There's a raging "comment" war over at my little corner of the universe. I don't know how a seemingly between-friends post about--uh hum--politics turned into an irritatingly immature free for all, but it's all there on Facebook--for all the digital world to see.
Now I don't really have this all-consuming desire to be on FB in all of my waking hours. I'm there for FarmVille, and to see what my friends from the other corners of the universe are up to even if we are too busy in our different time zones to say hello. But for more personal messages, for stuff that are supposed to be between and among friends, there's email, there's SMS and there's the occasional phone call. There I can tell them that I had corned beef for dinner, that I burped and that I am watching Lovers in Paris (not!).
The thing is,the (rabid) girls who have since traded tirades all work within an inch of each other. For all we know, they may even be breathing in the same recycled air. Which makes me wonder: whatever happened to good old catfights? Or to real conversations?
With all these social networking sites that are supposed to keep the connections going, it seems that people who should benefit from talking to each other just aren't talking anymore. Instead, they're typing. And broadcaasting.
November 14, 2009
November 6, 2009
Music to the Other World
At my grandpa’s funeral procession many, many years ago, the scratchy strains of “Theme from The Godfather” blared from the funeral car. I was too young to question why Lolo, a respected town judge, would make the final journey with something decidedly mafia-ish, but for years I couldn’t bear to listen to that song.
It was the same when an uncle’s friend died. His “farewell music” was “Don’t Forget to Remember Me.” This was the ‘70s, and the BeeGees was really big. Call it phobia, but I would get really scared whenever the song played on. I was young, and death was something I could not fathom. Death was, in fact, along the lines of ghosts and the horror stories fed to me by the yaya who lived for “Gabi ng Lagim” on AM radio.
As I grew older and got used to making that somber procession past Eternidad Street, the fear of funeral music eventually waned. It could also be that the funerals I went to had “predictable” music. From “Oh My Papa/Oh My Mama” to “I Believe” to “Lupa” to “Hindi Kita Malilimutan.” Tearduct-stimulating music, according to a funeral-march veteran. (Incidentally, my post-partum depression was triggered by canned music from the funeral car that passed by my street. A few notes, and suddenly I was sobbing like crazy, fast-forwarding to the day when my then two-day old daughter would trade me for marriage. :p But I digress, hehehe.)
In any case, my OC tendency for lumping music into imagined genres (e.g. funereal, ho-hum, ewww, ear-splitting, etc.) hit a blank wall when, at the funeral of a first-generation Chinese immigrant, they played a song that I'm sure rivals "My Way" in terms of popularity with the videoke crowd.
And as Marco Sison's trite "It's Just a Make-Believe" blared from the caro--the chorus reinforced by bystanders who couldn't help singing along--I remembered a groovy uncle who has since passed on. Maybe we should have honored his wishes. But then again, "My Sharona" is not exactly appropriately funereal, is it?
It was the same when an uncle’s friend died. His “farewell music” was “Don’t Forget to Remember Me.” This was the ‘70s, and the BeeGees was really big. Call it phobia, but I would get really scared whenever the song played on. I was young, and death was something I could not fathom. Death was, in fact, along the lines of ghosts and the horror stories fed to me by the yaya who lived for “Gabi ng Lagim” on AM radio.
As I grew older and got used to making that somber procession past Eternidad Street, the fear of funeral music eventually waned. It could also be that the funerals I went to had “predictable” music. From “Oh My Papa/Oh My Mama” to “I Believe” to “Lupa” to “Hindi Kita Malilimutan.” Tearduct-stimulating music, according to a funeral-march veteran. (Incidentally, my post-partum depression was triggered by canned music from the funeral car that passed by my street. A few notes, and suddenly I was sobbing like crazy, fast-forwarding to the day when my then two-day old daughter would trade me for marriage. :p But I digress, hehehe.)
In any case, my OC tendency for lumping music into imagined genres (e.g. funereal, ho-hum, ewww, ear-splitting, etc.) hit a blank wall when, at the funeral of a first-generation Chinese immigrant, they played a song that I'm sure rivals "My Way" in terms of popularity with the videoke crowd.
And as Marco Sison's trite "It's Just a Make-Believe" blared from the caro--the chorus reinforced by bystanders who couldn't help singing along--I remembered a groovy uncle who has since passed on. Maybe we should have honored his wishes. But then again, "My Sharona" is not exactly appropriately funereal, is it?
October 29, 2009
Home
Two weeks ago, Sorsogon celebrated its 115th anniversary as a province. There was the threat of yet another typhoon, and rains threatened to spoil the parade. But the skies cleared just in time, and we were treated to yet another traffic-stopping parade. (Traffic stopping is, of course, literal. The city has only two major streets, and everything and everyone stops whenever there is a parade.)
Street dancers from just about every town lent color to the parade. It seems that the surfeit of festivals has reached this far south as well. There must be some semblance of logic to half-clad bodies carrying religious icons, but then it made me wonder if the ancestors from whom the festivals were supposedly culled had to sashay down the streets in yards and yards of uniform synthetic silk.
Despite smirks from Snarky Sister, and despite the fact that after a while the streetdancers seemed to be but blurry variations of the others, it was a happy affair. Later that night, as I stood under the shade of the sprawling acacia tree and jostled with the crowd at the park, I felt a connection to the Sorsogon of old.
As the last of the fireworks colored the sky, it felt good to be home.
Street dancers from just about every town lent color to the parade. It seems that the surfeit of festivals has reached this far south as well. There must be some semblance of logic to half-clad bodies carrying religious icons, but then it made me wonder if the ancestors from whom the festivals were supposedly culled had to sashay down the streets in yards and yards of uniform synthetic silk.
Despite smirks from Snarky Sister, and despite the fact that after a while the streetdancers seemed to be but blurry variations of the others, it was a happy affair. Later that night, as I stood under the shade of the sprawling acacia tree and jostled with the crowd at the park, I felt a connection to the Sorsogon of old.
As the last of the fireworks colored the sky, it felt good to be home.
October 21, 2009
Unsent Tweets
I would have sent these from the conference room, but I had to pretend that I was so into the meeting. Maybe they really should come up with bureaucratic Oscars. :p
Unsent tweets hastily scribbled on scrap paper:
3:21 p.m. At a meeting, and all I can think of is harvesting my digital farm.
3:28 p.m. My view from under the table: white pumps that went out of style with sheena easton
3:29 p.m. Four-inch stilettos. Deadly weapon, if you ask me.
3:30 p.m. In-need-of-footscrub soles resting on rubber slippers. In the office?
3:35 p.m. Yehey! Thank God for chocolate!
3:59 p.m.: Just got back from a meeting that bored me to tears. Ayayay! The travails of a bureaucratic slave!
Unsent tweets hastily scribbled on scrap paper:
3:21 p.m. At a meeting, and all I can think of is harvesting my digital farm.
3:28 p.m. My view from under the table: white pumps that went out of style with sheena easton
3:29 p.m. Four-inch stilettos. Deadly weapon, if you ask me.
3:30 p.m. In-need-of-footscrub soles resting on rubber slippers. In the office?
3:35 p.m. Yehey! Thank God for chocolate!
3:59 p.m.: Just got back from a meeting that bored me to tears. Ayayay! The travails of a bureaucratic slave!
October 15, 2009
Burned
I thought I had some semblance of kitchen experience. That all those years of by-the-book cooking made me some sort of a kitchen goddess. I thought culinary disasters were behind me. That never again would I show up for work with oil splatter turned blister, or oven burns, or tales of kitchen mishaps.
My wanting to learn to cook has nothing to do with inner Julia Child aspirations. I just wanted to go where my mom has never gone (oh, she can command a kitchen army but can never cook). I just wanted to prove to the husband that he doesn't have sole command of the kitchen.
Alas, the kitchen and I--we do not belong. And this nasty burn on my right arm is a painful reminder that I should stay clear of the kitchen god's realm.
My wanting to learn to cook has nothing to do with inner Julia Child aspirations. I just wanted to go where my mom has never gone (oh, she can command a kitchen army but can never cook). I just wanted to prove to the husband that he doesn't have sole command of the kitchen.
Alas, the kitchen and I--we do not belong. And this nasty burn on my right arm is a painful reminder that I should stay clear of the kitchen god's realm.
October 9, 2009
Eavesdropping On Yaya Row
I am at the school's Yaya Row, waiting for the bell. I don't want to burden the "regulars" with thinking up topics to lure me into their conversation, so I am pretending to write. Which is actually an excuse for doing what I do best: eavesdropping. :p
The yayas are, as usual, doing the cellphone talk, their dialogues peppered with "unli talk," "textmate," "callmate." They are obviously setting each other up with that faceless voice who might just look like Gerald Anderson. Funny, but the high-tech version of the age-old flirting and fishing game is very much alive even within the gates of this innocent-looking preschool, hehehe.
The more mature ones are trading recipes and rules on discipline. One's version of kinunot is making me salivate, especially after a not-so-filling lunch taken on the run. Another claims that Aling Dionisia's granules really works.
One youngish mother is feeding on her paranoia. Her daughter, she says, often complains that her classmates don’t “love” her, and she’s wondering if she should transfer her kid to another school. She hangs around the school all the time because she says she has a compilation of "yaya" horror stories. Ugh. But before I could wallow in the same cloud of paranoia, two loud thuds came from Gianna's room.
Two yelping girls with two ugly bumps effectively ended my "productive" hour on Yaya Row.
The yayas are, as usual, doing the cellphone talk, their dialogues peppered with "unli talk," "textmate," "callmate." They are obviously setting each other up with that faceless voice who might just look like Gerald Anderson. Funny, but the high-tech version of the age-old flirting and fishing game is very much alive even within the gates of this innocent-looking preschool, hehehe.
The more mature ones are trading recipes and rules on discipline. One's version of kinunot is making me salivate, especially after a not-so-filling lunch taken on the run. Another claims that Aling Dionisia's granules really works.
One youngish mother is feeding on her paranoia. Her daughter, she says, often complains that her classmates don’t “love” her, and she’s wondering if she should transfer her kid to another school. She hangs around the school all the time because she says she has a compilation of "yaya" horror stories. Ugh. But before I could wallow in the same cloud of paranoia, two loud thuds came from Gianna's room.
Two yelping girls with two ugly bumps effectively ended my "productive" hour on Yaya Row.
October 3, 2009
A Prayer
It’s a little past 4 a.m. There’s a hint of orange in the horizon. There is no trace of the Typhoon Parma, and the siling labuyo is safe. For now. In the quiet stillness, I say this:
A Sioux Prayer
Grandfather, Great Spirit, you have always been, and before you nothing has been. There is no one to pray to but you. The star nations all over the heavens are yours, and yours are the grasses of the earth. You are older than all need, older than all pain and prayer.
Grandfather, Great Spirit, all over the world the faces of living ones are alike. With tenderness thay have come up out of the ground. Look upon your children with children in their arms, that they may face the winds and walk the good road to the day of quiet.
Grandfather, Great Spirit, fill us with the light. Give us the strength to understand and the eyes to see. Teach us to walk the soft earth as relatives to all that live.
I hope everyone wakes up to a great morning!
A Sioux Prayer
Grandfather, Great Spirit, you have always been, and before you nothing has been. There is no one to pray to but you. The star nations all over the heavens are yours, and yours are the grasses of the earth. You are older than all need, older than all pain and prayer.
Grandfather, Great Spirit, all over the world the faces of living ones are alike. With tenderness thay have come up out of the ground. Look upon your children with children in their arms, that they may face the winds and walk the good road to the day of quiet.
Grandfather, Great Spirit, fill us with the light. Give us the strength to understand and the eyes to see. Teach us to walk the soft earth as relatives to all that live.
I hope everyone wakes up to a great morning!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)