipation and anxiety of the unknown future and fate that lied before us. Even when being faced by something so inevitable and so absolute, I knew that we both knew not of the certainty in it. I knew we both knew not if it was Aten, Amun, or Anubis who was guarding it. I knew that we both did not want to let go of our embrace. But I also knew that we had to. And so I let her go.

“Through whatever adversity, whatever clouded judgment the men of the house of Amarna have, remember that they always turn to us for advice, for support, for truly it has always been the matriarchs of this house that rule Kemet,” was the last thing she said to me.

At daybreak when I came to her chamber to mourn, she had disappeared. Nobody knew where her corpse was taken and laid by the few who were loyal to her. My husband became very busy giving orders to destroy all marks of my parents, even when I was sitting beside him, grieving like a cow mad from the rays of the desert sun. He could order the people of Kemet to destroy every statue, every cartouche, every hieroglyphic remnant of Akhenaten and Nefertiti and erase them from history, but he would never burn the temple that I had set up in my heart for Amma and Abba.

***

Also note that although I'm trying to find the exact words for "mother", "father", "daughter", and "I love you" in ancient Egyptian, I think I may have failed.

The photo shows Ankhsenamun (right) and her husband Tutankhamun.

let them eat fruitcake: n'abat t'awy (lady of two lands)

For this piece, we were to choose a historical figure (non-psychotic, so I couldn't use Elizabeth Bathory and Vlad the Impaler), research the figure to get as much detail as possible about his/her life, characteristics, etc, then to write a scene using the historical figure and the information we had acquired.

I decided to tie in my historical figure with my piece so far for Ms. Graham's class.

***

There is power.

Do you sense it?

There is power within every inch of this bronze skin. There is power on every end of these long fingers. There is power within the beckoning of your brown eyes. There is power.

Do you feel it?

There is power within every arch of your eyebrows. There is power within every strand of your eyelashes. There is power within every hair on your arms, or on the back of your neck.

You must use that power, exercise it beyond the ability of ordinary woman. You must harvest it, harness it, pull it close to your heart, claim it as your own, and share it among your people.

This power will be multiplied as paint and stones and textiles decorated and draped over your exterior.

Wadj. Green. Painted over your upper eyelids to represent the fertility that your reign will bring. Not just the fertility of the soil and land, but of women and men, to deliver boys and girls that will glorify the nation by being farmers, fishermen, warriors. Aten has spoken.

Shesep. White. Painted under your brow bone to show your omnipotence, over your people, and our enemies. Aten has spoken.

Kem. Black. Painted to frame your eyes to signify death. The death of your husband, your king, the king of your people. Aten has spoken.

Nebu. Gold. Dusted over your face and body, to ensure your people and warn your enemies that this woman is indestructible. Aten has spoken.

Hedj. White. The garment draped over your body to represent purity. For you shall rule with a pure heart of a mother, a daughter, and a queen. Aten has spoken.

Desher. Red. The color of life and victory. Intertwined with Mef’at, Turquoise, symbol of power of protection. Desher and Mef’at and nebu coiled around your neck. For you embody the three aspects. Aten has spoken.

Khepresh Irtiu. The blue cap crown. Placed over your head as a symbol of the righteousness of your title, the queen of Egypt by your own right, the successor of your husband, your king, the king of your people. Adorned by the serpent, Amduat, who swallows the sun and gives rise to night. The serpent ensures your people and warns your enemies that this woman rules night as well as day. Aten has spoken.

And finally, Kheper. The Scarab. On your chest. Your talisman. Your amulet. The symbol of resurrection of your husband, your king, the king of your people, within you, from you.

Now, open your eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Roger!” I screamed as I opened my eyes and took a look at the face in the mirror. I then looked at Roger who was standing beside my dressing table, grinning widely like a sexually-charged Cheshire Cat.

“Like it? I got the costume from a friend who worked at San Francisco Opera. None of that cheap, Halloween-store stuff. Nope. This is the haute-couture of stage costuming.” he said. “Don’t spill wine all over it.”

I didn’t know how to react. Late in August when I went to Roger’s office, he had put up pictures of Nefertiti, the Egyptian queen, on his door. The image of that woman, with her long neck, defined jaws and cheekbones, conjured a sense of otherworldly regality, and I told Roger that I wanted to be her for Halloween.

Then on Samhain eve, there he was on my door, begging me to come to a Halloween party at Limelight, the local gay bar we used to go to, thinking that it might cheer me up, telling me that he needed to get laid. I told him that I’d been cheered up from my recent trip to see my mother and brother. But Roger opened his bag and got out a flowing white toga and a blue tall cap adorned with golden snake ringlet. Then he proceeded to color my face as he told me the story of the great woman whose skin I would be wearing that night. I had become the Lady of Two Lands.

“Now, remember what Salt & Peppa said, ‘Carry yourself like a queen and you will attract a king,’” he winked.

“But I thought my king had died and Nefertiti had been banished,” I said in confusion.

“Well, there’s bound to be some half-naked hunk dressing up as an undead pharaoh,” he suggested. I wasn’t sure of the prospect or whether I would want to look for someone.

“What are you dressing up as anyway?” I asked. Roger took out a false beard and a papier-mache mask from his bag and held them up. I frowned.

“What? Craig, all the younger queens are probably going to dress up as Gaga or Minaj while the older hags will strut around as Barbra or Cher, or worse, Liza. No one will think of showing up as this guy.”

“I thought you said you wanted to get laid. How are you going to get a guy when you dress up as… him?” I asked as Roger proceeded nonchalantly to put on the mask and the beard and a cowboy hat.

“Darling, it’s either him or Gertrude Stein. I would have so much fun being original even if I didn’t get off, anyway. And besides, I’m trying to attract a more intelligent crowd,” he said. But I had a feeling he would get lucky that night. If Roger could find someone to hook up with at the funeral of his own grandmother, he could sure get someone at that cruisy, meat-market club. Even in that Walt Whitman get-up.

***

Just a little correction that I got from the class: it's actually not a cowboy hat that Walt Whitman wore. Probably a better term would be floppy hat.

By the way, Happy Samhain!

And yes, this guy here on the left is Walt Whitman.

And I believe part of this writing, at least the first italicized part, is inspired by Annie Lennox's "Why" music video. And no, I don't know if the coloring ritual of ancient Egypt is the way I described. I just took the elements of the colors of Nefertiti's make-up and jewelry and apparel.

and then it sinks in

This frustration, this anger, this feeling of worthlessness, of being told that what you like, no, love to do, what you think you're good at, is actually the opposite, that you're just never going to get it, never going to create a value out of it, never going to show the importance of it, never going to convey it successfully, even if you are trying, attempting to leap over the boundaries, the long hours.

When it's all read and done, it's going to be locked up forever, or worse, thrown into the recycle bin, or the shredder, or deleted, if it's digital.

Where's the value of it? Where's the importance of it?

Will I ever get it? Will I ever succeed?

Addendum:
Do you want to know how this feels? Do you want to know? I've had gangrene taken out of me, I've had my skin slit opened so the pen could be installed to support my fractured bone, I've had my skin tattooed and the needled bored into my bones, I've had teeth taken out of my jaws, none of those is as painful as how this feels.

Do you want to know how this feels? Do you want to know? I've had suffered broken hearts, I've been cheated on, lied on, bullied, locked up, none of those is as painful as how this feels.

Do you know why? Because this feeling is intangible. Because the intangibility of this feeling seeps deep into my heart and rots it from inside, until it's left frozen, withered, barren, devoid of emotions, but not of pain.

But I don't know why, I don't know why this is happening to me. I don't know why I'm inflicting this upon myself and set myself up time and again. I don't know why I open my ears and my eyes to believe in what they're saying (perhaps because deep within me, I know it's true? Perhaps I'm in denial?).

Do you know why?

the photograph: that day

Now this one is a challenging assignment. For Ms. Graham's class, we were to write (or rewrite) a scene from Penelope Lively's The Photograph using Kath's point of view (first person or third person). I chose the third person point of view to agree with the overall feeling of the book (it is a lovely, somewhat devastating book, though) and picked up the chapter "That Day" from the novel.

WARNING: THIS REWRITE-UP CONTAINS SPOILERS OF THE MAJOR PLOT OF THE BOOK

***

The tides kept coming in, endlessly, like when Kath was a child, spinning in her full-circle ruched skirt. The pink ruffles flew around her, engulfing her as she spun and spun, faster and faster, then slower and slower, until she came to a complete stop and laughed as she tumbled down in her mother’s arms. It was a day in the field. Elaine was out there collecting flowers to take home to add in her catalogue of plants.

Her mother was long gone now and these weren’t those tides that took Kath to her happy place. These weren’t those tides.

The tides started in the morning. The first wave only brushed her toes and ankles. That was when Glyn woke up abruptly and complained why Kath hadn’t woken him up. The second one came when he refused to stay longer, just four minutes, for a boiled egg. It would only take her four minutes to gather her nerve to ask him the question and get his answer or tell him the statement and get his reply. The third wave came when they were at the door and, even after stalling him a bit, she still couldn’t conjure up her courage to say what she felt was needed to be said. She stopped short, suddenly wary of her insignificance but didn’t know how to assess nor confirm it, how to analyze it the way Glyn did. So she let him drive away.

The fourth wave came when she was washing the dishes. She dropped Glyn’s coffee mug and it fell into pieces. A ceramic shard cut her finger as she was picking up the debris. No, this can’t be happening to me. I can’t even do things right. Then she walked to a teak table, to a telephone that was on it, picked up the receiver and dialed a number. There was a pulsing tone on the other end.

Julia? Hi, this is Kath! Splendid! Listen, are you available to go to the pictures tonight? They’re showing something and the paper gives it rave reviews and… Oh? Oh, I’m sorry. I hope he gets better. Oh is that him crying? Alright, no, that’s fine, really. You take care and say hi to little Chris. Yes, ciao, darling!

And that was the fifth wave.

Kath put the receiver down. She had nothing to do. For the first time in her life, she really had nothing to do and no desire to fix the situation.

She went to the back porch and looked at the garden. The flowers, the plants, the landscape, they were all Elaine’s ideas. How Elaine had enthusiastically offered her help in designing Glyn and Kath’s square garden, and now, on the first autumn day, the bougainvillea was swathed in tiny pink blossoms, the red roses were swaying, dancing under the whispers and the blows of the cool wind, and the cherry tree Kath had planted earlier that year had grown. Elaine went berserk when she found out about the cherry tree. “It is out of place! It completely doesn’t match! The shades won’t give the roses enough sun they need when it grows tall!” she said, but Kath was determined and it was one of those rare moments when Elaine surrendered.

Kath sat there for hours. Looking at the garden. At the flowers. At the squirrels darting to and fro, collecting provisions for the upcoming winter. At the pigeons resting before flying to some place warmer. Then she went inside to the telephone. She knew she had to do it. If she couldn’t do it face to face, then she would do it using the phone. She would. She had to. So she dialed.

No answer, and the pulsing, promising tone gave way to busy. She dialed again, still the same. And again, and again, until…

Hello. Yes, this is Kath Peters, is Glyn there? No? Alright. No, that should be quite alright. In fact, no, could you just tell him that I called and if he could call back? Thank you. No, that’s it. Goodbye.

When she hung up, she felt the sixth wave coming in, this time sweeping up to her knees. Through the windows, she could see the short cherry tree. The tip of some leaves had started turning bright auburn, agreeing with the season. She dialed another number.

Hello, Sonia? Hi, this is Kath. Is Elaine there? Oh, when do you suppose she’ll return? Oh, alright. No. Sorry? Oh, no, just tell her I rang and if she could call back. Thank you. How are you? Oh, busy? I say. The garden is just lovely! Funny you should mention it. I was just looking at it and I thought I would give Elaine a call to say how it has turned out even lovelier than in summer. No, I can’t tell, but they look healthy. No, no hole in the leaves or anything, I suppose. Oh? Which one are those? Oh, the little colorful ones? That should be nice, I’ll look it up. Sorry? Oh, no, not at all. Well, thank you, Sonia. No, just tell her that. Yes. Alright. Goodbye.

The seventh wave reached up to her hips as Kath replaced the receiver.

She hung her head down and pressed her palms on the teak table. Then Kath turned her head towards another room, and walked to that room, toward a landing cupboard in the corner, the one stacked high with papers and what Glyn called low-use materials. She opened the cupboard, took a chair and placed it in front of the cupboard, and climbed on it, reached to the back of the top shelf. Her palm was slit repeatedly by the thin edge of the papers until she felt a folder. She pinched it between her index finger and her thumb and drew it out from its papery siblings.

Kath knew exactly what was inside the folder and so she didn’t open it. Instead, she took a pencil and with a few strokes, wrote a message in thin, capital letters on the front of the folder. Then she replaced it inside the shelf, safely hidden behind the papers, climbed down from the chair, and closed the cupboard. By this time, the eighth wave was already scooping in, covering her up to her stomach.

I can’t call Mary. I don’t need her affirmation. I know how she feels. Just like how Polly feels. But I need to know from Glyn. I need to know from Elaine.

Kath returned to the kitchen and saw the glass bowl stacked with fruit. Apples.

She recalled her conversation with Oliver that day as Polly was picking up windfall apples in Elaine’s garden. My heart is not broken. The thing is to move away. Before they change their minds. The ninth wave went up to her chest.

Apples.

When Kath was a child, her mother told her a story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. How Snow White ran away from her evil stepmother. How she ended up in the cabin that housed seven little people. How her evil stepmother, always hot on her trail, gave her a poisoned apple and eventually put her to sleep. How she was awakened by a prince, a passing prince who snobbishly and presumptuously roused her with true love’s kiss. Snow White had never known the prince and the prince had never known her. He was only attracted by her beauty. The prince had never known her, and therefore had never loved her. He was only attracted by her beauty. But Snow White loved him till the happy end.

That story did more to Kath than just refusing Jenny as her father’s new wife. Yet the deepest effect of that tale had been obscure to her, until this moment, when the tenth wave swallowed her up to her chin.

Kath stared at the red apples, stacked and piled one on top of the other. If only I could sleep.

She hadn’t eaten ever since breakfast but she didn’t feel hungry. She felt the emptiness inside her stomach, but not hunger, no, she felt barren. Snow White had the seven dwarves. Kath pressed her right palm on her stomach.

The autumn sun had set two hours ago and Kath was back in the bedroom. She was holding thin lozenges, as red as the apples, but smaller. She had given enough time for the two people to whom she had given everything, but the phone never rang back and Kath knew she had finally received their affirmation. Then, with a rare determination, she swallowed the apple-red tablets, one by one by one, and by the time Glyn came home twenty five minutes after that, Kath had long been swept into the sea.

***

really?

Quite a few oddities and stupidities happened during the time I was absent from posting entries unrelated to school work.

I know, I know... Posting assignments from school is a cheap way of making sure something is still being posted here. However, this is my blog and I reserve the right to be cheap lazy posting whatever and whenever I want. I am an artist, damn you!

Yep. I'm reminded why I didn't want to get a job in advertising agencies. It's the same mentality over and over again. The mentality of an artist. The mentality of being high and mighty. The mentality of (thinking of) being superwitty, supercynical, superknow-it-all with that smarter-than-thou attitude. I am pissed, but I will persevere. Albeit with being silent and hiding in the dark. Like latent disease.

On to school work! Last week, I had Saturday and Sunday off since there was no dance class nor dance conditioning class. I had a submission to be critiqued coming up and I felt imperative to imprison myself in the barricade of my little apartment and just write. I lived like a hermit. I ate little, I didn't shower. The new vacuum cleaner that I just bought was lying there in its uselessness. I will have to clean up my apartment this morning.

The reason why I felt it was necessary to cram myself up from Friday to Monday, was because my submission would be a long one (it was 69 pages at that time). We are required to submit a big chunk of work (around 100 pages and more) two weeks before the actual reading and critiquing session. My classmates and I have been handing out stories of ten pages or fifteen, and we are always given one week to read and write our critique. With the length of my submission, I wasn't sure if I was supposed to turn it in a week or two weeks before.

Regardless, I finished the draft. Then, proudly and happily, I shot an e-mail to my professor, Lysley Tenorio. I wrote that I had crammed myself in and was finally done with the submission and whether I should turn it in on Wednesday, October 12 to be critiqued in the next two weeks, November 2. That's right. I wrote "two weeks".

Mr. Tenorio replied to my e-mail, saying that two weeks would mean turning my draft on October 19. He told me take time with my draft, to cut out any unnecessary scenes and edit out things.

I was flabbergasted. I replied to his e-mail, sheepishly saying that clearly, my mathematical genius had eluded me yet again (I was being ironic, as if you couldn't tell).

Nevertheless, I'm happy I still have time. I can't say I'm doing a good job with cutting and shortening the draft, though. It's actually expanded into 72 pages of double-spaced, 12 pt. Times New Roman.

Oh, and to help me with my writing, I bought tons of books about cats! Can you guess what my submission is? I will try my best to review all of them.

Now another topic: public transportation.

I'm happy with BART and AC Transit is sufficient. Let's talk about the latter first.

AC Transit here in the East Bay is the equivalent of Lamorinda's County Connection, in that there's always a seat for everyone. The good thing is that, well... there's always a seat for everyone. The bad thing is that it means not many people use the public transportation. Therefore, unlike the SF Muni buses which are always full no matter what hour or what day, both AC Transit and County Connection's services are somewhat limited.

The AC Transit bus, the one that goes from the bus stop near my apartment to Rockridge BART where I usually start my BART ride to SMC or FCBD studio, arrives every half hour. I've missed the bus more than I care to count as it just wheeled pass by me when I was still a block away. That means I have to either sit and wait for another thirty minutes or walk six blocks to another bus stop that is passed by a bus line that arrives every fifteen minutes.

Apparently, as is evident in the picture to your left (or above), AC Transit won the 2006 National Best of the Best Award, whatever it is. Now, don't get me wrong. There are nice AC Transit bus drivers who will acknowledge you coming in and paying your fare (I use Clipper Card. The fee for each ride is, oddly enough, USD 2.10. I don't feel like fumbling around to get the ten cents). There are those who are also nice enough to reply to your thank you when you hop off.

Then there are the jerky drivers who make you know that they have the worst job in the world and that your very presence on the bus is only making them feel more miserable.

Now, on to BART.

I like BART. There have been news written by some New Yorker about the unsanitary conditions of BART and Muni. Ha. Their subways and buses aren't exactly clean.

Still, after reading the article, I felt compelled to try not to sit down. At least not for a while. Commuting from Rockridge to Orinda/Lafayette and to 16th Street and Mission is a long voyage. I have to sit down.

The picture to your right (or above) has a spelling mistake. Can you guess which word? The photo was taken at Orinda BART station on Tuesday, October 4, 2011.

Just tonight, as I was coming home from FCBD studio, the stations after I got on were swarming with Cal fans. You know, the blue and yellow team of Berkeley or something. I don't really know.

Anyway, those Cal fans were pushing and shoving their way into the train cars. I was sitting happily in my seat (thank goodness), and we heard screams as people pushed others to get into the train. I'm telling you, I was reminded of Jakarta where people are rude and impolite and can't even form a proper line.

Then, the BART operator tried many times to close the doors but he couldn't because people were still jamming the doors. Then finally, he succeeded. We saw that there were still many people being left behind at the Civic Center, Powell, Montgomery, and Embarcadero stations. It was around 9.30 PM.

When we arrived at 12th Street Oakland Station, the Cal fans had decreased in numbers, as they had hopped off along the way. Still, there were some who stayed. And then, again, the BART operator seemed to have difficulty in closing the doors when we finally heard him saying, "Please keep your heads inside the train. It's much safer that way."

We all laughed. Some ignoramus felt like being killed.

This particular BART operator is just amazing. He's the guy who always reminded us to keep the seats near the door for wheelchair users and the elderly because "A) it's common courtesy and B) it's the law." and to not put up our feet on the seats nor the windows because, "It's a karma thing."

I promise that if on my last day (or night) in California, he's the one operating the BART train, I will have to tell him how much he's made me laugh.

That's a photo showing an advertisement at the 16th Street & Mission BART Station.

Now back to the Cal fans.

Apparently, so many of those creatures study in UC Berkeley. Well, it's not a surprise, really. I mean, they do sport the familiar blue and yellow insignia of Cal.

Anyway, I found a throng of students who obviously just came home from the very same game and they were waiting for the bus. This bus is the only night bus that will take me near my apartment and it shot straight from Rockridge Station to UC Berkeley where many of those fans live.

We hopped in and they began talking so loud and cheering and things and then we passed by Safeway and one guy cheered for "More beer! More beer! More beer!" and the other students went along until the lady driver grabbed her mic and told them to be quiet because they were on a public bus and not everyone on board was a student of UCB. The mob said sorry, but the same guy looked around and pointed that only few were not students until his friend scolded him and said it didn't matter.

One girl (an Asian-American. Geez, why do Asian-American girls have to be so damn irritating? They always seem to wear the skimpiest, sluttiest outfits when even their Caucasian and African American girl friends wear normal clothes. They always seem to be the loudest too) obnoxiously said to her friend (they were sitting near me) that the bus was a public place and so they had the right to exercise their freedom of speech.

Obnoxious and appalling. Thank goodness my stop was right after that. I am so glad that don't go to UC Berkeley.

That was rather ironic because as I was sitting on the bus one day, there was this poster on the back of the seat of a missing Asian girl. Her name is Michelle Le.

Well, that's it for now. Phew, I've blogged quite a long post, eh?

little town, it's a quiet village

Remember when I complained about Santa Rosa and Sebastopol? (Geez, I use the same opening for the blog entry)

Well, I'm damned now.

Okay, probably not too damned, as I feel positive about going to St. Mary's College, CA.

Yesterday, I spent the whole day going to SMC. It took me approximately 42 minutes from Civic Center BART to the Lafayette BART (the train departed at 11.18 and arrived at 12 noon). There was nothing wrong with the BART ride. It was not uneventful - just flat and nothing interesting, really.

The first thing that I saw upon exiting Lafayette BART station was a hill full of white cross. That'll be somehow serenely eerie when I board the evening train home. Or probably not serene. Just eerie, and in a whole lot of sense, cryptic.

Here comes the good news: the bus ride from either Lafayette BART station or Orinda BART station right to the heart of SMC (how convenient) takes approximately 25 minutes. However, the bus comes every two hours on certain periods. I had to wait for a full hour.

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," said Dorothy to her dog in Wizard of Oz. I didn't have Kitty with me (my sling bag is broken and my tiny bag is... tiny... and stuffed to max) to share that feeling, though.

I guess the reason that the bus frequency is kept at minimum is because no one really rides it. When I returned from SMC to the Lafayette BART station, there were only three passengers, including myself. The two of them descended shortly and I was the only one left for the whole ride. I am relieved to know that my evening classes won't be later than 7 PM. That means I can catch the 7.19 PM, the 7.41 PM, or the latest, 8.21 PM buses to take me to either Lafayette or Orinda BART stations. Now I only need to invest in a watch.

According to Google Map, it is a 5.1 mile walk from SMC to Lafayette BART station (am I being somewhat pedantic by writing "Lafayette BART station" over and over again?). It's not that it's not doable. It's just that on some parts of the roads, no pavement is available. I got off on the wrong stop on my way to SMC, but there was a hiking and biking trail that I could walk on. I can't ride a bike. I know, I've tried, I just can't. I can rollerblade, but I don't think the path will be smooth enough to do it. During the walk, I came up with a brilliant solution: Segway! Although, you know, with the current Segway price (I heard it could come all the way up to USD 8,000!), I'd rather drive a car.

SMC was so peaceful when I arrived. It was the off-season I assume. Had I arrived in the Fall, I would have been freaked out with so many people. It's just amazing how I felt the need to be with people, yet crowd seems to make me feel uncomfortable. That's why I chose to live on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley instead of North Berkeley (YES, I'VE FOUND AN APARTMENT and have signed the contract! I'm moving in on June 15), because, in the words of Virginia Woolf in The Hours, "I choose not the suffocating anesthetic of the suburbs, but the violent jolt of the Capital."

Well, Telegraph Avenue is not exactly the Capital, but I hope you get the picture.

With the absence of the Clipper Card in the public transportation in Moraga, and the total uselessness of the said Card in BART stations in areas outside San Francisco, I won't be using it when I return. I've calculated the costs. It's much, much cheaper to pay for one-time bus rides and refill the BART card.

Now that everything is settled, I can't wait to go home.

Still, one more question ensues: I won't be living in San Francisco anymore; I wonder whether or not I should change the title of the blog and if I should, to what?

the importance of war

This is an opinion piece for American History & Culture class. I wrote this during a bus transit in Martinez on my way to Santa Rosa last Wednesday. I was a bit disoriented while doing it, but I guessed it turned out okay.

***

I saw James Cameron’s Avatar on DVD last night. Last year, when it was being played at theatres in my hometown, I went to see it not once, not twice, not three times, but six times: three times in 3D, the rest in 2D. When I watched it last year, I was captivated by the visuals, the film-making technology, and the language the Na’vi (the indigenous people of the Pandora) spoke, and of course, Sigourney Weaver (I just love her in all her movies, especially the Alien saga).

Last night, however, I looked at the movie in another perspective: the war. There was a big battle between the humans and the Na’vi. The humans wanted to colonize Pandora and take very valuable resource aptly called the Unobtanium. The Na’vi could not care less about this Unobtanium, as they were more interested in preserving their tradition, the nature, and their world. Battle ensued, a great, big, battle. The humans had the more advanced technology, while the Na’vi fought with bows and arrows. The Na’vi won (it’s a Hollywood movie) and the humans were forced to return to Earth. There were numerous casualties, but like any wars, it did not matter.

Or did it?

Sylvia Plath wrote that she couldn’t comprehend killing another human being, a potential “friend”, just because he or she is being seen as an “enemy”. Homicide must always be the last resort. The concept of Utopia is a mere fantasy, at least so far, therefore conflicts on any level will occur. So the final question is: is there a way to justify war? Yes, there is – when it is self-defense.

Then again, self-defense is a subjective and biased term.

***

And then, as I was searching for a perfect picture to accompany this entry, I thought, "Self-defense may be subjective and biased, but Sam Worthington sure looks hotter as a a Na'vi than as a human.

What do you think?

On a side note, this blog is becoming so filled with images of half-nude guys that I'm seriously considering of placing it under Blogger's NSFW section so I can fill it up with even more daring pictures of male humans... You know, those who put the "men" in "specimen". Heh heh... *pervy laughter*

house hunting (part 2)

The story continues.

I just went home from house hunting this morning. I forfeit Dance Conditioning class at FCBD just to go to North Berkeley to a shoddy cluster of apartments in a quiet neighborhood. The affordable units didn't pique my interest. The only good thing about going there was that in one unit, there was a house cat who (yes, I use "who" to describe animals that familiarize themselves with me) stood to attention - the cat was curling on a stool - when I came in. So I quickly gave the cat some strokes and pets and the cat nuzzled me back in return.

How I miss my cats back home.

Yesterday, I went to Orinda to see a house. Apparently, Orinda is very different from San Francisco in a number of ways: one of them being bus shelters with no digital sign of when the next bus is coming. To make matters worse, I was late. So the very nice landlord decided to pick me up.

There I was, being driven in a black Porsche to a grand, luxurious house with plush carpeting all over, state-of-the-art kitchen, high-speed internet, furniture, and exotic bathroom (for USD 1275, no less). It was beautiful all over, even the garage had a great view of the clearing and bits of the forest down below. It was so quiet that I could hear the howling of the wind as the long blades of grass swayed and bent under the strength of the air.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to ask my parents to finance the apartment. And anyway, it was so far from the BART station. The bus came every 30 minutes or so (and I thought waiting for the 47 Muni here - coming every 5 to 10 minutes - was an unnerving task) and I'd have to walk uphill for about 2 miles from the bus stop to the house.

The landlord dropped me off at the BART station. He was such a nice person.

"Do you often do this to your potential renters?" I asked.

"No, my potential clients have cars," he said, not cynically, but with warmth. There I was, a foreign graduate-student-to-be, carless, unable to ride the bicycle, wanting to rent a house in a non-walking distance.

We chatted long in the car in front of the BART's station entrance. I could smell his sweet and musky smell of cologne. There was something in the signature scent of successful, proud, confident older gentlemen that always seemed to sexually arouse me. The landlord was about 60 years old, and he was not my type, but he was so cerebral and visceral at the same time. I had intended to stay in the car for only 10 minutes, as I tried to get back to San Francisco and catch the FCBD dance class, but we ended up talking for more than an hour.

"Do you often see movies?" I asked again when we passed the houses on the way down hill.

"Sometimes. Why?"

"These houses remind me so much of those from Stepford Wives," I said. He laughed.

"Yes. Here, people seem to go back to the greens, choosing to have a secluded house," was his answer. "You know, when you e-mailed me and said you were from Indonesia, I thought you were a conman."

"What? Why so?" I was intrigued.

"Well, you called me and you didn't have an accent. I often go overseas as I have offices in several parts of the world including Asia, but everyone I met had an accent, but you... You sound like a regular American."

"Why, thank you. I started learning English when I was 4 years old. I used to have a perfect British accent but I lost it to Hollywood," I said, inciting his laughter. "My English teacher said that if you learned English after sixteen, you'll retain your original accent, no matter how hard you work."

"That's true. I can distinguish the accents of people from parts of the US, I know how French people sound when they're speaking English..."

"Oui, zei talk like zees..." I said, imitating the Francophones, and he laughed again.

"Yes, they do talk like that. But you sound like you came from Chicago."

"I guess now I kind of know the reason why most landlords from Craigslist didn't reply to my e-mail," I said with a sighed. I sent and called at least 20 resident managers and none of them replied my e-mail. Big apartments, small apartments... Almost nada. "Maybe when I said I was from Indonesia, they thought of jihadis and terrorists."

"Well, this is a tumultuous time," he answered sympathetically. I just nodded.

The conversation went on. At first I kept glancing at the digital clock on the middle dashboard, but after a while, I didn't mind. This gentleman showed me a lot of insight on living abroad, on living in Orinda at his house, on life in general. He poured his experience into me, and I, a glass, only about 1/8 full, gladly accepted his generous, rich liquid.

As I bid him farewell and closed the door of his black Porsche, thoughts ran in my mind, criss-crossing like vehicles on a busy intersection. I was happy, though - my confidence in being a potential renter was restored. And so, bubbly, I walked to the platform to wait for my train that would take me back to San Francisco.

feminism

This journal entry is taken from another assignment regarding feminism. I was to write about my opinion on the traditional role of mother and father.

The belief that men should work and generate money while women stay home and do domestic work is archaic. In this era when job is scarce, it is time for men to begin thinking of doing domestic work and raising children. Women should not be confined to domestic work only because they carry the baby in their womb for nine months and later breastfeed it. To put it bluntly, he also plays a part: it is his sperm. If one is to be fair, the act of leaving a female without an option to not do housework or at least share it with the male partner, is selfish and analogous to Pontius Pilate’s washing of his hands.

The last physical link of the mother and the baby will be severed once the baby no longer requires breastfeed. When this time comes, it is the duty of both the father and the mother to take care of the whole family. They can do this by sharing responsibilities: who will provide the bread, who will change the diapers, who will teach the children, who will drive to the little league game, who will patch the clothes, who will cook the dinner. No matter what the responsibilities are, couples must negotiate and be open to alternatives.

When the last physical link between mother and baby is disconnected, then the issue of who becomes the bread winner and who takes care of the house will no longer be relevant. If the woman has a career and has to stay late at the office while the husband has no job, then it is up to the husband to swallow the pride of a man (a really huge one at that) and do domestic work. With all this job market uncertainty, the men had better start chipping in and brush up on their skills of being good househusbands.

Picture is of Rosie the Riveter. Go here to find out more about this lady.

joannie's lunch & breakfast: love at first munch

The concept of luxury has become somewhat distorted these days. Decades ago, it was about tangible objects; now, it has stretched itself to include time. Indeed, with only a forty minute lunch break, time is a luxury for people who consider idle rumination during eating a form of therapy. I happen to be one of those people, and, as a person confined to the somewhat upscale Fisherman’s Wharf area of San Francisco, I have two options for lunch: prepare or purchase it. The former is virtually out of the question, since I am a sloth. Consequently, every day I have to venture out there to seek a convenient restaurant. And by convenient, I mean price, distance, cleanliness, and availability of vegetarian dishes. All other priorities such as atmosphere and the staff’s friendliness have been rescinded.

It took me four months to find a place like Joannie’s Lunch and Breakfast, which, surprisingly, is just around the corner. I did not have high expectations about this place. After all, it is an eatery that offers the standard breakfast and lunch of Americans: pancakes, waffles, burgers, and sandwiches.

I had my reservations about this place when I first entered it. I wouldn’t call it shabby, but I sure wouldn’t call it stylish either. It is a standard, family-oriented restaurant: no opulence, no pretense. And yet, my doubt was cast away when a delightful Chinese waiter promptly took me to the table that subsequently becomes my regular place, and gave me the menu. A quick menu scan revealed that the establishment, much to my joy, offered vegetarian options for burgers and sandwiches, using mushroom patties. I was smitten, but still unconvinced. I ordered a portion of Vegetarian Garden Burger with French Fries (I love carbs).

In spite of the restaurant’s crowdedness, my food came rather quickly. In fact, it was too quick: I did not even finish my ponderous thoughts of the meaning of life. All of my grandeur fantasies were reduced to an approving growl of my stomach when the waiter came to my table, serving a big plate of ye olde’ classic burger and fries, with a vegetarian twist. I am no hermit: I take pleasure in being a glutton, and the food presentation, though standard, was pleasing to the eye. The aroma was so delectable that I dug in without a moment of hesitation.

The restaurant had me at first bite. The burger was succulent yet crunchy at the same time. I have savored many a vegetarian burger, yet this one was by far, the best. The delicious mushroom patty was roasted to perfection. On top of it were fresh onions, lettuce, and tomato slices. These were placed firmly between two sweet sesame seed buns (again, I love carbs).

Even the French fries helping was generous. These weren’t the usual, fast-food type, stick thin fries dipped in residual fatty oil, nay. These fries were fat, fresh, yet crispy to the core. The only flavor enhancer I could detect was salt.

After devouring my meal, I dabbed my mouth and its sides with the napkin, smiling from ear to ear, satisfied like a kitten that had just lapped away a bowl of milk. Why did it take me so long to find this gem? I kept asking myself. Perhaps it is the location, and yet it is just around the corner. For an $8.00 quick lunch, the experience sure exceeded the expectations: a worthy vegetarian feast, not five minute away from EF, in a clean establishment, and yet, there’s more: WiFi connection is available and the friendly waiters, as Chinese as they are, speak in perfect English, much better than the employees of Bank of America. How can you not love a place like this?

sylvia and assia

I finished reading Yehuda Koren's and Eilat Negev's Lover of Unreason in three days. I couldn't put it down. Coincidentally, last week's lecture at school was about feminism, so I did a piece on these two women: Sylvia Plath and Assia Wevill.

In the early 1960s, Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath were considered the Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie of the literary world, especially in poetry. In 1962, this “power couple” got acquainted with David and Assia Wevill. David was also a poet who greatly admired both Hughes and Plath, while Assia, she herself an admirer of Hughes’ and Plath’s work, held a career in advertising. Assia later became the force that invaded the marriage of Ted’s and Sylvia’s, claiming, “I’m going to seduce Ted!” to Angela Landels, Assia’s former boss at Colman, Prentice, and Varley.

It is easy to blame Assia as the one who has destroyed Ted’s and Sylvia’s marriage, since she is known for her infidelity, although not promiscuity. She was able to be polyandrous, yet keeping it fair between the two men she was currently involved with. One may put it bluntly as to say that she had it coming. Indeed, Assia committed suicide in a manner not unlike Sylvia’s. Their deaths were only eight years apart.

The difference was Assia also intentionally killed Shura, her only child (allegedly with Ted Hughes) while Sylvia sealed the door cracks of the kitchen to the other room where Frieda and Nicholas were sleeping, so the gas would not seep out of the kitchen and killed the two children. Sylvia’s way of leaving her children behind was seen by one side of feminists as maternal, the character used time and again to describe Sylvia. However, another side of the feminists regards Assia’s method to leave no one behind, especially Shura, Assia’s heart and soul, as altruistic.

“The mother knows the nature and quality of her act, and that killing is legally wrong; however, the mother often believes she’s doing what is morally right for her child. These mothers see their children as an extension of themselves, do not want to leave them motherless in a cruel world and believe that the child will be better off in heaven without them. The mother sees ‘hell on earth’. It’s so miserable that she can no longer stand to live. To leave that child in that world… and motherless, on top of it, will be more terrible than to murder,” explains Dr. Philip Resnick, a renowned American forensic psychiatrist and leading expert of filicide (murder based on love), who published his findings on the subject of altruistic suicide in the year of Assia’s death.

Shura was considered as an illegitimate child. It was obvious that Hughes was not proud of her, calling Shura “her [Assia’s] daughter” and only mentioning Shura in his letters one time. Ted mentioned the nanny more than he mentioned Shura in his letters. This fact and Assia’s belief that Ted did not love Shura as much as he loved Frieda and Nicholas, prompted Assia to take Shura with her.

Here we see the complexity that women faced, even when they were about to take their own lives. Sylvia must have believed that her children would lead a better, happier life, and that it was all about her: her depression, her mood swings, and her suicidal behavior. On the other hand, Assia must have worried that nobody would be able to take care of Shura. It was through these tragedies that these two women, these two rivals, became both famous and infamous. Sylvia was considered to be a good mother. She was able to juggle between writing and doing domestic work. Assia, on the other hand, although a good mother, was considered a rather sloppy housewife. Yet, these two women, as different as they were, could not make Ted Hughes love them enough, to avoid their untimely death.

Ted Hughes lived on and became a celebrated poet, receiving literary honors. He died of cancer in 1998 with a wife beside him. He might be a genius, but I would never touch his work with a ten-foot pole.