I've been meaning to buy a copy of Paulo Coelho's "The Alchemist" to give as a gift to a friend, but I have not been able to find one anywhere, and I've looked in four cities. (Have they stopped printing it?)
Anyway, I've looked too many times at Paulo Coelho books that I ended up buying two which I have not read before. I guess I have my weekends full now.
In other news: First week of December is major gift-giving week! Yey! Cartwheels! Fireworks! If by that time I'm still not broke, I'm buying the book below. Or, hopefully I will receive it as a gift :)
Generous, loving friends, this is a shameless hint. *Wink, wink. I want this book. Give it to me.
November 19, 2008
Fully Booked!
Cats and Christmases
Mother has decided the Christmas season has begun, so I spent part of my Sunday putting out and decorating our Christmas tree. They're the same trinkets and ribbons from last year, so I figured it would be quick work. My cat Dwight decided to derail the whole process by climbing up and down the 5-foot tall tree, pawing at and playing soccer with the Christmas balls and chewing and unraveling the ribbons.
At first I was annoyed, but I just let him have his fun. After he's established that the tree was: 1) not a threat to his existence, 2) not edible and 3) not an exciting playmate, he got bored and slept under it. It's been his favorite napping place ever since.
Dwight is under a year old so he's never experienced Christmas. I wonder if cats will ever understand Christmas anyway. I think he shares my indifference towards the tree: pretty but plastic. Meant to liven up the living room, but no two family member ever lives in it for more than a couple of hours in the weekend. My family has been missing a member or two every Christmas, year after year, ever since I can remember. Someone is always not at home, by other obligations or by choice. So that warm, fuzzy, Hallmark picture-perfect scene where everyone gathers laughing under the family Christmas tree opening gifts and hugging all around? Totally alien to me.
When I get my chance to have a family of my own, I'm going to make sure no one gets to feel as weird as I do on Christmases. I'll tell you about it in a couple of years.
November 18, 2008
This was supposed to be a sunny blog entry
I needed to kill some time at the mall last Sunday and I decided I was in the mood to blog so I headed to an internet cafe. I had the great misfortune of being seated next to a despicable jerk.
He was a foreigner, a tall, pale man close to his 60's. Ordinary looking, you wouldn't be able to pick him from any given group of Caucasian expats that are now flocking in numbers to Cebu. On my way to my seat, I glanced at his screen and saw a video camera image of a young Filipina wearing what appeared to be a bikini. Great, I thought, I'm seated next to a pervert. He did not even bother to minimize the window. He was typing very fast and trying to adjust something in his head phone. I tried to ignore his presence and went about my business.
The young half-naked girl on the screen tells a very tragic but all-too-familiar tale. You bump into them everywhere, Caucasian geriatrics walking hand-in-hand with nubile, scantily-clad 16-year-olds. These girls play into the stereotype so much that they even dress alike, in spaghetti or tube tops so skimpy there's no longer any pretense of innocence. They have the same long hair dyed in unnatural shades of blonde, wear the same faces of fake amusement as they listen to what their older dates are saying. The old men look like they're having the time of their lives. They must have spent their best years working to save for a retirement like this one, which allow them to live lavishly on some beach and their money can buy everything they want, including women. Back in their countries, they're just balding old men past their prime. I cross my fingers and pray for the off-chance that theirs is a true romance, that hopefully they love each other, even if they do make quite the odd, cringe-inducing couple. I know in my gut it is not so, and it saddens me.
Some say no one is the victim here. The girls do it for money, and the hopes that maybe, the foreigners will fall in love with them or at the very least, find them indispensable enough to want to marry them and they can finally leave their wretched lives here in the Philippines. The men , of course, get sex and servitude in every form. Their young female companions can serve as tour guides, escorts, cleaning ladies, etc. When you come to think of it, it's just mutually beneficial commerce actually.
But being a woman, I especially take offense at the manner that these men are preying on our young women. Even if their business is one of mutual consent, it doesn't take genius to know that it is just plain wrong. Given half a chance, these girls would not be peddling their bodies to wrinkled customers. If men would only treat them with more respect, and not as some sexual commodity. If they would not pay for it, no one's soul will be for sale.
But I realize, I don't really know which tree I'm barking at here. Again, these girls aren't exactly victims. Some are even very skilled at it, maintaining many different boyfriends, as if they're different ATMs. Meanwhile, the image of the Filipina worldwide has become stained.
I travel abroad for work and sometimes I get confronted with the notion that Filipinas all over the world are more known for being household help and nannies or as internet brides. The idea repulses me, but encourages me as well to try to paint a different picture of us to foreigners' minds. That we can also be educated, talented, competitive, principled.
Back to the asshole beside me. His mobile phone rang. He took the call and spoke to the caller very loudly in Spanish. Maybe he's just callous, or maybe he didn't think Filipinos can understand a little bit of Spanish. I did not want to overhear him but we were maybe 3 feet apart and his voice was that loud. He was talking to his wife about some bank related matters, domestic matters. He said something about flight schedules being changed. He seemed impatient to get off the phone, but at the same time peppered their conversations with affectionate banter. And then he asked to speak to his kids. He talked to them in high-pitched baby-speak.
And then he blew kisses to his cellphone and said goodbye to the caller/s. Promptly after putting down his phone, he picked up his headset, looked at his screen and said, "Ahhh, yessss.... so where are you now? What is that you are wearing?"
What an animal. There's a special place in hell reserved for atrocious perverts like him.
Turning blue
I thought that I was waiting for my life to finally start. And here I am fearing I might be waiting for nothing at all.
I've been holding my breath for so long, I think I might be turning blue.
November 1, 2008
Parched
My writing muse has probably deserted me forever. A long time ago, the words used to flow easily. They were never deliberate, never intended to save anyone's soul but mine. Now, it is a painstaking struggle to say what I feel about life, loss and love. Especially love.
So much so that I have to borrow other people's lines. They're Pablo Neruda's this time:
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing...
I crave a return to simpler days. When a pen and paper (not the laptop) would do more beautifully. Walking on foot and spending a good few solitary hours staring at a church, instead of hopping on the tourist bus. Praying and actually having faith.
