ERIC GAMALINDA

eric gamalinda has moved to tumblr

2010-12-25T19:53:00.002-05:00

Friends and countrymen: I have decided to move my blog to Tumblr. Maybe temporarily, maybe not. Please check my new site at:

http://ericgamalinda.tumblr.com/

See you there.

"Filipino" on Googlelab

2010-12-16T20:34:00.003-05:00

I've just tried the Ngram viewer of Googlelab, which can find recurrences and the frequency of words through centuries of texts. I searched "Filipino" and found something interesting. The word first gets used towards the late 19th century, of course, then usage spikes through the 20th after the American occupation. But there's a slight bump sometime around 1725 which I couldn't figure out. Was the term "Filipino" already in currency back then? A quick search of the available texts gave me the likeliest clue: Rizal would have mentioned something about the Filipino before the 19th century, specifically his annotations of Morga. Aha.

20 fun facts about the Nobel Peace Prize, mostly according to China

2010-12-08T17:21:00.007-05:00

1. It is an "anti-China farce."
2. Its sponsors are "clowns."
3. It is a "crazy act."
4. "A political tool."
5. "A trick that a few radical people use to entertain themselves."
6. "A desecration of the rule of law."
7. "An American conspiracy to embarrass Beijing."
8. China held a special briefing of 10 members of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations to coerce them not to attend the Nobel Prize ceremonies.
9. 19 countries have opted to skip the prize so as not to offend China.
10. China has suspended trade negotiations with Norway, the host country.
11. The Philippines, admittedly a champion of human rights, has decided to boycott the ceremonies (boooo!!!)
12. China has established a "peace" prize of its own, called the Confucius Peace Prize.
13. Among the early nominees: Bill Gates, Jimmy Carter, Nelson Mandela, Mahmoud Abbas, and the putative Panchen Lama (not the real one, natch.)
14. And the winner of the first ever Confucius Peace Prize is...Lien Chan, former vice president of Taiwan and honorary member of its opposition Nationalist Party!!!
15. Mr. Chan will receive a cash prize of $15,000. Yay!!!
16. The Confucius Peace Prize will "show the world (China's) comprehension of peace and perception of human rights."
17. We must all "cease using human rights as an excuse to meddle in China's internal affairs."
18. "Can you tell me what we can learn from (Nobel Peace Prize winner) Liu Xiaobo about world peace? We can learn NOTHING!" -- Tan Changliu, leader, Confucius Peace Prize committee.

19. The winner of the Confucius Peace Prize didn't show up at the ceremonies.

20. According to a press release, the Confucius Peace Prize was decided through internet voting. Tan later said no internet voting was involved. In fact, no voting at all was involved. Come to think of it, is there a word for "voting" in Red Chinese?

(PS. At the last minute, the Philippines had a change of heart and decided not to boycott the ceremonies after all. Yea!!!)

The Air-Conditioned Inferno

2010-11-29T20:10:00.017-05:00

Philosophy, like fashion, is subject to the vicissitudes of trends. Schopenhauer was the victim of such trends. His philosophy was popular in the late 18^th century, virtually became obscure in the first half then was revived in the latter half of the 19^th, lost currency in the early 20^th century, and has now become the focus of interest again. Where did I learn that? On the plane coming into Manila. Probably one of the best things on this Korean Air flight, a good one hour not wasted on Twilight and Avatar, and enough for me to endure the torturous 18-hour voyage back home, my second in two years. And how is this factoid relevant? Well, I will get back to Schopenhauer at the end of this very long blog.

*****

The bedlam that is the balikbayan homecoming. Old people on wheelchairs being pushed up towards the baggage conveyor belt, where they point their dozens of refrigerator-size balikbayan boxes to the over-eager nursing aides, who will push anyone aside to please their stateside amos. The confusion in the airport’s “waiting area,” where specific places on the curb are marked alphabetically. This is supposed to make it easier for solicitous relatives—and the inevitable hold-up gangs— breathlessly awaiting their share of the 62 allowed kilos of manna from America to spot you as soon as you wrangle your way out of customs.

Whenever I travel, people don’t think I’m Filipino, because I bring only what fits in my suitcase and backpack, which is why my brother has been anxiously waiting for me in the scorching inferno that is Manila’s welcome area, to make sure nobody waylays this unsuspecting “foreigner.” The place, he warns me as we crawl through Manila’s molasses-thick traffic, is teeming with dubious car service gangsters and pickpockets. He’d been there an hour, had already seen two arrivals come and go, while I had been dawdling upstairs at the arrivals lobby, where there was absolutely no clue where arrivals were supposed to go, and where I was saved from absolute despair only by an off-duty security guard who had been cooling his heels on one of the benches, no doubt noticed the helpless look on my face, and told me where I may be able (or not) to find my sundo. I should have asked his name; at this airport, anyone who offers to help out of kindness or duty is an angel. At the waiting area, airport personnel haven’t the foggiest idea where you can or may be picked up or what this alphabetized system is all about. There’s a young black guy who’s as lost as I am, and has asked for a taxi. Good luck getting out of this airport alive with that, bro. It’s noon, and the heat is stifling now. The city, as soon as you arrive, already assaults you with its inhospitality, underhandedness, and mayhem. I wish I could say I am happy to be back. But I am no foreigner. I was born and raised in Manila, as cynical as any Manileño can get. Not even Dante would go back twice to hell.

*****

The hotel’s website says the rooms look out on Rizal Park. Mine looks out on a wall, but at least it’s better than what I have in New York: I am face to face with someone’s little porch. No matter. It’s a quiet nook on an otherwise ramshackle street, Mabini, erstwhile hotspot of the red light district, now the ghost of its former pole-dancing, bare-breasting, yen-hungry self, and epicenter of Korean leisure tourists who’ve turned it into a little, if somewhat dingier, Korea. My “apartment” is slightly bigger than my New York studio. Not bad. I have a leather sofa and a little dining table and a kitchen, three things I don’t have in NYC. Thirty minutes after I throw leftover food in the trash, the kitchen is crawling with ants and cockroaches. Nothing’s perfect.

*****

No energy or inclination to explore my neighborhood after 18 hours on a plane listening to a brat caterwaul all through the flight. Trying to calm my nerves with ube ice cream and local TV. There’s an ad for Glixo, some kind of miracle drug that’s supposed to make you grow taller – just look at the before and after photos. On top of that, it has other ingredients that can make your skin whiter and boost your sex drive. It’s urging anyone who’s “short” and “stopped growing after puberty” to run and get the product now, because it’s never too late to not look like some pygmy native…or something.

On a positive note, Manny Pacquiao’s victory over Margarito is still breathlessly discussed all over the channels, and ads celebrate him as “a model to lead the fight on behalf of all Filipinos.”

In everything, whether it’s our height insecurity or boxing, we are the victims rising to be the champions, the bittersweet irony of it all. It’s probably our eternal inner conflict, this mix of envy (of other countries bigger, better, whiter, richer than ours) and wounded pride. Every time one of us gets international fame, it’s one more point on the scoreboard, because, like it or not, it’s always us against the world.

*****

The owner of a handicrafts store gives me a hefty discount for all the pasalubong I am taking back to New York. Because I am her buena mano, the first customer of the day, she flutters my peso bills all over her merchandise, to bring good luck. Well, it turns out I and my sister purchase practically everything she shows us, so I guess I really brought her luck.

Across the market, at SM’s food court, I show my sister my new iPhone. She admires it briefly then tells me to quickly hide it away. This is the way pickpockets scout the area for victims, she says. If anyone ever saw me, he would note where I had stashed my iPhone and somehow find a way to snatch it from me.

*****

The University of the Philippines campus in Diliman. The looming trees, the rolling greenery, the verdant oasis of it coming from the madness of the city. Like Granada when one drives in from the harsh, barren moonscape of Andalusia, green and irrepressibly so. Although they have never recognized me as one of their own, I did spend two years here, in the Arts and Sciences building, and I consider UP my home. Not UST, which punished me for wanting to be myself, for wanting to seek and be creative, and spat me out, but UP, which took me in when I was down.

*****

My cousin, who I haven’t seen in nearly twenty years, tells me the hardest part about being in America is coming home. You have to adjust to totally new concerns, you have to rearrange your perspective. This is true for someone like him, who got his degrees in Minnesotta, where there were barely any Asians, and his focus for his economics doctorate had to be, by necessity, more global. When he came back to Manila, he had to push his newfound knowledge to the background, and refocus on what everyone else was concerned about. I don’t ask him if these concerns are all regional and microcosmic because that’s pretty obvious. He says you do this so as not to alienate yourself from the market. At the same time I think he’s also genuinely interested in Philippine issues, no matter how insular; he has always been actively engaged, even when he was abroad. When he says the hardest part is coming home, I think he must be referring more to people like me than himself. I have doubts if I would ever be able to readjust to the socio-political myopia here, because (a) I have become too cynical, and (b) my leaving 18 years ago was an act of despair. No doubt this trip, as it happened last year, will give me rich material. The grinding poverty (what a cliché that is, but it’s everywhere, as most clichés go). The heat (another cliché), the cockroaches, the insufferable traffic, the mix of desperation and resilience I see in almost every face (an emotional cocktail that is necessary for survival). As always, when I write about Manila, my writing is an act of exorcism and gratitude – for my distance and the opportunities I have to be able to maintain that distance. My relationship with my country is purely mercenary: I cannibalize its suffering and turn it into art. And the only thing I can offer it in return is this declaration of guilt.

*****

My brother-in-law from LA has been so excited about this day, when we’re going to a chic restaurant in Pampanga. It’s not so much the restaurant he’s been looking forward to as the drive through NLEX, the North Luzon Expressway, and now I understand why.

When we were kids, this was the worst part of the annual summer trip to Baguio—plodding through the decrepit highway that snaked interminably through a hundred towns and took forever to get there. All the kids took turns getting carsick and throwing up in paper bags my Mom had prepared beforehand. Such was the tedium and arduousness of the trip.

No longer. The NLEX is smooth as the best Haitian rum, and almost as intoxicating: one can thankfully still view stretches of verdant farm land, symmetrically perfect rice fields, corn fields, sugar plantations. And despite the niggling social critic in me, always aware of the plight of the people who have to till this land, always looking for the negative, this is an Amorsolo-perfect countryside, a brief, 45-minute sigh of relief from the congestion and claustrophobia of Manila.

As promised, we reach the Angeles City exit in less than an hour. Of course, once you get off the NLEX, it’s back to Third World local color. The roads are primitive (and sometimes non-existent). The small towns we pass through are teeming with pedicabs both motor and bike, which take up the entire three feet width that is each town’s excuse for a road. We are on our way to seek out a hideaway that’s being celebrated all over town recently, Abe’s Farm, owned by the family who’s lorded over the revival of Remedios Circle in Manila, and turned it into a hip, bohemian hotspot in the 90s. There are interesting sights to see along the way, granted you find your way out of the ribbon on the interchange and into Magalang (“Respectful”) and a seemingly private uptown called Abe Road (of course, and no pun and no allusion to the Beatles at all). The best is the rotunda leading into Abe Road. It’s a quaint little park with no seeming purpose except to add to the charm of the old city hall, like a brooch. It’s a two-way circle with no apparent rules and where pedicabs go whichever way they please. City Hall is a butter yellow 2-story building with white icing trimmings and an eerie charm because of its almost deliberate naïf architecture. It’s straight out of Lino Brocka, and you’d expect a Kuala ambling out still looking for her baby.

Abe’s Farm, well, whatever the hype was about it, it’s all true. The house nestles in an undulating garden bursting with orchids and banana trees (which are utilitarian—all meals are served on banana leaves). It’s a traditional house with a modern twist—odd details cleverly inserted here and there, such as a clock wedged into the sunburst pattern of a transom, and a wooden spiral staircase leading to a third-floor bedroom. Because of the innate architecture, everything is open, and there’s a lot of circulating air. The traditional kitchen, complete with a banggera where glasses and cups are placed to dry, has been converted into a prep area. The circular porch has dining tables, the back looking out on a very inviting pool. Every bedroom has been converted into a private dining space, complete with all the furnishings of traditional rooms, such as a large antique aparador in one.

Using a pack of very hungry nephews as our excuse, we over-order because we want to try as many items on the menu as possible. So we have the sisig, the bangus belly in tamarind soup, chicken adobo in coconut sauce, kare-kare (my friend Elisabetta would go nuts with this), Pampanga pinakbet, and binukadkad na plapla (because we want it, and because I personally want to see how a dish with such a picturesque name would look like). For desert, we try Claude’s Dream (a cloud-light concoction of buko ice cream and pandan jello) and Sikreto ni Maria (“Maria’s Secret”) again because we can’t resist the name. It’s a soup dish filled with carabao milk ice cream (quickly melting in the heat) hiding a suman sa lihiya (sweet sticky rice), a dab of panocha (raw sugar), and ripe mangoes.

Okay, so nothing’s perfect: the waiters don’t want to turn the 80's Pinoy hits music off (why this Pinoy habit of blasting music over meals?), the staff can’t handle the volume and meals or even glasses of water take forever to get to the table, and the plapla not only comes at the tailend of the meal but is a bit greasy and over-battered. But I guess it’s a “dining experience” that we couldn’t miss, and the bill comes up to only about 10 bucks per person. Not bad at all.

*****

Bacolor was submerged in lahar about twenty years ago when Mount Pinatubo erupted. There are still signs of the day the town stood still, houses half-submerged but still, knowing the resilience of these people, now re-inhabited, and largely modified organically. The town church peeks out of the concrete-hard lahar that is now the new Bacolor. Its top half is all you can see, and inside a new, makeshift church still draws the faithful on a Sunday like this, the fiesta of La Naval. A gaggle of hawkers try to ply you with rice tamales, suman, fresh pinipig, and crudely made candles with some image of a saint for offerings. There are floats being prepared for the evening’s procession, and in the back, in the convent area, life-size statues of saints and the Santo Sepulcro are being readied for the procession as well. A marching band of young boys and girls is getting ready to march, and just as we leave a brief ati-atihan of about twenty kids and a handful of transvestites swishes past.

*****

I first heard of Guagua from my lola’s cooks, who used to tell us that was where they went home to. It always evoked some exotic foreign land to me, because when I was a kid everything outside of Manila was far and foreign. Guagua (meaning "mouth of the river") was an important port way back in the late 1500's, which probably explains why there's such a grand cathedral here. Built in the late 1700's, the cathedral is a surprising gem, grand enough to rival any in Italy. The altar and vaults remind me of the most stunning baroque cathedrals. Although it’s late in the day, the caretakers let us in to “pray,” which of course we first do—doing the obligatory three Hail Mary’s one says the first time one enters a church—then when they aren’t looking, we snap away.

You can find a bit of this cathedral's history here: http://immaconguagua.100webspace.net/

*****

Barasoian Church is minuscule. It’s downright tiny, and unprepossessing, and rather unimpressive. But this was where the Philippine Republic was proclaimed, and one can easily imagine the throngs of revolutionaries lining the streets of Malolos and the republic’s best men huddled inside this church to see Aguinaldo declare independence. Inside the convent they’ve preserved Aguinaldo’s fancy carriage, a horse-drawn sedan in pristine condition. Sad the say, the young boys begging for alms and pestering every tourist is all that’s left of the revolution’s dream…

*****

There’s a cooking show on TV where the host thanks God after a meal. There’s a church along the highway where the faithful spill out and hear Mass on the steps and the curb, their cars parked all along one lane of the street, clogging traffic.

*****

A gas pipeline burst in Makati and flooded the basement of some buildings with gasoline. No word as to whether the residents have been evacuated or are even willing to move out, regardless of the obvious fact that they live in a bomb that’s waiting to explode.

This week marks the first anniversary of the massacre of journalists and other people in Maguindanao during last year’s presidential campaign. Some members of the family responsible for it, the Amantuans, are in jail, but the witnesses have been harassed one after the other, they have either been assassinated or members of their families have been “disappeared.”

*****

My first tropical storm in eighteen years. The steady downpour turns the mid-day sky as dull as khaki. The sound of the rain hitting the tin roofs makes it seem like something massive has crashed from the heavens. A two-minute blackout leaves me in the dark and in panic. If the rainstorm two nights ago is any indication, the streets around me should be knee deep in floodwaters by now.

*****

People are asking Manny Pacquiao if he’s going to run for president. Look, guys, I adore Pacquiao as much as you do, but being the world’s best boxing champion does not qualify you to run a country. The mere question implies outright stupidity or despair. I don’t have to explain the former. You get what I mean. But to choose a president on the basis of his international celebrity is probably our way of saying what the hell, we’re all so messed up already anyway, so let’s just put a boxing champ up there—at least he’ll heal our wounded amor-propio.

*****

There’s one thing I’ve never really understood about my country. People are so devoted to Diyos, but why does Diyos keep looking away? Everybody hates America (or pretends to), but why does everyone want to sound American?

There’s even an ad for a soap whose slogan is, “Because I want to be white. Because I want to stay white.”

*****

Can people tell that I’m not from here? I try to put on my authentic Pinoy accent and act like I grew up here (which I did) and yet people stare at me—for such a long time that I feel uncomfortable wherever I go. Tonight I go out to get some take-out at Peter Lee, next to my hotel. The waiters are all staring at me and are being over-solicitous, knowing I will give them a “tourist” tip, I guess. There’s a big fat lady across the room who’s with her family. She stops eating and stares straight at me, and as if that isn’t enough, points me out to her family. Next door, at a small grocery, everyone in the place, about five young workers, crowd around me as I pay for my cans of mango juice. Same thing happens when I buy water at a 7-Eleven.

I don’t understand why the city terrifies me, but it does. Today, walking from the ATM, I feel so besieged—people pushing against me, the peddlers all around me, the cops with their rifles slung over their shoulders. I feel so completely alienated. So unused to and shocked by the sewage on the street, the homeless children sleeping on the curb, the insolence of drivers who never stop when you try and cross the street. I think I’ve become a total stranger to my country. I have become one of the people I have always disliked.

(On the plus side: Peter Lee was a find; their lapu lapu escabeche was divine.)

*****

I don’t get it. The Mall of Asia – the pride of all Filipinos, the stuff of legend balikbayans breathlessly talk about when they return to the US – is people power gone berserk. It seems like every barangay in the country comes here for the weekend, and in case you missed the neon-costumed parade, the sunset fireworks, and the gnarled and crawling traffic on the way there, there’s the noise and the chaos to remind you that you are in the gem of the city of Manila. The restaurant area facing the bay (which you can’t see) has a beerhouse atmosphere. You can barely hear yourselves talk above the din. The palengke ambience extends even inside Marina, where the staff is young and inexperienced and totally clueless what to do about the hordes of weekend crowds that line up to savor their lackluster menu. Lackluster is too kind. The batchoy comes with moldy and rubbery puto, the grilled tuna is overcooked and tastes like leather, the seafood kare-kare is a sorry pile of bland peanut butter sauce and empty clam shells, the oysters are over-steamed or over-baked that nothing’s left but gooey strings, the sisig is a pale, bland mash of half-cooked pork, and the crispy kangkong is a pile of fried batter. As if the flustered wait staff and the 40-minute wait for the AC to turn on are not enough, the table next to yours suddenly bursts in a happy birthday song, with the entire staff participating off-key. And just when you think you’ve had enough, a rock band outside starts belting out the most annoying repertoire you could imagine. You try to dash out as soon as you can, but the thickening throngs prevent you from moving more than an inch at a time. It starts to rain. The traffic just getting out of the CCP complex, this epicenter of Filipino art turned talipapa and beer garden, takes forever to move, every car trying to cut the other off, and no one ever going anywhere.

(On the plus side: my nephews and nieces don’t seem to mind the mayhem at all. In fact, they enjoy each other’s company so much they just seem to have a good time no matter where we go or what kind of chaos we deal with.)

*****

On the way to the airport, along Quirino Avenue, a car suddenly cuts us off as we start changing lanes. The near-collision isn’t enough for this imbecile driver. He swerves back into our lane, cutting ahead in front of us, then swerves back to his to let us catch up. The driver rolls down his window. And suddenly my sister is yelling at this guy who’s still looking for a fight. You can tell by the look on his face that he wants to take this to another, bloody level. His dark, pudgy face, his eyes full of hate. Hostility and cruelty make people look ugly, and this was one really ugly dude. But instead he rolls his window up then zooms on. My sister tells me his attempt at machismo has been foiled by his discovery that he’s about to fight with a woman. It makes him look like a sissy fool. This is the last face of Manila I see: ugly guy staring at us, dying for a fight. Just in case you still haven’t had enough local color, my sister tells me. As for her, she takes it as just another fact of life to deal with in this crazy country.

*****

I realize that my relationship with this country is dysfunctional. I can’t let go of it, or it won’t let go of me. I no longer feel any affection for it. I know people back home will hate me for saying that. We all grow up with this self-delusion, that for all the madness of this country, it is still a beautiful place, and we are still a resilient, functional people. To say otherwise is to betray our country and our people. But how long can one keep living in denial? The truth is we are so fucked up. Manila is unlivable. The country is a mess. Our leaders are mercenaries or idiots. The precious few who try to make things better are shot down. The rest of us leave in despair. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that there is pride in that.

*****

So, back to Schopenhauer. His constantly misunderstood philosophy is summed up in the word currently associated with him, “pessimism.” Schopenhauer believed that we, creatures of time and space, are the manifestation of an ultimate Reality which cannot inhabit time or space, and of which we cannot know. But this existence is a terrible one, everything eats everything in order to survive, and it seems that one must always be on guard to remain alive. If this is the manifestation of that “ultimate being,” then that Reality must be as cruel and terrible. Where do ethics come in an existence such as that? Schopenhauer says that we must reject this Reality, and strive towards its negative: kindness, compassion, charity, love.

So this seems to me a perfect footnote to all my negative impressions of Manila. I have never understood this schizophrenia in the Filipino character. We proudly describe ourselves as a gentle, accommodating, hospitable people, “the land of smiles,” caring and generous. Yet look at the Filipino on the road and you see the devil. Nobody gives a damn, everyone wants to get ahead of the next, they will risk an accident, at worst, or a gridlock, at least, just so you don’t get ahead of them. And they will challenge you to a fight, no matter if you have the right of way.

All those feel-good slogans you hear on TV sound to me like sheer hypocrisy. Or self-delusion. Filipinos should wake up and admit that there’s something really whacked about our personality. And this is what creates the reality we have to deal with. Not the other way around. Don’t blame the world, bro, if that’s a world you yourself created. And don’t come talking to me about Jesus Christ and God. Maybe Filipinos should finally reject Catholicism, the placebo painkiller of this cruel god who doesn’t hear our prayers, always looks away, and teaches us to be cruel and to hate. Instead, try a little Schopenhauer. Who, in this inferno, will have the balls to reject the cruelty and terror, and advocate kindness? I think the answer is the first step towards my country’s salvation. Or am I being too optimistic?

says it all

2010-11-14T12:59:00.000-05:00

a banana republic of our own

2010-11-07T18:19:00.006-05:00

The United States now outranks Nicaragua, Venezuela, and Guyana in unequal distribution of wealth. From 1980 to 2005, more than 4/5 of the total increase in incomes went to the richest 1 percent. Now that the Republicans have taken over the House, they want more tax cuts for the most affluent 1 percent of the country, who would get a tax break of $370,000, a tax savings they will hardly spend to spur the country's economic stimulus. According to this article in The New York Times, we need not look far to observe a banana republic in action. We have it right here:

By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF

In my reporting, I regularly travel to banana republics notorious for their inequality. In some of these plutocracies, the richest 1 percent of the population gobbles up 20 percent of the national pie.

But guess what? You no longer need to travel to distant and dangerous countries to observe such rapacious inequality. We now have it right here at home — and in the aftermath of Tuesday’s election, it may get worse.

The richest 1 percent of Americans now take home almost 24 percent of income, up from almost 9 percent in 1976. As Timothy Noah of Slate noted in an excellent series on inequality, the United States now arguably has a more unequal distribution of wealth than traditional banana republics like Nicaragua, Venezuela and Guyana.

C.E.O.’s of the largest American companies earned an average of 42 times as much as the average worker in 1980, but 531 times as much in 2001. Perhaps the most astounding statistic is this: From 1980 to 2005, more than four-fifths of the total increase in American incomes went to the richest 1 percent.

That’s the backdrop for one of the first big postelection fights in Washington — how far to extend the Bush tax cuts to the most affluent 2 percent of Americans. Both parties agree on extending tax cuts on the first $250,000 of incomes, even for billionaires. Republicans would also cut taxes above that.

The richest 0.1 percent of taxpayers would get a tax cut of $61,000 from President Obama. They would get $370,000 from Republicans, according to the nonpartisan Tax Policy Center. And that provides only a modest economic stimulus, because the rich are less likely to spend their tax savings.

At a time of 9.6 percent unemployment, wouldn’t it make more sense to finance a jobs program? For example, the money could be used to avoid laying off teachers and undermining American schools.

Likewise, an obvious priority in the worst economic downturn in 70 years should be to extend unemployment insurance benefits, some of which will be curtailed soon unless Congress renews them. Or there’s the Trade Adjustment Assistance program, which helps train and support workers who have lost their jobs because of foreign trade. It will no longer apply to service workers after Jan. 1, unless Congress intervenes.

So we face a choice. Is our economic priority the jobless, or is it zillionaires?

And if Republicans are worried about long-term budget deficits, a reasonable concern, why are they insistent on two steps that nonpartisan economists say would worsen the deficits by more than $800 billion over a decade — cutting taxes for the most opulent, and repealing health care reform? What other programs would they cut to make up the lost $800 billion in revenue?

In weighing these issues, let’s remember that backdrop of America’s rising inequality.

In the past, many of us acquiesced in discomfiting levels of inequality because we perceived a tradeoff between equity and economic growth. But there’s evidence that the levels of inequality we’ve now reached may actually suppress growth. A drop of inequality lubricates economic growth, but too much may gum it up.

Robert H. Frank of Cornell University, Adam Seth Levine of Vanderbilt University, and Oege Dijk of the European University Institute recently wrote a fascinating paper suggesting that inequality leads to more financial distress. They looked at census data for the 50 states and the 100 most populous counties in America, and found that places where inequality increased the most also endured the greatest surges in bankruptcies.

Here’s their explanation: When inequality rises, the richest rake in their winnings and buy even bigger mansions and fancier cars. Those a notch below then try to catch up, and end up depleting their savings or taking on more debt, making a financial crisis more likely.

Another consequence the scholars found: Rising inequality also led to more divorces, presumably a byproduct of the strains of financial distress. Maybe I’m overly sentimental or romantic, but that pierces me. It’s a reminder that inequality isn’t just an economic issue but also a question of human dignity and happiness.

Mounting evidence suggests that losing a job or a home can rock our identity and savage our self-esteem. Forced moves wrench families from their schools and support networks.

In short, inequality leaves people on the lower rungs feeling like hamsters on a wheel spinning ever faster, without hope or escape.

Economic polarization also shatters our sense of national union and common purpose, fostering political polarization as well.

So in this postelection landscape, let’s not aggravate income gaps that already would make a Latin American caudillo proud. To me, we’ve reached a banana republic point where our inequality has become both economically unhealthy and morally repugnant.

Editorial: Plenty of Work for the Lame Duck: The $4 Trillion Question

and the nobel prize goes to...china!

2010-10-08T10:01:00.004-04:00

Congratulations, China. You just won the Nobel Prize.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/09/world/09nobel.html

this morning

2010-09-05T11:44:00.001-04:00

ban floy mayweather from the boxing ring -- for life

2010-09-04T22:08:00.003-04:00

Floy Mayweather is:

(a) a nutcase

(b) an airhead

(d) a neanderthal

Answer: all of the above. Ban him from ever fighting in the ring again.

a hipstamatic album

2010-09-04T21:43:00.002-04:00

These photos were taken on my iPhone using the Hipstamatic app.

hurricane earl casualty

2010-09-04T12:06:00.004-04:00

We found this baby shark washed up on the beach this morning.

The seagulls (not in picture) were having a fiesta and couldn't wait for us to leave.

hurricane earl on long beach island, new jersey

2010-09-03T17:32:00.002-04:00

Yesterday evening, the calm before the storm.

Lifeguard warning, Friday morning: If you go in the water, you go to jail.

Friday afternoon.

Friday afternoon, water covering nearly the entire beach.

Photos taken with my iPhone.

miss universe as metaphor

2010-08-24T10:25:00.006-04:00

Does anybody care at all about the Miss Universe pageant? Apparently nearly every Filipino does. For the last several years, we have been searching for that elusive crown, perhaps to recapture the two we had had and that seem so, well, historical. I believe it also has some bearing on our need for global adulation, and I am aware I will get into trouble for saying that. We are a people constantly looking for a source of international pride. Manny Pacquiao, Miss Universe, what's the difference. Whatever captures world attention, we want it. (This is not to say that quite often, we probably deserve it.)

But why has that damned crown been so elusive? For the last few years I have wondered if it’s because of that dreaded “final question.” Yes, we are adorable (or some Orientalist partner-seekers think our women are). But we are still obsessed with the illusion that we are articulate in English, and that has been our downfall (at least in beauty pageants). What would Mexico have said if she had to say it in English? And how intelligent and articulate Miss Philippines would have been (given that she was “proud to have graduated with honors”) had she been provided with a translator?

That, of course, is never going to happen. Being proficient in English has always been considered a singular honor for a Filipino. It reflects the values we inherited as a colonized people—that efficiency in the colonial language is a mark of intelligence, status, and power. And speaking in our native language is, heaven forbid, a sign of feeble-mindedness, if not of a significantly lower social class.

English ceased to be the language of choice for us about a couple of decades ago, when, in a spur of nationalist fervor, we decided to uplift Filipino as the official language for education and government. It was a supremely heroic and laudable effort: who, after all, would castigate a nation for insisting that their people use their own language--one which would ideally facilitate better communication and understanding?

What that initiative lacked was political will. It lacked support for infrastructure, follow-through, opportunities. Does anyone recall that Law Class who were the first to receive instruction in Filipino--and flunked the bar, because the test was given in English? It was a clear omen, and it haunts us to this day. A national language needs to be a national language. You can't have a national language and be ashamed or reluctant to champion it.

I've met young Filipinos who are amazingly articulate in Filipino--something I envy, I myself having been brought up with a strictly colonial education. I wonder if they, in turn, envy my being able to blather on like this in English. It could be a handicap, but try telling that to Miss Philippines.

To me, these young Filipinos who speak and write like true heirs of Balagtas and Huseng Batute seem to be proud of their linguistic heritage, proud and proudly able to articulate the most complex and interesting and provocative ideas. I wonder if they constitute a small majority, or a groundswell.

It may seem silly to fret about such an event as a Vegas beauty pageant. But as a metaphor for our lingering dysfunction and our indelible infatuation with our stepmother tongue, it is, and once again I say this at the risk of inciting hatred from my own people, a sign that we have not grown up.

Resurrection: Notes towards a Journal

2010-07-27T22:13:00.024-04:00

Clurman Theater, Theater Row, West 42nd Street, New York City. Formerly a burlesque bar. The theater is named after critic Harold Clurman, who directed Tennessee Williams’s Orpheus Descending, and memorialized this statement from the playwright: “If I did not write, I’d go mad.”

Our first rehearsal space is at Pearl Studios, where the raucous Latino musical rehearsal next door drives us all away. Our second rehearsal space is at One Penn Plaza, next door to the Diverse City office. In truth, no one knows we’re here: we’re squatting on an empty, sprawling office space with a panoramic view of the city, from bright lights to thunderstorm to big city twilight panorama – until one afternoon the new owner just happens to drop by and is shocked to discover a bunch of Asians rehearsing with a makeshift set. What happens next is a somewhat hilarious confrontation. Owner: What are you doing here? Victor: Uh, we’re a theater company next door, and we’re rehearsing here. Owner: I am the owner of this office. I just purchased it. Victor: Uh, we’re really very sorry, we’ll vacate the place right now. We just needed a space to rehearse. Owner: No, you can stay for today. But you can’t ever use this space again. Victor: Uh, thank you, and we’re really, really sorry. Stunned silence among the cast afterward, then laughter, then worry that the cops would come in and handcuff us all. That should give Mr. New Owner a story to tell his employees and clients for a lifetime.

The frigid rehearsal space at Theater Row studios. Wearing sweaters in torrid summer heat. Nights after rehearsal, hookers and pimps all over 42nd Street. 41st Street, stage door, where homeless people and all sorts of characters hang out. Some nights Victor, Ching and I would go out “for one drink” and wind up staying up till 3 AM. Me worrying that I’ll be a zombie at work the next morning. And Victor and Ching telling me, Get used to it, this is what theater people do. (The first night we do this, I have to call in sick the next day.)

Victor calls me at night or in the office, agonizing over his character, trying to make sense of him, being tortured by him. Not really sure what to tell him without stifling his creativity, but I do hope I have been able to reassure him somewhat that his agonizing alone is evidence that even this character, Eduardo, is incapable of looking clearly into himself, and is thus haunted by his own delusions. Or is that too easy?

Francisco sends me his music after being up all night finishing the composition and recording it at Jim’s studio. And it’s exactly the music I had in mind. He tells me he added lines from a poem of mine which are murmured throughout the piece, to evoke the sound of someone praying the rosary. I haven’t told him that in the course of numerous revisions I have woven the rosary into the story (the mother tells his son about the month of the holy rosary, which triggers her nostalgia for happier times). I guess F and I were on the same wavelength? What a wonderful coincidence.

Opening night at control room, where I can survey the audience from above. Surprisingly, I am very calm. Not nervous at all. Maybe being in the control room and not in the audience--this safe distance--helps?

It’s the worst heat wave in years, New York is scorching, and my sister and brother-in-law have flown all the way from LA just to be there on opening night. Their hotel is just a couple of blocks from Theater Row and just a hop from Times Square. But they are unable to do much because this heat is a killer. I pick them up at the hotel and walk to the theater in desert-degree sun, and who should we see at the lobby but Gina and Ken, who showed up at the last minute and are still on the wait list. Noel and Bing also show up. All of us later troop to Pam Real Thai where we are given a private room (because there is no more room on the main floor, that’s all). General assessment of opening night, with some very candid comments, from my family and friends, which I must share with Michael and the cast tomorrow.

At the opening night reception, this parchment gifted to me by Ching:

Until one is committed,

There is hesitancy, the chance to draw back,

Always ineffectiveness.

Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation)

There is one elementary truth

The ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:

That the moment one definitely commits oneself,

Then providence moves too.

All sorts of things occur to help one

That would never otherwise have occurred.

A whole stream of events issues from the decision,

Raising in one's favor all manner of material assistance,

Which no one could have dreamed

Would have come their way.

Whatever you can do.

Or dream you can do,

Begin it.

Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.

Begin it now.

-- Goethe

Ching utterly, heart-breakingly sick, coughing all through several performances, unable to stay with us after a show because she has to run back to bed. It’s the exhaustion from her role, which is so difficult and demanding.

Some nights would stink and we’d all be sullen and I would be depressed and ornery and looking only for a drink. And then there are good nights, and one good night in particular, on a Wednesday, and we are all blissful and stay up till midnight drinking frozen margaritas at Zuni, and Tiffany’s family is in town and we find out that all of them – Ching, Alexis, and even guest Nicky -- are all from the same province and related. Except me, the only Manila boy. But wait: Tiffany's mom says her family used to run a laundry service in my neighborhood back in the 60's--which turns out to be just a block away from my family's home. OMG.

Talkback with the UP Medical Association. Some interesting insights (comparing the family’s predicament to Nick Joaquin’s Larawan, whether Filipino and American audiences reacted differently). One lady commented that the play was “disturbing and offensive.”

Alexis’s fan club – groupies following us to dinner after the show, gushing over him and his character Edgar, and Alexis telling them Edgar was my creation, and they should talk to me.

Tiffany bringing in the best finds from the flea market on 39th. And me envious, so one Sunday afternoon I stop by the market – and find two gorgeous leather-and-chrome chairs from the sixties, which I have to lug back to the theater in time for that evening’s performance.

Our sustenance: Pork buns from the $5 Chinese buffet on 34th. West Bank Cafe burgers (outrageously expensive, but to die for). Theater Row Diner BLT. Cashews and dried mangoes (Alexis' Philippine dried mangoes are the best). Tiffany's mom's awesome poppyseed bread. Alexis' Palestinian baklava. Adobo, lumpia and pancit from Grill 21, c/o Victor. Key lime pie and leche flan (c/o Cindy, or Mrs. Camins: see below). Fresh market apple cider donuts. The "sorriest excuse for vegetable lo mein" (according to director Michael Sexton). Lots of wine, lots of frozen margaritas, lots of beer, lots of sangria.

Alexis is such an amazing actor. What can I say. The guy is simply astounding. When he’s onstage, his presence fills the entire hall. He’s electrifying and captivating. And so humble and down to earth—he’s probably embarrassed to be reading this right now.

I like sitting in the control room. I am not nervous or anxious at all, and I like watching the audience reactions from way up high, from God’s point of view. It’s like being detached from the world, yet seeing it from a wider perspective, being connected but untouched, involved but safely distanced. Not to mention that it’s quite possibly the best seat in the house.

Above: Director Michael Sexton, 3 AM, after a couple of Cusquenas.

Someone tells Victor after seeing the play that the story closely resembled hers. In fact, she was constantly abused by her brother when they were growing up, and even today when she makes love to her husband and the sex feels good, she remembers her brother doing the same thing. And what’s even more uncanny, there were three children in the family, including another brother. And that for years they struggled to keep (and lost) their family home. Resurrection, she told Victor, is my story. And I am always astounded that somehow, my writing is able to connect to someone I don’t know in a way more profound that I can ever imagine, or even intend.

Closing night: quite a good performance, and a rousing curtain call. I am amazed at how far the cast has taken the play and added so much depth and so many nuances to their characters. And how comfortable everyone has become in their roles. And how vibrant and intense the story has become.

Alexis’ wife Cindy brings four (count ‘em) leche flan, and with my key lime pie and Bordeaux white that is a lot of sugar to go around. Afterwards, cast of Resurrection and Quarter Century Baby, along with some friends, troop over to Piopio on 43rd, where we gorge on more food than we can eat and enough sangria to make at least this playwright blissfully drunk and not so depressed that this is it, this is the final act, our 12-show run is done. One more for the road at Landsdowne (or something) where Michael, Victor, Alexis, Cindy, Tiffany, Caroline and I finally part ways—temporarily, I hope—at 3 AM. And me on the A train still feeling wide awake and so alive, and unbelieving that a play of mine has finally come to fruition.

Above: This is the Clurman Theater stage after closing night, right after the crew cleaned up.

No better way to end a journal than with the words of an amazing person and a gifted artist: “Eric, I don’t have the words to adequately express how grateful I am for being a part of Resurrection. To be able to act in my own skin, in my own voice has been such a pleasure, one that doesn’t come often enough. I felt like I was coming home everyday during rehearsal. Things have a way of happening at the best time. This play was very personal for me: about a month before rehearsing, a nephew of mine committed suicide in Manila. He has been abandoned to his lola for most of his life, because his father was in Kuwait. Your play touches on that reality that people live every day and I was honored to be able to tell that story. In some small way, I’ve contributed, through your work. Thank you for that. I can honest say ever since I’ve wanted to be an actor, I’ve wanted to be part of something like this. It’s truly been a gift. Maraming, maraming salamat, kaibigan. – Alexis.”

what israel has banned in gaza

2010-06-06T22:55:00.004-04:00

Amnesty International has dubbed Israel's blockade of Gaza "collective punishment" resulting in a "humanitarian crisis." UN officials have described the situation as "grim," "deteriorating" and a "medieval siege."

Here is a list of goods that Israel has banned in Gaza in the interest of national security:

1. light bulbs

2. candles

3. matches

4. books

5. musical instruments

6. crayons

7. clothing

8. shoes

9. mattresses

10. sheets

11. blankets

12. pasta

13. tea

14. coffee

15. chocolate

16. nuts

17. shampoo

18. conditioner

19. steel pipes

20. fertilizer

21. cars

22. fridges

23. computers

24. cement

25. concrete

26. wood

27. glass

28. aluminum

29. soap

30. stationary

31. safe drinking water

Source: BBC

yellowface is alive and well in the 21st century

2010-05-08T20:32:00.002-04:00

Unbelievable but true. Check this out:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8670531.stm

deconstructing cardinal angelo sodano

2010-04-04T21:24:00.002-04:00

Cardinal Angelo Sodano, a former secretary of state at the Vatican and the dean of the college of cardinals: “Holy Father, the people of God are with you, and do not let themselves be impressed by the gossip of the moment, by the challenges that sometimes strike at the community of believers. When he was reviled, reviled not again.”

Deconstructed: "Yo Pope, we know there's a lot of shit going on about your people screwing dem lil boys, but you know what, we'll play the denial game and tell our peeps it's all a bunch of bullshit, and once in a while we like, you know, gotta take the role of the victim, cuz that always works in our favor, and it's like, sure, our priests have always had a fondness for young ass, but hey, if they don't like us, maybe they're just, you know, against Jesus. And that is sooo fucking evil."

a new season in america

2010-03-24T09:20:00.005-04:00

In Health Care Bill,

Obama Attacks Wealth Inequality

By David Leonhardt, The New York Times

For all the political and economic uncertainties about health reform, at least one thing seems clear: The bill that President Obama signed on Tuesday is the federal government’s biggest attack on economic inequality since inequality began rising more than three decades ago.

Over most of that period, government policy and market forces have been moving in the same direction, both increasing inequality. The pretax incomes of the wealthy have soared since the late 1970s, while their tax rates have fallen more than rates for the middle class and poor.

Nearly every major aspect of the health bill pushes in the other direction. This fact helps explain why Mr. Obama was willing to spend so much political capital on the issue, even though it did not appear to be his top priority as a presidential candidate. Beyond the health reform’s effect on the medical system, it is the centerpiece of his deliberate effort to end what historians have called the age of Reagan.

Speaking to an ebullient audience of Democratic legislators and White House aides at the bill-signing ceremony on Tuesday, Mr. Obama claimed that health reform would “mark a new season in America.” He added, “We have now just enshrined, as soon as I sign this bill, the core principle that everybody should have some basic security when it comes to their health care.”

The bill is the most sweeping piece of federal legislation since Medicare was passed in 1965. It aims to smooth out one of the roughest edges in American society — the inability of many people to afford medical care after they lose a job or get sick. And it would do so in large measure by taxing the rich.

A big chunk of the money to pay for the bill comes from lifting payroll taxes on households making more than $250,000. On average, the annual tax bill for households making more than $1 million a year will rise by $46,000 in 2013, according to the Tax Policy Center, a Washington research group. Another major piece of financing would cut Medicare subsidies for private insurers, ultimately affecting their executives and shareholders.

The benefits, meanwhile, flow mostly to households making less than four times the poverty level — $88,200 for a family of four people. Those without insurance in this group will become eligible to receive subsidies or to join Medicaid. (Many of the poor are already covered by Medicaid.) Insurance costs are also likely to drop for higher-income workers at small companies.

Finally, the bill will also reduce a different kind of inequality. In the broadest sense, insurance is meant to spread the costs of an individual’s misfortune — illness, death, fire, flood — across society. Since the late 1970s, though, the share of Americans with health insurance has shrunk. As a result, the gap between the economic well-being of the sick and the healthy has been growing, at virtually every level of the income distribution.

The health reform bill will reverse that trend. By 2019, 95 percent of people are projected to be covered, up from 85 percent today (and about 90 percent in the late 1970s). Even affluent families ineligible for subsidies will benefit if they lose their insurance, by being able to buy a plan that can no longer charge more for pre-existing conditions. In effect, healthy families will be picking up most of the bill — and their insurance will be somewhat more expensive than it otherwise would have been.

Much about health reform remains unknown. Maybe it will deliver Congress to the Republicans this fall, or maybe it will help the Democrats keep power. Maybe the bill’s attempts to hold down the recent growth of medical costs will prove a big success, or maybe the results will be modest and inadequate. But the ways in which the bill attacks the inequality of the Reagan era — whether you love them or hate them — will probably be around for a long time.

“Legislative majorities come and go,” David Frum, a former speechwriter for President George W. Bush, lamented on Sunday. “This health care bill is forever.”

•

Since Mr. Obama began his presidential campaign in 2007, he has had a complicated relationship with the Reagan legacy. He has been more willing than many other Democrats to praise President Reagan. “Reagan’s central insight — that the liberal welfare state had grown complacent and overly bureaucratic,” Mr. Obama wrote in his second book, “contained a good deal of truth.” Most notably, he praised Mr. Reagan as a president who “changed the trajectory of America.”

But Mr. Obama also argued that the Reagan administration had gone too far, and that if elected, he would try to put the country on a new trajectory. “The project of the next president,” he said in an interview during the campaign, “is figuring out how you create bottom-up economic growth, as opposed to the trickle-down economic growth.”

Since 1980, median real household income has risen less than 15 percent. The only period of strong middle-class income growth during this time came in the mid- and late 1990s, which by coincidence was also the one time when taxes on the affluent were rising.

For most of the last three decades, tax rates for the wealthy have been falling, while their pretax pay has been rising rapidly. Real incomes at the 99.99th percentile have jumped more than 300 percent since 1980. At the 99th percentile — about $300,000 today — real pay has roughly doubled.

The laissez-faire revolution that Mr. Reagan started did not cause these trends. But its policies — tax cuts, light regulation, a patchwork safety net — have contributed to them.

Health reform hardly solves all of the American economy’s problems. Economic growth over the last decade was slower than in any decade since World War II. The tax cuts of the last 30 years, the two current wars, the Great Recession, the stimulus program and the looming retirement of the baby boomers have created huge deficits. Educational gains have slowed, and the planet is getting hotter.

Above all, the central question that both the Reagan and Obama administrations have tried to answer — what is the proper balance between the market and the government? — remains unresolved. But the bill signed on Tuesday certainly shifts our place on that spectrum.

Before he became Mr. Obama’s top economic adviser, Lawrence Summers told me a story about helping his daughter study for her Advanced Placement exam in American history. While doing so, Mr. Summers realized that the federal government had not passed major social legislation in decades. There was the frenzy of the New Deal, followed by the G.I. Bill, the Interstate Highway System, civil rights and Medicare — and then nothing worth its own section in the history books.

Now there is.

terry riley / kronos quartet /young people's chorus of new york city at carnegie hall

2010-03-12T22:48:00.007-05:00

I saw this amazing concert last night. Terry Riley's new work, Another eQuation, co-commissioned by Kronos and the Young People's Chorus of New York City, was mesmerizing and breathtaking, eerie and heartbreaking. I sat next to maestro Nunez during the second half of the program and got an autograph from Terry Riley. Sweet.

Check out this review from Time Out:

http://www3.timeoutny.com/newyork/thevolume/2010/03/the-kronos-quartet-starts-the-weekend-off-right-at-zankel-hall/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+TheVolumeBlog+%28The+Volume+Blog%29&utm_content=Twitter

my brilliant 2 minute solution to the health care impasse

2010-03-06T19:09:00.002-05:00

Conduct a referendum on who wants Obama's health care plan or not. Those who want it will get health care. Those who don't won't. Problem solved.

books acquired in the last 60 days

2009-12-26T20:38:00.004-05:00

1. Don Quixote, translation by Edith Grossman

2. Other Places, by Harold Pinter

3. Violence, by Slavoj Zizek

All found at Housing Works, NYC. And a book given to me for Xmas 09:

4. The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata, by Gina Apostol

Manila in 6 days after 16 years.

2009-11-22T20:19:00.013-05:00

Notes on a sort of homecoming.

A man suddenly steps in front of our car, gazing blankly ahead at us. My brother has to swerve deftly to avoid hitting him. The man doesn’t seem at all aware of our presence, or the danger he has posed to us or to him.

I’ve been wondering if that man is symbolic of my visit here, my first since I left 16 years ago. But what would he symbolize? Total obliviousness or indifference to danger? A desperation so deep he doesn’t care about his life anymore? A passive aggressiveness (run me over if you dare, and I will give you hell)? This country’s sense of frustration embodied in his emaciated body, his drugged-out stare, his seething silence?

There’s a new Manila and the old Manila. The new Manila is the Fort, Makati, Ortigas, with their highrises and malls, a sort of tropical LA. The old Manila is just older, more rundown and decrepit, the city’s old shell that it hasn’t been able to discard. The buildings are worn down, the wood burnt a deep dark brown; the concrete buildings seem to have acquired a thick layer of soot; the sides of the underpass towards Quiapo are encrusted with soot and dirt and don’t seem to have been repainted in years, the after-effect, I am told, of the recent flood which inundated this part of the city up to a story high. The streets are a chaos of cars, motorcycles, pedicabs, jeeps, street hawkers and pedestrians, and no order seems to exist. Everything seems on edge.

Every morning at the hotel I’m staying at, the breakfast room is filled with old or middle-aged white men and their young Filipina girlfriends or wives, plus the occasional girlfriend’s family. But the prostitutes are no longer in this area; I hear they’ve been moved up to Quezon Boulevard, where they start lining the avenue at around 10 PM.

My family’s street has become a crowded warren of apartment buildings and walled-in, heavily gated houses. The house next door burned down years ago and is now some kind of car repair shop. From my old bedroom, I can see right through the street running past it, something I had never seen before. On the other hand, a new apartment building has been built right in front of our house, blocking the view of the Manila Bay sunset I used to gaze at every afternoon, sitting at my desk and writing.

Most of the Filipinos here are a lot more gentle than I remember. I forget how gentle a people we are. And yet there’s always this hard edge among many others, a kind of hostility waiting to brim over, a tough live-or-die aggressiveness that’s waiting for a target. Others are as hardened as they get. At the sari-sari across my hotel, the woman eyes me suspiciously, sizing me up to determine if I’m a tourist, answers me curtly, and overcharges me for a pair of corn chips and an ice drop.

Dapitan Market: pure mayhem, lots of kitsch, but an occasional find, such as capiz plate overruns. You pay the watch-your-car man 5 pesos, and at Dapitan Market, they demand 20, because there are 4 of them in their barkada.

Along the highway called C5, drivers are advised to stay far from the right, where kids throw rocks at passing cars.

At the Aristocrat Restaurant, a candidate for senator, Rey Langit, a former radio reporter, sits at a long table with about 20 of his campaign staff, all dressed in black t-shirts with his name emblazoned on them.

Manny Pacquiao victory parade through Makati. We are always looking for something to be proud of, we are always looking for international affirmation. Excessive adoration leads to excessive ambition: Manny Pacquiao wants to run for public office.

Manny Pacquiao has a mistress, a smalltime actress who’s posed nude for a magazine. The papers are full of stories about her, and about Pacquiao’s long-suffering wife. Manny Pacquiao is now officially a Filipino alpha male.

Another source of pride and affirmation: the Makati Greenbelt system of malls. Some shops here have not even opened in the US; the ones that have are much tinier than the supersized stores here.

Filipino food is to die for. Even the value meal at Max’s is worth more than the 2 bucks it goes for, and the pinakbet with lechon kawali at my humble hotel in Malate is a work of art. The bibingka at the duty free shops is real galapong. The crispy pata at Aristocrat is sinful and the sans rival to die for. And Via Mare’s lunch menu (kare kare, bagnet, lumpiang sariwa, sugpo in coconut sauce) is divine; so are their bibingka with cheese and salted egg, puto bungbong, and halo halo. So worth the trip to the country alone.

Middle-aged American man with 7-year old Filipino boy. Pedophile or surrogate dad? So, in my hotel so far I’ve seen white trash males with young women, older women, young boys, and transvestites. Something for everyone, I guess.

Marina: where my sister and I have a bucket of oysters and bangus sisig for all of 10 bucks.

Tiendesitas is the place to go to for nearly everything, from antiques to clothing to handicrafts to classic suman and avocado cake.

Along a street in the back of QI, people spill out of their ramshackle homes unmindful of the cars, motocycles and pedicabs passing by. Most of the houses along the Manila-Quezon City border look like their walls have been burned, full of soot and dust. My sister tells me this is how it’s always been, and I must have blocked the memory. But I never recall this part of the city being this sordid at all. Was I not looking closely then?

Quezon Avenue, lined with strip bars and saunas, as I’ve always remembered it. A sudden downpour clogs the streets, and it takes us over an hour to get to Shangri-La, a restaurant where my youngest sister and brother celebrated their graduation from high school with our lola, and where my niece held her debut before her family immigrated to the US. We have peking duck, garupa escabeche, yang chow rice, spinach and tofu with toasted garlic, and one of my nephews gets the drink of the day, iced tea with lychee and grenadine, which comes with a free stuffed toy. Sweet.

Gave 5 pesos to a woman holding up a baby girl, telling me the girl’s sob story which I didn’t really catch. Will 5 pesos even help? Got stopped by a transvestite on Del Pilar, who told me, “Excuse me, your face is very popular to me…”

The administration ticket has asked Pacquiao to run for a House seat with them. Which will probably boost the administration’s popularity among voters. And will drive this country even further down to hell. If Pacquiao really cares about his country and has half a brain, he should support the party that really has serious intentions to try and fix this place up. But maybe that’s too much to ask of our public officials?

Two days ago, a friend of my sister-in-law lost her only son to road rage, an increasingly common malady in traffic-clogged Manila. Someone got out of his car and shot him pointblank on Santolan Avenue. The killer is still at large.

Two young women are sitting on the sofa of my hotel lobby. Some minutes later, a Japanese man comes in with another Filipina, who introduces him to the girls. He looks one over, and smiles broadly. Yes, yes, he says, and his Filipina companion books a room. He’s a bald, shriveled country bumpkin, totally crass and loud and disgusting. And he acts like the lord of all he sees, slouching back in the sofa and shouting orders to everyone in the lobby.

Remedios Circle: visiting the old haunt, which is no longer its former self. Café Adriatico seems smaller. Penguin Café, where all the rebel poets used to hang out, looks rundown. The Circle is surrounded by places I don’t recognize and probably wouldn’t go to.

Fidel is the only person I want to see on this trip, outside of family. He overlooks my shortcomings, understands my craziness, believes in my work, and doesn’t castigate me for having chosen to live in the US. He makes absolutely no judgment of me at all. I haven’t seen him in all these 16 years; I missed him when he came to visit my office at NYU in 2000. When we meet, we just start talking again as if we had only seen each other yesterday, and we are just picking up yesterday’s conversation. Fidel’s cool.

I ask Fidel if I have become like those typical Fil-Ams who visit the Philippines and see only the negative, and have nothing good to say. He says my observations are spot on, I’m not imagining it, the city has become more decrepit and rundown, poverty levels are much higher than before, population is unstoppable as migrants continue to pour in from provinces and the birth rate keeps getting higher. The Catholic Church opposed a proposed bill in the Senate to institute birth control, and has successfully campaigned against politicians who dare oppose them.

Towards Nagtahan, the river is so clogged with refuse and debris you could hardly see the water at all. There are weird-looking lampposts along the avenue, grotesque monuments of ugliness that seem straight out of a sci-fi B-movie, each of which was a project awarded to cronies who got huge kickbacks.

I’ve lost count how many parties are running for office in May. There’s Villar/Binay, Nonoy/Roxas, Erap/Vi, Gibo/Whatever, ad nauseum--so many candidates, but no platform, no ideology, no vision.

Our politicians keep messing us up, yet we keep voting the same types of people to office. Is all this mess our own fault then? I remember what my friend Marilen said a year before I left the Philippines, that what the people really need is education. I’ve been thinking about that all these years, and I realize Marilen was right. Or I hope she is. But would better education make us choose better leaders? Would it make us more vigilant, and help us keep our leaders accountable? Would education find us our philosopher king? But aren’t we a highly educated people to begin with? So is there something else wrong, some inner demon we haven’t dared to look at? Maybe what we need is not just education, but a Dostoevsky to make us gaze into our own darkness, and not blink.

Darkness. Brownout during our family reunion: something that hasn’t happened here in a long while (brownouts were one of the many reasons I decided to leave; when I left, the city practically had no power, due to rotated 8-hour brownouts). Fortunately, this one lasts only for about 15 minutes, not enough to drive me away a second time. My siblings have gone the whole hog to let me savor the tastes of the Philippines I’ve missed all these years: lechon from Elar’s; my sister-in-law’s baked bangus, lumpiang sariwa, and ube hopia; chicharon bulaklak; sapin-sapin and Arce mantecado, queso, and avocado ice cream. We are having our reunion at my brothers’ house, which used to be my lola’s house, which was built by my grandfather in the early 1900s. Much has changed, of course, but here and there my brothers have kept the old furnishings, the original windows, even lola’s little altar to the Sacred Heart. This house has four generations of memories, and I wonder, as I look at my nieces and nephews, if these memories are as important and crucial and defining to their lives as they have been to mine.

I’ve been wondering these past six days if this is really where my roots are, if this is what I am and what continues to shape me: this innate desperation, inescapable suffering, aimlessness and bleak future. Then, after our family dinner—my last meal with my entire family before I depart for Hong Kong tomorrow, and New York the day after—my brother shows us an envelope he found in his bodega, along with old family pictures: lola’s collection of sympathy letters she received right after lolo’s death in 1929. The letters are crisp with age, some so brittle we dare not unfold them. One is a personal note from Eugene Allen Gilmore, Governor General of the Philippine Commonwealth, praising lolo as one of the finest and most promising lawyers in the country. Another comes with a news clipping analyzing lolo’s brief but brilliant career, stating lolo was being groomed to be the youngest supreme court justice ever. Lola never had the courage to look at them again and kept them even from her own children. Lolo’s sudden, tragic death changed her completely, and she shut down. Once, my mom and her siblings found lolo’s gramophone and records in the bodega and played it; lola went berserk and went around the house like a madwoman, throwing pillows and stuff around in grief. How hard it must have been to face all this future suffering alone, to be so bereft, and to know that nothing will ever be the same. Again, is this another symbolism? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what this trip will mean to me in the next few days, in the next few years. But I know this last discovery has made me feel better about my history, and my future. And maybe, since I am inextricable from my country no matter how far I go, this says something about my country’s history and future as well. Who knows? All I can say for certain is that a voyage is worth it if you discover something new about yourself.

hong kong photo album 2

2009-11-18T03:21:00.001-05:00

hong kong photo album 1

2009-11-18T03:05:00.003-05:00

books i bought for my birthday

2009-10-12T21:59:00.002-04:00

1. The Fanon Reader, edited by Azzedine Haddour

2. A History of Writing, by Steven Roger Fischer

3. Simply Philosophy, by Brendan Wilson

4. Ecrits, A Selection, by Jacques Lacan, new translation by Bruce Fink

(all bought at Book Culture near Columbia)

books acquired in the last four months

2009-10-12T21:51:00.002-04:00

1. Vita del Cavaliere Gio. Lorenzo Bernino, by Filippo Baldinucci

2. Bernini: Sculptor and Architect, ATS Italia Editrice

3. Bernini: Mini-Monographs, Romaeditrice

4. Bernini, by Howard Hibbard

5. Italian Cinema from Neo-Realism to the Present, by Peter Bondanella

6. People on the Run, by Tiziano Rossi

7. Introducing Philosophy, by Robert C. Solomon

8. Poems, Anna Akhmatova, translated by Lyn Coffin

9. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, by Tom Stoppard

The Manila I Want My Kids to Grow Up In

2009-10-05T20:33:00.010-04:00

Last weekend, I came across this facebook status of a friend: "This is not the Manila that I want my kids to grow up in!" The impact of this statement brought to mind the callousness of some people in light of the tragedy and disaster around them.

This statement came from someone who was sitting safely on the 9th floor of their condominium unit while the rest of the metropolis was wading in flood waters that destroyed their homes, claimed lives of their loved ones and swept away their dreams, their past, their years of toil.

My initial reaction was to write a comment "so what are you still doing here in the first place?"

We do not need a nation of whiners, those who cannot see beyond the comfort of their airconditioned houses, treading the paved main roads with their newly bought shoes, carefully steering clear of the mud along the side roads. In situations like this, we need people who can rebuild their lives and make it better and not bring down those who are toiling to make it so.

Today, the rest of the people who were affected by the storm came to office after one week of trying to restart their lives again. Tales of heroism during times of adversity, small acts of kindness surface again and again.

People who reach out to strangers, and attempt to share whatever they can give, and who prefer to remain in the shadows of anonymity, not the politicians who stamp their names on relief goods and have their pictures taken for media to pounce on.

The people whose lives were severely affected but who can now smile and laugh and say "ganun eh" and continue to move on because they know they can.

Those who learned from their experience and vowed to make a change no matter how small it is.

These are the true souls who make a life worth living and a nation worth rebuilding. Not the people like the facebook user who announces to the world the narrow-mindedness of her view and the callousness of her soul.

-- Sent to this blog by my sister in Manila

eileen at 102

2009-09-23T23:14:00.006-04:00

Guess who took the pic for Eileen Tabios' landmark new book. Follow this link to read more: http://angelicpoker.blogspot.com/2009/09/moi-102nd-book.html.

venezia senza i turisti, 4 (piu o meno)

2009-09-19T19:39:00.001-04:00

alexis tioseco

2009-09-02T23:20:00.004-04:00

I never met Alexis Tioseco, except through email. He said he wanted to interview me for his web site, Criticine, about my short films. I never usually like being interviewed, much less being bombarded with emails, but I enjoyed Alexis' countless emails and follow-ups because I soon realized this was one person who really understood what I wanted to do, and who was also an intelligent writer. He was, I must confess, the first person who was interested more in my ideas than in mundane "chismis" details. And he was perhaps the first critic to ever take my short films seriously.

Recently, filmmaker Lav Diaz blew into town and told me Alexis wanted to ask for a DVD of my short films, because he wanted to organize some kind of "festival" around my work. I thought that was really nice of him, and I told Lav I had to get a new burner as mine's busted. I added that I should have a copy for Alexis before Lav went back to Manila.

Last night, Lav emailed me about the guys who broke into Alexis' home and killed him and his girlfriend.

I really don't know what to say, except that I am sad and shocked and angry. I don't want to be angry at Manila, but I am. I don't want to say I hate Manila because it destroys and throws away the lives of its best people, but I do. I hate to think that people who have some kind of "power" within the city's weird, corrupt system had something to do with it, but I can't help thinking I am right. And I don't want to say that I suspect this is yet another tragedy that will remain unsolved and unresolved, but I think it is.

I never met Alexis, but I feel I have lost a very dear friend.

venezia senza i turisti, 3

2009-08-24T21:44:00.003-04:00

president obama caves in to the health care profit seekers

2009-08-16T20:21:00.002-04:00

Congratulations, America. You have just been SCREWED.

why president's obama's health care campaign is foundering

2009-08-15T10:55:00.009-04:00

1. Apathy. Obama's supporters are still suffering from campaign burnout. Grassroots organizing for health care--oh man, do I have to do that all over again? Or many of them are the one-time-only political supporters who believe once they get their candidate in office, they can sit back and relax and the world will take care of itself.

2. Bi-partisan opposition. Has anyone paid attention to the NY Times articles linking Republicans and Democrats to insurance company money? Is it any surprise that Congress won't ever pass a bill that would make these companies earn less?

3. Health care was never a real issue. If you listened to Obama supporters during the presidential campaign, you'd have noticed that most of them didn't really think universal health care was a prime issue. Why? Because most of them already had it, and could afford it. The issue was Iraq, man, not your health benefits. War is sexy. Health care ain't.

4. Media. The conservative spin. "Death panel"? Socialism? Give me a break. But the media loves to play fair, right? "Equal" airtime for all sides of the issue.

5. Idiocy. Most Americans believe what they hear. They don't fact-check. They've probably never read a single work on socialism. They probably have no clue. So when they say they don't want the country to turn into Russia but demand that the government do something to give them affordable health care, you know the culture of idiocy is at work again.

6. Irrational fear. Universal health care will open the floodgates of other mortal sins. What next? Abortion? Gay rights? More freaking immigrants?

venezia senza i turisti, 2

2009-08-12T23:51:00.003-04:00

italia, day 10, or what happened when I missed my flight

2009-08-08T16:29:00.006-04:00

I must have said "ho mancato il volo" ten times today, not to mention once in English to an Australian tourist coming in on the Leonardo Express who's in Rome because he's just converted to Catholicism. Say wha?

La Casa di Amy was nice enough to tell me "maybe we can find you a room," and turns out they had no vacancy but referred me to another B&B in the same building, Hotel Malu. Not as chic as Amy, I must say; the decor seems to have never recovered from the seventies. Still, the room has a floor to ceiling window and a terrace that looks out on the courtyard, which means no traffic noise tonight. Also, the receptionist is kinda cute... (via Principe Amadeo, 85/A)

Well, since I now had a full day in Rome, what else to do but continue my research, no? So here's what I did during my extra day in Italia:

Visited Bernini's grave again; sat there for like 30 minutes. Luckily, the Capella Paolina was also open (not sure about this, but I know he designed one of the chapels, and this seemed like the most likely that he worked on). Also found out that the statue of Philip IV at the doorway was also his work.

Here is what's written on his grave: IOANNIS LAVRENTIVS BERNINI / DEVUS ARTIVM ET VRBIS / HIC HVMILITER QVIESCIT. Makes you wanna cry.

I also found my way to Sant' Andrea al Quirinale, the church that he designed. This is known as the Pearl of the Baroque era, and it's easy to see why. As soon as you walk in you're overwhelmed by the lavish magnificence of the place. Bernini kicked Michelangelo a notch by turning art three-dimensional, fusing painting, sculpture and architecture. Have I said he's the first multimedia artist? With Bernini, you don't just look at a flat surface, you see clouds and angels and metallic light bursting out of the walls. And when you look up at the cupola, it feels like the heavens raining down on you. Can't tell you what it feels like. You must be there to experience it, because Bernini is not just about looking at his work: you have to be there and experience it.

Passed by the Tritone fountain, one of his weird (and in my opinion, whimsical) works. Then, since I've run out of clothes to wear (unless I wore a really sweaty t-shirt tomorrow and stink up the plane), I got a Juventus polo shirt at the open market off Villa Borghese. It's so cheap it's probably fake, but who cares (it's made in Torino...does that mean anything?).

On to Villa Borghese, where I was able to book a 5PM ticket this morning. One more chance to look at all the Berninis there. Finally saw all the works in my catalogue, but of course I spent most of my time studying his David, the subject of my novel. Probably spent a good 45 minutes looking at the statue, until the staff started closing the windows (and looking suspiciously at me).

Next stop: dinner at Hostaria I Buoni Amici way down at the Mazzini stop of the metro. Got this info again from Let's Go. Had the spaghetti ala vongole and 2 glasses of wine, a little apprehensive because the owner wouldn't let me know what the price of the wine would be. In the end, the vongole was really good and the bill was a real bargain (2 euros for the wine!). Next table were a couple of African American ladies from Maryland and New Jersey, who I chatted up and who were thankful I told them which way to get to the Termini station from their hotel. (I Buoni Amici, via Aleandro Aleardi 4.)

Finally, a little walk around the Coloseo, where I decided to hop on the bus and check out one more Bernini: the Palazzo Montecitorio. With the help of some carabinieri, I did find the place at Chigi (kept mispronouncing this and giving the guys a hard time -- it's KEY-gee). Turns out I've been to this place the first time I was in Rome, way back in '92. Or was it '91? In fact, I've been inside it -- I interviewed the then labor minister during my apprenticeship at IPS.

Satisfied with my full day, I headed back to my neighborhood where I just had to have another Orso Bianco (sesame/miel, melone, orso bianco -- some kind of vanilla with lots of biscotti in it). And one last glimpse of Santa Maria Maggiore and its spooky belfry, where the love-crazed Gianlorenzo once chased his brother Luigi up and down with a sword -- the scandal of all Rome.

Good night, Gianlorenzo. Tomorrow I really, really have to go home. Pero credo che ritornaro subito, solo per ti, il mio amico pazzo. Ciao.

italia, day 9

2009-08-07T16:12:00.003-04:00

My last morning in Venice, the cappucino in the monastery's vending machine wasn't all that bad; a brief walk around Campo Santa Maria Formosa, mostly to find an ATM; then off to the Ferrovia on the vaporetto, taking lots of pics, and finding a few minutes to check out the nearby Chiesa degli Scalzi before hopping on the Eurostar to Rome. Got a single seat to myself, trip took less than 4 hours; had a tramezzino bought at Suve in Venice for lunch and finished Baldunacci's biography of Bernini. View from Florence to Rome was spectacular.

Been getting a lot of luck with B&B's in Rome. La Casa di Amy (Amy being the acronym of the owners' three kids' first names) is tucked away in the crazy Termini district, a hop away from the station (convenient for me, as I catch an early flight tomorrow). The room is elegantly furnished, and looks out on the street below. The B&B is an apartment in an old, elegant building with an interior garden. There's a small but efficient bathroom, and a nicely furnished breakfast area, and when I asked to have my breakfast an hour earlier, they offered to deliver it to my room by tonight, with a water heater. Only catch: what's with Italians and instant coffee? They think everyone from America loves this Nescafe shit. But as though to make up for it, I also got a basket of stuff, from yogurt to juice, fresh fruit, crostata and biscotti, a croissant, Nutella and honey, and nice Ikea cutlery. Gee, and all I wanted was an espresso.... (Via Principe Amadeo 85/A, 00185 Roma.)

Since I only had an afternoon in Rome, quickly did my Bernini research:

Santa Bibiana, where I walked like 2 miles along via Giolitti's seediest quarters only to find it gated and closed (and scrawled all over with graffiti.)

Santa Maria della Vittoria, to take a look at the Ecstasy of Saint Theresa again. Okay, can I take it home with me now?

Santa Maria di Popolo, where as my luck would have it, the Chigi Chapel was closed for restoration. I do remember coming here the last time though, and touching the feet of Bernini's Daniel. Also had a chance to check out Caravaggio's totally homoerotic Conversion of Saint Paul again.

Passed through a bunch of churches designed by Rainaldi, who was influenced by Bernini; you almost couldn't tell it wasn't Bernini until you looked closer--Rainaldi didn't have the master's touch with detail.

Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, to check out Bernini's elephant and Michelangelo's Savior, possibly the most buff Christ ever created. And this is where all my freaking batteries finally ran out, and where my pic album ends.

Brief stop at the Pantheon. Crowds freaked me out, and I fled. Found a Punto (a supermarket), got myself some Segafreddo to take home. Yey.

Wanted to go back to Cacia e Pepe for carbonara, epecially after last night's disappointing version at Al Nonno, but my feet were hurting (damn these Superga -- they're useless on Rome's cobbled streets) so decided to just have porchetta at Campo di Fiori. Which of course took me forever to find. Last time I was here, Ristocampo had excellent porchetta. Now the place has totally gone commercial, they give you a pinch of pork and tons of add-on stuff, and the girls who serve are just a bunch of young little bitches who probably couldn't find better work for the summer (and who spoke absolutely no English). If you want wine, you have to order it next door, which is their sister bar. There the girls are much nicer. Which goes to show, if you do pork, it's just work; if you do wine, you're fine. Whatever. Word of warning: it's not OK to have picante salsa with your porchetta. I asked for "un pochino solo" but the little bitch slathered it all over like mayo on a Big Mac, and I could barely taste the porchetta until the last bite, when I finally got to the crispy skin. Still a good bargain: porchetta, 5 euros, glass of red wine, 3 euros.

Grabbed the bus back to Giolitti; couldn't bear to stay up; decided to just watch Italian TV at the B&B. But since the stop is just a block away from my fave gelato place, Orso Bianco -- perche no? Had sesame/miel, hazelnut and pistachio while the Santa Maria Maggiore tolled the hour.

Sleep, Gianlorenzo, while I stay by your side.

last day in venice

2009-08-07T01:36:00.003-04:00

According to a gondolier, there are about 500 gondole in Venice.

My last night in Venice.

italia, day 8

2009-08-06T10:14:00.008-04:00

While waiting for the vaporetto to Torcello, checked out the Moroccan exhibit of the Biennale. Fathiya Tahiri and Mahi Binebine have some very strong work at the Chiesa Santa Maria della Pieta (riva degli Schiavoni, Castelo). I especially found the blurring of borders between the illicit erotic and pure affection intriguing. Fathiya and Mahi, you guys rock....

Whereas the Ireland and Northern Ireland exhibits were totally bland: what the f? Yeah, I know, the sterile life of capitalism yadda yadda yadda. But minimalism doesn't mean you must be deliberately boring, you know....

Torcello. Mamma, that's the longest ferry ride ever. But when I got there, the visit to Santa Maria Assunta was worth it. Veneto-Byzantine church (11-12th centuries). Took lots of notes for my novel. Otherwise uneventful trip, save for a brief stop at Burano, where I took lots of pictures. Sono stanco morto. Pics later.

On the way to Canaregio, got waylaid by a megasale at Gas and splurged on a new pair of jeans and a fall muffler. Oh well.

Last dinner at Al Nonno Risorto, tried their carbonara, got a little disappointed. Well, carbonara is a Roman specialty after all. Should have known. The waiter also remembered me, and sat me at the same table. They added a coperto this time. Maybe I looked like a tourist with my Gas shopping bag?

Vaporetto to San Stae, then to San Marcuola. Found my way to the Ghetto Vecchio. Passed Rizzo Pane along the way and tried their famous Casanova gelato. Took pics of the ghetto. Strong military presence (3 cops in 1 piazza). Paranoia even in Venezia?

Sat at a Molo, a docking area for gondole at San Marco, all by myself, watching the full moon rise over the Grand Canal. Great way to end my time in Venice. I am so freaking lucky.

day 7, continued

2009-08-05T17:14:00.003-04:00

After trying to look for the post office at Rialto (an entire palazzo, hard to miss, duh), took the vaporetto to Giardini, found the Biennale closed for the day, walked around sestiere Sant' Elena (nice nabe, quiet streets, no tourists, large mansions and full of old people), found a jungle gym in the park and did a few chin ups and roman chair leg raises (yeah right, 5 chin ups and 10 leg raises), took the vaporetto again to Accademia where I shot an instant short film, saw that my fave cicceta place is closed for the summer, and so is Trattoria San Trovaso, another fave, but found a nice bar called Cantine del Vino (via Schiavi 992). I swear I must have seen this place in Globetrekker. It's the one with the Vini al Botegon sign over it. Caveat: I noticed I was the only non-European in the bar and the bartenders were pointedly ignoring me. So all you colored people of the world, run don't walk to this place (because it really has awesome cicceta and good wine), but you MUST insist that you be freaking served. Teach these freaking Venetians a thing or two about diversity. Remind them we're living in the freaking 21st century. Oh well, can't really blame them, Dorsoduro after all is practically the boondocks. And after a glass of rose wine, campari soda, and five cicceta (baccala mantecado, anchovy with pickled onion, ham and pepper, etc.), I really didn't give a fuck.

There's a new Hard Rock Cafe and Burger King in piazza San Marco, aside from the MacDonalds that opened several years ago. What next, a MacDoge? And is this because Americans are so xenophobic and afraid to try new food and get stupidly homesick if they so much as not see a Hard Rock Cafe that they had to freaking open these stupid places here?

venezia senza i turisti

2009-08-05T07:40:00.003-04:00

italia, day 7

2009-08-05T07:26:00.006-04:00

Racommendata di giovanni nel Instituto: per colazione, Forno di Italo Didovich in Campo San Marino: buon espresso e buonissimo dolci Veneziana.

Photographed Venice before the tourists came. Garbage collectors, construction people, delivery boys, etc.: the real people behind the glamour.

Had to buy Italian shoes, no? Ho comprato Superga -- in rosso. Yey.

Checked out a lot of places where tourists don't go. More pics for album. Checked out a Taiwan exhibit for the Biennale, an exhibit of comic superheroes as Buddhist gods. Clever but boring.

Where in blazes does one find a bubble envelope? (Finally found one though. Must mail maille to Diego.)

Discovered Libreria Acqua Alta, which describes itself as "the most beautiful bookshop in the world." Which it probably is. Imagine a real gondola filled with books, and, in another room, a bathtub filled with comics. And a back door that leads out to a canal. And a bed and breakfast. Calle Longa S.M. Formosa 5176, Castello. Owner is Frizzo Luigi, a most charming Venetian.

Finally found Cip Ciap (La Bottega della Pizza). And yes, Let's Go Italy, the pizza was awesome. Had the cinque formaggi -- formidable. Tip: this place is easy to miss as they have no sign. Go towards the Ponte di Mondo Novo but do not cross the bridge: the pizzeria is on your right.

Home for siesta. Yey.

day 6, continued

2009-08-04T17:05:00.004-04:00

What the f's with Venice in summer? You have to pay at least 2 euros to get inside the church, which is why "Posso entrare solo per preghare?" is now my favorite line. Preghare my foot. Thing is, you can't even photograph anything anymore -- they want to make sure you spend every euro on their kitsch postcards and souvenirs.

Walked miles and miles trying to recall where my favorite restaurant is. Turns out all I had to do was ask. Al Nonno Risorto (Santa Croce, near Campo San Cassiano) has the best spaghetti al seppia di nero, and with the house prosecco it's divine. Soon as I got in, the place got packed (not because of me) -- they actually had to add more tables in the garden.

Checked out where to go to see Biennale art tomorrow. Took lots of pics for an album I will call "Venezia senza i turisti." Wishful thinking.

The freaking espesso vending machine in the monastery ate my euro. Damn. 11 PM curfew. Double damn.

italia, days 5 and 6

2009-08-04T08:59:00.003-04:00

Rain all day! Nicer, cooler weather though. F's mom again cooked up a storm, gnocchi and stewed chicken and lamb and veggies, plus her home-made biscotti and cherry wine. Later this evening we head out to Ancona to look for amaro tartuffo (no luck) but find incredibly cheap brunello to take to Umberto and Gemma's home for dinner. Stopped by the duomo, got chased by the rain into the nearby bar, where I had my second Americano in Italy (campari, vermouth, orange -- getting a strong liking to this aperitif). Later at U and G's house, Gemma filled us up with her signature spaghetti a la scampi, plus mussels and seafood kebabs, followed by the Sicilian cake we bought at Tavernelle (kind of like a humongous canolli) and G's apple strudel. Came back after midnight to pack for this morning's train ride to Venice.

Am now at Instituto Giuseppe, a monastery right in the heart of San Marco, awesome palazzo with supercomfortable rooms and, blessed be, wi fi. Had quick lunch of prepared sandwiches bought at the supermercati (too lazy and spoiled now to even think of lunch...). Gotta take a quick nap before I explore my favorite city. More later.

italia, day 4

2009-08-03T01:58:00.002-04:00

At Mezzavalle all day, swimming and getting sunburned; Fausto's mamma baked about a dozen kinds of pizza for everyone, and we had dinner with the entire family (babbo, zio, zie, and various friends, including Luglio, who brought a bottle of his own artisanal wine), followed by 3 kinds of liquers -- limoncello, cream limoncello and "applecello"; jazz concert at Offagna (town was interesting, concert was not), met up with Ubaldo and Betti, then packed off the kids to the stazione where we checked skeds for the next leg of their tour (Firenze); brought the kids back to Betti's parents' gorgeous house by the Pasetto; then with the kids gone, Gina, Ken, Ubaldo, Betti and myself hunted around Ancona for a place open after 1 AM (Lazaretto Bar, by the pier); had an Americano (vermouth, campari, soda). So far, learned 3 words for "drunk": ubriacco, mbriago, chucca.

italia, day 3

2009-08-02T02:03:00.003-04:00

Fausto's mamma cooked us lunch, which was possibly the best meal we've had so far. Penne with broiled cherry tomatoes for primi; stewed mussels, bruschetta and pickled sardines for secondi; and year-old cherry wine and melon for dessert.

Over lunch, had an interesting conversation (entirely in Italian) with Fausto's babbo and zio on the pros and cons of organic insecticide on the farm, and how it attracted new species of pests and increased resistance of the older ones. And on how to make cherry wine, preserve cherries, the normal number of siblings in Italy, the "gift economy" between neighbors (they give them fruit and vegetables, the neighbors give them tons of fish), and so many other topics I don't remember bow after all the vino.

Afternoon in Osimo: exploring the underground caves, the "Vestu Auximon."

Picked up Stazie and her pals at the station in Ancona; dinner at La Forte, where we waited for over an hour (this is, after all, Saturday in Ancona) and finally had our pasta (mine was Taggliatette Mare Bianco).

on cory aquino

2009-08-01T03:55:00.000-04:00

Cory Aquino was the most revered and most maligned leader in Philippine history. All through her presidency, Filipinos kept the infantile belief that she – one person alone – could bring the country back to normalcy. Right after the “people power” revolution, we wanted to get back to our normal, post-Marcos lives, while we expected her to keep house, make peace with all the warring factions, bring the economy up to speed, “make us proud again,” etc., in other words, to create a heaven out of our hell. When that didn’t happen overnight, the far left and the far right took advantage of the situation to say I told you so. To this day, they blame her, and her alone, for not having solved the country’s problems. Which, as we can all see, has always been their way of diverting attention from their own romantic visions of revolution. The left, with its hopelessly idiotic (and paranoid) leadership, has devoured itself, while clinging to its naïve hope of replicating a petrified ideology within a social and cultural landscape so unfit for it. The right, dazed by their idealistic notion that they can re-create a better, improved banana-republic dictatorship, continued to rumble against a social structure so unwilling to try another Marcos-style military democracy. And in the center is the country’s pervasive corruption and moral decadence, where no system, no matter how efficiently conceptualized, can survive.

Cory Aquino misunderstood all this – she herself just wanted to get back to normalcy, i.e. bring things back to where they were before the Marcoses looted the country – just as we all misunderstood her. She was no politician, thank goodness. She was, possibly, a yurodivyi in the Dostoevsky sense, until we told her to be smart, and she tried. For despite her stubbornness, she was a political blank slate. Every faction knew this and wrote its own self-serving agenda on her. When she began speaking on behalf of one or the other, we blamed it on her, not on the people who were using and re-creating her.

We wanted Cory Aquino to be strong so we could remain passive. We wanted her to save us so we could refuse to save ourselves. She was there so we could continue the infantile neurosis that has always sustained the Philippines’ need for a “guiding” power – God or a dictator, choose your daddy – and has always justified its corruption and poverty. She was, as so many predicted during the heyday of the people power revolution, our Joan of Arc. We knew we would burn her for allowing us to corrupt the vision we wanted her to sustain. We forgot so soon that she had achieved what no man in our supremely machismo-obsessed country had done – to get rid of the Marcoses. For that alone, we should be grateful. If the Philippines never rose from the “long nightmare” after she took over the presidency, we have no one to blame but ourselves.

italia, day 3

2009-08-01T02:07:00.002-04:00

Walking around Ancona; a taste to caffe il nonno at Rosa (sort of like a coffee milk shake); lunch at Il Vigolo, the city's best kept secret (only local stevedores come for the incredibly cheap and hearty 3-course lunch, with 2-euro-carafes of wine); shopping at all the saldi; a little swim at Pasetto, underneath the Mussolini monument and the poetry graffiti; a quick zip down to the stazione for my Venice tix; a short stop for a shower at home and then dinner at Il Belvedere overlooking the town and coastline of Sirolo, where we had grillata misto, pickled garlic and anchovy-stuffed peppers, Rosso Conero, and cherry wine with biscotti and tiramisu. What a life.

italia, day 2

2009-07-31T00:20:00.003-04:00

Ancona.

Slow Trenitalia local train, filled with boy scouts (apparently the time when they all come out to camp in the woods).

Picked up by Ken, Gina and Fausto at the stazione, staying at Fausto's farm, where his Mom has all our meals scheduled for the next few days.

Swimming at Porto Nuovo, by the Torre, where we met Fausto's moglie, Elena. Aperitivo at the garden overlooking the sea at Hotel Emilia, where we bumped into my friends Umberto and Gemma, who will be joining us in the next few days.

Back in the farm for some home cooking, last night's frito misto leftovers specially for me, and carbonara (decision for dinner decided by my telling them about Cacia e Pepe).

Stayed up watching the "hunchback moon" (can't remember the Italian term) rising over the farm.

italia, day 1 pics

2009-07-30T03:18:00.004-04:00

St. Peter's, closing time.

Self-portrait with Bernini.

Castel Sant'Angelo.

Bernini's baldachino at St. Peter's as an alien from outer space.

Rome, 10 PM.

italia, day 1

2009-07-29T17:39:00.007-04:00

Rome.

There's a man on the Leonardo Express who looks exactly like Alain Delon in Antonioni's Eclipse.

My B&B is outside the old walls, in the neighborhood of Penestrina. You pass by the African and Chinese ghettos at Vittorio Emanuele to get here. At first I thought uh-oh, what did I get myself into this time. But this neighborhood is all artists and students, sort of like the East Village, but not as crazy.

My B&B is probably one of the coolest places to stay in Rome. It's got the unappealing name of About B&B in Rome, but it makes up in decor what it lacks in creative self-christening. It's kind of like the Mercer Hotel, but with nicer people. Grey and orange stucco walls. Glass-walled bathroom. Ultra-modern features (took me forever to figure out how to use the shower). A garden and wi-fi all over the place. And orange blossom shampoo. (About B&B in Rome, via Braccio da Montone 85.)

Recommended by Erica, who owns the B&B: Necci Caffe/Ristorante (via Fanfulla Da Lodi 3/a). Quite possibly the best spaghetti di fruti di mare in the whole world (7 euros!). Lovely garden dining. Cute staff too.

Finally found my idol Bernini's tomb. Not down in the papal crypts as I suspected, but just discreetly tucked on the steps to the right of the altar. A simple slab of marble, so humble a grave for the man whose monumental genius created this city's character. Sat beside the tomb for a long time, missing Bernini for some reason.

Consoled myself with sesame-miele gelato at L'Orso Bianco, my favorite gelateria (via Carlo Alberto 7).

Did my Bernini pilgrimage. Saw the Ecstasy of Saint Theresa again. Prayed that I be blessed enough to experience that ecstasy at least once in my life. Bought a couple of Bernini books and postcards.

Off to the Vatican, where I hoped to catch vespers, but an overzealous (and over-Catholic) security guard refused to let me in because I looked like a tourist (guidebook, water bottle), even though I argued with him and asked him to give me a reason why I couldn't be allowed to hear mass. Maybe he knew I wasn't really there for the mass, but the music, which was lovely as usual. Saw the Berninis, except the monument to Pope Urban, which must be sealed off somewhere as I never seem to find it anywhere in the Vatican.

Did manage to find Cacio e Pepe again though, where I had the best carbonara in the world two years ago (via G. Avezzana, 11). The twins who served my table then are now totally grown up (as in middle-age-looking), but their sisters all look the same as they did back then. I told one of them I tried the carbonara 2 years ago and loved it and came back for it. She rushed in to tell the cook (their brother?) my story and one of the twins came back with a heaping mound of pasta for me, and a half liter of red wine. In short, got so stuffed and drunk but made the family happy when I said the carbonara was exactly as I remembered it.

Got lost looking for autobus 70 to Piazza Navona, but found my way to Castel Sant'Angelo by foot anyway, where, still drunk silly, I stood under one of Bernini's angels and wept shamelessly for so much beauty. I mean, really.

Did find my way to Piazza Navona. Too many tourists as usual, but the city's finally re-opened Bernini's fountain, which I haven't seen in over a decade.

Idea for my Bernini novel shaping up.

my poems in romanian

2009-07-16T19:32:00.003-04:00

My friend Carmen Firan recently sent my poems to the Romanian literary journal Scrisul Romanesc for an issue on translations. You can follow this link to take a peek at two of my translated poems:

http://www.revistascrisulromanesc.ro/work/reviste/sr_8_2009.pdf

Of course, you can read the second poem in the previous post.

The Beauty of Sorrow, after Pauline Oliveros

2009-06-27T19:26:00.003-04:00

The best time to look at sorrow
is a quarter before midnight.

It looks dead from the ground up,
a single withered stick.
Then opens gently,
like the luna flower.

It bursts with all the radiant loneliness
of the desert,
a shock of moonlight that pulses
only once a year,

when you least expect it,
when you’ve forgotten
the intoxication,
the pungent scent of grief.

…….

Reina de la noche
covers the arid valley
from here to the moon.

They open their mouths
like fish in water,
sucking in the dry air.
Their small tongues
are smeared with silver.

Such beauty can never last.

…….

The best time to listen to sorrow
is anytime if you are
in the desert.

You can listen to it
in the just intonation
of summer, when everything
is one music, seamless and slow.

I like to press my ear against
your sternum, I like to hear life
being pumped all over you.

I like the way the sage
is always silent
and full of healing,
if we only knew.

It’s not like here,
in this shitty apartment,
where sorrow yells in your ear
and all you hear
is your heart opening and closing,

and only because
it’s supposed to.

…….

I can live with sorrow
all day without you.
I’ve gotten good
at making it feel at home.
I think I will get even better
tomorrow, and the day
after tomorrow.

I will be so good I will have
rivals, I will evoke such envy.

I will wear it around my neck,
the way those pimps
wear a viper sometimes,
just to show they’re somebody,
just to show they’re special and mean.

I can live without you
sometimes, I can feel your name
scratched into my heart
like graffiti.

Someone must have left it there
in the dead of night,
when no one was looking.

I swear it wasn’t me.

…….

If there’s a best time to eat sorrow
it must be now,
when your hunger gnaws so deep
it feels like having a soul.

You can let it take over you
like the spirit
the shaman wakes
with a single drum.

You can turn it into poetry
or religion, whatever
is easier to swallow.

Either way it remains
what it is,
a slow, elusive bloom
that opens your body up,

and you can’t help staring
at the dead light streaming
towards you,

the dead waking the living
with these small revelations.

books i found in thrift shops in the last 60 days

2009-06-21T19:18:00.005-04:00

1. Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

2. Dante, La Vita Nuova

3. Ovid, Heroides

4. Tom Stoppard, The Coast of Utopia 1

5. Tom Stoppard, Jumpers

6. Fray Ramon Panes, An Account of the Antiquities of the Indians

7. Playwrights on Playwriting, Toby Cole, ed.

8. Alessandro Piperno, The Worst Intentions

9. Essential Works of Socialism, Irving Howe, ed.

10. Jeanette Winterson, Passion

11. Jean-Paul Sartre, Essays on Existentialism

12. Blaise Pascal, Pensees

two nudes in paris

2009-06-04T22:34:00.004-04:00

My fave galpal in Paris, Bonnie Melvin, read this translation of my poem Two Nudes at the Sulyap festival recently. The poem was translated by Anne Latour and Branko Aleksic -- merci a tous!

Deux Nus

Elle craint Avril plus que tout, ce moment où la mousson
étouffe le peu de dévotion qui reste entre nous. J’en veux
à la mousson, pas à elle. Depuis Sarawak
quand il longe la côte sud ouest, l’air empeste le cardamome,
la laitance de crabe, les cadavres. Des soldats bombardent Pikit,
trois mille réfugiés musulmans affluent
dans les églises chrétiennes. L’ironie ne la frappe pas qui veut
que nous finissions toujours par soigner ceux
que nous maltraitons le plus. Elle est couchée sur le lit telle ma
république battue par le vent et la pluie, trop triste pour réagir
à la médiocrité de mon étreinte, à ce que ma jouissance
vienne ou trop vite ou trop lente. Vous pourriez croire que j’invente
mais elle m’a dit ce matin : L’argent
est le plus bel objet du monde.
Elle cherche à croire en quelque chose,
un au-delà de l’évidence trop claire, trop proche
pour être vue. Cher Eric , écrit-elle, je ne me précipite vers toi
que lorsque je suis sur le point de me désagréger.
L’été aux tropiques est un long carême, tout de repentir
et de résurrection, et il me rend malade. Elle colle ses pouces
dans les stigmates secs de croûtes de mes mains, sans douleur.
Elle me dit que l’on n’échappe pas à la guerre. Il faut bombarder
quelques villes si l’on veut la paix. Si nous avons des enfants
ils seront neuf sur dix qui jamais ne conjugueront le futur.
Pour quelque raison elle trouve cela réconfortant .
Lorsqu’elle est ainsi couchée, en position fœtale, un bras déplié,
contact avec mon visage, elle me rappelle le cap
extrême nord des Sulawesi. Elle me l’a montré une fois
sur la carte : une île jungle presque de forme humaine,
grouillante de terreur, incroyablement pauvre.

Traduit de l’anglais par Anne Latour et Branko Aleksic

poem

2009-05-11T08:26:00.002-04:00

He asked me why I was so distant
and I said it was because of
anti-matter. It’s because I have
x-ray vision or think I do
and the skeletons drive past
in their invisible automobiles
and I am not scared,
I drink the full red grapes
right off the vine, the women
from Guangzhou are counting
all the fish massacred at four o'clock,
and somewhere in the night
God exists in his own mind,
counting the quarks left over
from all the revelations,
true or false. I pray to this space
that opens before me, wider
than my soul can carry.
And in the dark I dream
about nothing, I evolve
into orangutans, my mind wrapped
in the silence before words
before illogic. I am primitive
therefore, I don’t know the signals
for love, I refuse the dress code,
I check in when I want to,
I have an open ticket.
Inside out the world makes sense
but only if you don’t live in it,
the spoons bending in the smallness
of non-space, language useless,
desire absurd. You say evil
and I say no, you say in emptiness
is where you’ll find it and I say
x is not x, my anger is for
all of you, all the self-delusion.
It is not pity, it is real, it cuts me
straight through. I can see behind
the glass. I can stick my hand in
and not feel a thing.
I can fly over the broken world
and never touch ground.

sublimation

2009-05-09T11:24:00.004-04:00

alors, viens!

2009-04-29T22:31:00.002-04:00

among the exoplanets

2009-04-26T22:29:00.002-04:00

The fade-out is not impossible.
You take the Acela
while I take the downtown B.
The stations will be packed.
This story has grown old.
Still I will close gently,
and let the credits scroll.
It will be torrid in the 80s.
The cold hearts glisten
in the waiting room.

The instructions will be simple.
On a clear night
in La Silla, Chile,
a goatherd looking for a lost kid
will look up to find
a mirror of the earth,
twice as big, double
all the sorrow,
all the epiphany.

I cannot hurt you any more
than I can hurt you.
There are secret wars
that need to be investigated.
You were never
here, you were the space
I was lost in, the light years
spun from a web between now
between then.
You were my nowhere.

The fade-out will not kill me
or you. We will remember
all or nothing.
Someone’s bound to discover

life as we want it,
and for a moment
hope will return,
and longing. If I knew
what I really wanted,
I would let you know.

If I knew what to search for
here, all the wrong moves,
all the enigmas. Or there, among
the exoplanets.
Maybe we can count on it,
a better world,
bigger, faster, double
all the promise. If I knew
it would make a difference,
I would let you know.

terry riley: mozart stoned

2009-04-25T11:26:00.010-04:00

Terry Riley received a 20-minute standing ovation after the 45th anniversary performance of his seminal work, In C, last night at Carnegie Hall. The guru of Minimalism wrote the piece while riding the bus "properly stoned" in San Francisco in May 1964, when the pattern, he said, started unfolding, and wrote down all 53 patterns in one sitting the next day. When told that that was faster than Mozart, he replied it was more simple-minded--it was Mozart stoned.

The piece, of course, is far from simple-minded. Riley's idea was to gather a random and diverse group of performers (35 if possible, but smaller or larger groups are OK) to play from the same page of 53 melodic patterns in sequence. Each performer has the freedom to determine how many times they repeat a pattern, while carefully listening to one another and timing one's playing according to the organic feel of the work in progress. One of the joys of In C, he says, is the interaction of the players in polyrhythmic combinations. Sort of like jazz, I reckon.

What we heard at Carnegie Hall last night was nothing short of a stoned experience, minus the drugs, which were unnecessary, as the music transported the audience to something even more celestial (drugs just don't quite get there, alas). Immediately after the first few raga notes, you were immersed in a mesmerizing trance and found yourself traveling through the edge of the universe, where other worlds wafted and faded out of view. There were stretches of desolate, uninhabited spaces, exoplanets with their own tumults and surprises, and now and then a glimpse of some heavenly realm and strains of eerie, angelic voices. The music, in other words, was very visual, the way I suppose (or remember) a stoned experience makes every moment an experience both felt and seen, immediate and visceral. The ebb and flow of sound reminded me of the breath of Brahma, the eternal re-creation of the universe. Unlike the original recording of the piece, which to me seemed more urban and earthy, last night's performance was more finely textured, ethereal, haunting, I dare say nearly divine: I imagined Timothy Leary coming out of the heavens to bless everyone in the hall. The work lasted for nearly two hours; if it wouldn't have been cruel to the 71 performers involved, I could have gone on for overtime.

Just to give you an idea of the phenomenal, universal sound of the concert, here's a partial list of instruments involved: keyboards, strings, winds, didjeridu, conch, guitar, theremin, claviola, melodica, mandolin, bagpipes, "neglected instruments," toy piano, grand piano, accordion, pipa, guzheng, banjo, reeds, koto, recorders, drums, percussion, and voices.

Among the performers were some of the world's most renowned artists, including Kronos Quartet, Oswaldo Golijov, Philip Glass, Dave Douglas, Ustad Mashoor Ali Khan, the Young People's Chorus of New York City, and Riley himself. (You can check out the Carnegie Hall website for a full list.)

Riley is one of those true geniuses whose work transcends time and space. He changed 20th century music and, judging from last night's concert (and the diverse audience, from old fogies to young hipsters), he's certainly going to continue being an expansive influence on the 21st century as well.

What I like most about Riley is that he articulates the generosity of spirit a true artist must have--humility and gratitude for the talent that is given by some mysterious source. "I've always felt that the most important thing about an artist is that you somehow are connected to some kind of universal mind," he says. "Nothing originates from you. So if you hear something come through, that means it's something given to you. Try and get it down right away and not question it."

PS. I hope this performance gets recorded and released pretty soon. I would like to be among the first to own it.

books found in thrift stores (and elsewhere) in the last 30 days

2009-04-22T21:21:00.002-04:00

1. Robert Musil, The Man Without Qualities, Volume 1

2. Albert Camus, The Rebel

3. Jean-Paul Sartre, The Philosophy of Jean-Paul Sartre

4. Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars

5. Harold Pinter, The Birthday Party & The Room

6. Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Gambler

7. Machado de Asis, Dom Casmurro

8. Greg Mortenson, Three Cups of Tea

my secret agenda

2009-04-18T12:55:00.001-04:00

I have a secret agenda.
I am building a rampart around you.
You have no idea this is happening.
All the world’s unhappiness
pools in the souls of people around you.
They don’t know what’s going on.
Their frazzled bodies corrode
from the inside out. They douse themselves
with cologne. I can tell who’s who.
I can tell the ones whose words
are toxic waste, whose eyes shine
with hate. I have brought the mortar
and the ammunition.
I have rolled out all the trebuchets.
This will be a battle between them
and me. I am your superhero,
secret, full of love so general
and abstract you don’t see it
in the frame. I am flying over you.
My shadow falls on your face.
The city is a dark place to live in.
All this is alien to me.
I don’t understand the cruelty.
The snide remarks. The false pity.
The walls are invisible now.
The rocket will barely miss you.
You will not be hurt.
Your heart will never be broken.
This is not a vow. This is a matter
of fact, because I will not fail.
The bullet will rip
into the very nucleus of me.
I will let it smash
all my atoms, crash into my heaven,
shatter the imperceptible jewels.
No one will defeat you.
I will lay down the earth
and all its imperfection
beneath you. And I will watch you
in your sleep. As though
you were not yet born.
As though the earth were still
open and forgiving,
and ready to receive you.

sono stanco

2009-04-17T23:39:00.006-04:00

Sono stanco morto.

Pero cosa posso fare?

La vita e molto fastidioso.

Anche la gente.

kit smart on the VOICE

2009-04-10T08:48:00.000-04:00

For SOUND is propagated in the spirit and in all directions.

For the VOICE of a figure is compleat in all its parts.

For a man speaks HIMSELF from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet.

For ECHO is the soul of the voice exerting itself in hollow places.

For the VOICE is from the body and the spirit--and is a body and a spirit.

--Christopher Smart, 1722-1771

dante's tomb, ravenna

2009-04-07T20:14:00.001-04:00

I was here in the summer of 2007.

today is the day dante enters hell

2009-04-07T08:55:00.002-04:00

Nessun maggior dolore

che ricordarsi del tempo felice

ne la miseria.

1-minute question to the G20 leaders

2009-04-02T12:04:00.002-04:00

Have you included any provision on accountability for the $1 trillion you intend to dispense?

where i was today (california time)

2009-04-01T02:27:00.002-04:00

Change of plan: had to forego Land's End for lack of time; cruised by the Palace of Fine Arts instead. Then sumptuous HK-style dimsum at Great Oriental on Washington Street, and off to SFO. Watched Part 1 and half of Part 2 of Fassbinder's Berlin Alexaderplatz at the departure lounge and the (nearly empty) plane before my Macbook went prima donna on me again.

san francisco, day 4

2009-03-31T01:29:00.006-04:00

Sausalito: nice little town. Very small.

Muir Woods: getting there was half the fun. Hairpin turns everywhere. Live dangerously.

Sonoma, Sebastiani Vineyards and Winery: 2005 Secolo Reserve -- I think I'm in love. Runners-up -- 2005 Merlot, 2006 Barbera.

Napa Valley: Ristorante Alegria has the best lunch in the world. Calamari fritti; fetuccini with shrimp, scallop, sun-dried tomato; stracciatelli gelato -- to die for.

Napa Valley Center: virtually a ghost town, more than half the shops leaving, a fabulous antiques store with a closing out sale.

Divisadero: roller coaster ride.

Twin Peaks: breathtaking view, lots of ethnic kids smoking pot though.

Pier 39: OK, can we go now?

Fisherman's Wharf: a second visit to Sabella and La Torre, with lots of Filipino waiters looking after their kababayan.

Back to hotel, stuffed to my gills in food, packing up for tomorrow's flight back to NYC. But not before we get a glimpse of Land's End.

where i was today

2009-03-31T01:24:00.003-04:00

san francisco, day 3

2009-03-30T02:22:00.005-04:00

San Francisco: dead on Sundays.

Cannery Row, Monterey: not Steinbeck.

Fishwife Restaurant: good fetuccini Alfredo, but avoid the fish and chips like the plague. Generally incompetent staff. Blaring 80s rock (you have to ask someone to turn it down to not get a migraine).

17-Mile Drive: very cold, but worth it. Joe's Point, China Rock: apparently a lot of Chinese immigrants, outcast in their day, set up shacks by the rocks and actually survived. Lots of mansions up for sale at reduced prices. Madoff victims?

Carmel-by-the-Sea: totally Hollywood. Got a nice t-shirt anyway. Over-solicitous real estate agent wanted to know if we were thinking of moving into town; encouraged us to call (tomorrow, if possible) as soon as we made up our mind. Tip: if you see a house going for less than 700K, carpe diem.

Daly City: where were all the Pinoys? Sis gave me her signature 60-dollar haircut. Yay.

New King Tin, Stockton Street, Chinatown: move over, Sam Wo, this is my new fave. Yang Chow fried rice and Mongolian beef to die for.

where i was today

2009-03-30T02:19:00.001-04:00

poem written at 6 AM Pacific Time

2009-03-29T11:39:00.003-04:00

There are many ways the human heart
endures. Three and a half centuries later
the stream of sorrows no longer flows
along Mission Dolores.
The grieving mother’s heart hangs
over the nave, pierced through
with swords for every possible hurt,
even the most mysterious,
visible, maybe, only to angels.
As for the angels, the Ohlone
must be among them now not because
they ascended but because they swiped
heaven off the sky and brought it
closer, ceiling-high, reachable
and real. And what is God
if not the God of baskets, corn,
brick and mud. Whoever watches over us
is the one we adore. Above me,
from the choir, The Gift of Finest Wheat
is still unfinished, every note a ladder
to perfection. There are seven sorrows
the heart must suffer.
Bereavement, because it fills the soul
yet works alone. Longing,
which makes the body weak.
Distance, the light years between
eye to eye, body to body,
soul to soul. Time, which turns
all mourning into silence.
Silence, the heart’s way
of reading the world. Death,
which devours the smallest
whisper. And love, which wraps
around it like a stream. There are many ways,
each one a lifetime’s breadth
and an inch away. The heart
is the toughest muscle, the blade
cuts through and meets not resistance
but surrender, which makes the heart strong.

san francisco, day 2

2009-03-28T17:16:00.005-04:00

Walked along Fisherman's Wharf.

Bought silver ring from SF artisan at sidewalk flea market.

Took Powell-Hyde cable car to Lombard, took snapshots of the crookedest street in the world, with dozens of other tourists.

Got back on cable car, went back to Sam Wo for lunch (totally addictive).

Took cable car back to wharf, got sunblock at Walgreens (too much sun in SF!!).

Went to Ghirardelli Square, got asked by a bunch of Filipinas to take their picture, and was told I didn't look Filipino. Hmmm.

Got chocolate blueberries for the guys in the office.

Saw a small exhibit of Dali prints. Price range: $1,500-$6,000.

Went to Mission Dolores. Finally, this city is getting interesting. Visited the basilica, then the original chapel from the 1770s. Stayed to listen as a church chorister practiced an angelic Lenten song ("Gift of Finest Wheat"?).

Took the coolest cable car ever, the original Banca Italiana car with wooden bench seats and glass lamps. See pic below.

Found Boy Bawang cornicks at Walgreens for merienda.

Got picked up by sis around 7, had grilled swordfish and chowder dinner at Sabella & La Torre on the wharf.

Walked around Ghirardelli Square to burn off all the calories.

Waited endlessly for Earth Day lights out, which didn't happen (too much commerce to bother being green?).

where i was today

2009-03-28T17:14:00.003-04:00

later this afternoon...

san francisco, day 1

2009-03-28T16:52:00.003-04:00

Took public transportation, BART and cable car, from airport to hotel, to force myself into the city's daily grind.

Avoided Fisherman's Wharf like the plague, at least for today. Hotel is a block away from the madness.

Took the #30 hoping to get to Chinatown, got lost somewhere on Market, walked miles to find cable car, somehow wound up on Grant, discovered a hole in the wall called Sam Wo, arguably the best chicken/salted fish rice I've ever had, and found out the place is frequented by Berkeley students (hence the hip, young Asian crowd). See pic below.

Took the F to Castro, got incredibly bored, hopped on back on the F. If SF is the "gayest city in the world," does that mean it sets the standard for gay stereotypes? Castro: case in point.

yesterday, above and below

2009-03-28T12:26:00.003-04:00

more books found in thrift shops in the last 30 days

2009-03-22T20:43:00.003-04:00

1. The Architecture of Happiness, by Alain de Botton

2. The Iliad, translation by Robert Fagles

3. The Sound of Waves, by Yukio Mishima

4. M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio, by Peter Robb

composition

2009-03-20T23:29:00.000-04:00

sutra

2009-03-15T11:34:00.003-04:00

How To Be United In Future Lives
is a sutra from the Angutarra Nikaya, a book
too big for me to handle. It says that if I
do not wrong you and you do not wrong
me, the blessings will be awesome
and all our enemies will walk away in shame.
I will make it simpler for you.
I will live through this day with you. What follows
is the future, and I will renew this vow
day after day until the future is now.
While you are away I will be stronger
in my loneliness, and when you return
I will rebuild a house of happiness.
I will love your eyes as we get older, just like I love
each summer in New Jersey, all that open sea.
I will know you by your footfall,
by the air that grows still. Who are you
and from where have you come?
I will protect you from gossip, from the murmuring chatter
of the humdrum world. When your heart is full
of longing, or doubt obscures it with rain,
I will understand as though I were reading
your palm, your tea leaves, your daily
horoscope. I will make you laugh or you
will make me laugh and our laughter
will be an entire universe where no one dies.
I will learn your words as you learn mine
and we will place those words
in each other’s mouth like ripe berries,
bursting with sweetness. And when our bodies
are tired and our eyes are closed
I will praise the body that holds your soul.
I do not know what the soul is, my love.
But I will say love, which is more difficult,
more enduring, more fine. Love till the future life
unfolds, and I wake by your side.

what does history say about china's occupation of tibet?

2009-03-11T09:16:00.003-04:00

To say that China's occupation of Tibet is legitimate is to deny the importance of past efforts of peoples to establish their own nations or fight for their rights. What would the world be today without the American Revolution, the civil rights movement, the independence movements of former colonial possessions like India, South America, and the Philippines, the abolition of apartheid, the abolition of slavery, the ideals of the French Revolution, Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King?

By insisting that Tibet is rightfully theirs, the Chinese are bringing history back to the dark age of manifest destiny, when nations with enough military and economic might could easily declare any part of the world as their own.

Colonial masters have always been freaks. While they advance in wealth and technology, their ideas--about the colonized, about the "Other"--regress towards some kind of pre-enlightened ignorance. We all know what happened to colonial masters. Perhaps China seeks to experience that firsthand. We must give it to them.

there is no such thing as a compassionate revolution

2009-03-10T19:52:00.004-04:00

There is no such thing as a compassionate revolution.

If you read the Buddhist texts carefully, you realize that inaction can cause karmic repercussions as much as action. Anything you do or do not do will trigger an ineluctable chain of events.

Instant karma is always going to get you.

As we commemorate the 50th anniversary of China's immoral invasion of Tibet, think about this. Inaction against China's 50 years of brutal occupation incurs a karmic debt as profound as taking action against it. Not only does it condone China's inhuman repression of the Tibetan people--which includes incarceration, torture, murder--it also encourages China to sink deeper into its own negative karma, its karma of greed, pretension, hatred, cruelty and persecution.

To not speak out against China's crime, to not take action, is to participate in this karmic cycle, to prod it along. To inhibit China from its negative actions, and their negative consequences, is therefore to save China and the Chinese people from the dreadful future that certainly awaits them.

If a revolution must be compassionate, it must resolutely overthrow the karmic debt that is accumulated in the act of oppressing the Tibetan people. With words, if words still matter. With action, if action is necessary. With violence, if no other options are left.

To save China, one must help establish a free and independent Tibet.

This to me is true compassion.

china's "peaceful liberation" is tibet's hell on earth

2009-03-10T08:21:00.007-04:00

Having occupied Tibet, the Chinese Communist government carried out a series of repressive and violent campaigns that have included “democratic reform”, class struggle, communes, the Cultural Revolution, the imposition of martial law, and more recently the patriotic re-education and the strike hard campaigns. These thrust Tibetans into such depths of suffering and hardship that they literally experienced hell on earth. The immediate result of these campaigns was the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Tibetans. The lineage of the Buddha Dharma was severed. Thousands of religious and cultural centres such as monasteries, nunneries and temples were razed to the ground. Historical buildings and monuments were demolished. Natural resources have been indiscriminately exploited. Today, Tibet's fragile environment has been polluted, massive deforestation has been carried out and wildlife, such as wild yaks and Tibetan antelopes, are being driven to extinction.

These 50 years have brought untold suffering and destruction to the land and people of Tibet. Even today, Tibetans in Tibet live in constant fear and the Chinese authorities remain constantly suspicious of them. Today, the religion, culture, language and identity, which successive generations of Tibetans have considered more precious than their lives, are nearing extinction; in short, the Tibetan people are regarded like criminals deserving to be put to death.

--message by the Dalai Lama; follow link to read the full text

Link

revolution 2009

2009-03-09T20:13:00.001-04:00

peaceful liberation of tibet?

2009-03-07T19:55:00.003-05:00

Tuesday, March 10, marks the 50th anniversary of the Tibetan uprising against China. China hilariously calls it the 50th Anniversary of Peaceful Liberation. Here's what peaceful liberation has achieved:

6 million Tibetans forced into exile in 1949 alone.

87,000 Tibetans killed in military actions since 1949.

218 killed and 1,290 injured in the 2008 uprising.

6,705 detained since the 2008 uprising.

81 detained in "security sweep" ahead of the 50th anniversary.

Nice try, Beijing. What part of get the fuck out of Tibet don't you understand?

Sources: UNPO, The New York Times

self-portrait, or yesterday isn't over yet

2009-03-03T20:41:00.001-05:00

what i saw this morning / self-portrait

2009-03-02T22:14:00.002-05:00

my eureka moment

2009-02-28T22:32:00.004-05:00

This afternoon, on the 1 train, I had what John Cheever once called a eureka moment. I was thinking about my play, making a list of possible reasons why a character was acting a certain way, and suddenly it all came together, I understood who he was and what he really wanted me to say. I had been forcing him to be one thing, and all this time he had been fighting me, treating me with contempt, as Pinter warned a recalcitrant character would. And I understood why Cheever said there were moments when he wanted to run out and shout his discovery to the world. I wanted to grab every person on the street and madly yell, He loved his sister! He really loved her! I couldn't focus on anything else. I went to the gym, but didn't feel like working out. In the end I skipped all my chores and rushed back home and worked on the play again. I worked on it continuously and only stopped now. It is nearly 11 PM. And I am so exhausted, and grateful, and happy. I want to write till the day I die.

paul weller makes me feel good about myself

2009-02-27T21:29:00.004-05:00

All that I can I can be
All that I am I can see
All that is mine is in my hands
So to myself I call

There's somewhere else I should be
There's someone else I can't see
There's something more I can find
It's only up to me

I'm gonna clean up my earth
And build a heaven on the ground
Not something distant and unfound
But something real to me

--Paul Weller, "Brand New Start"

the survivors

2009-02-24T21:02:00.003-05:00

The Spaniards came and cut open
the black heart of Hispaniola,
yet you survived it all,
it was you alone who survived.

The blood of martyrs fed dictators’ families
for several generations,
yet you alone survived.

Your mother survived loneliness and poetry,
and in the poverty where she raised you
your life was rich with music,
and so you, too, survived.

You survived your beautiful youth,
when nothing so beautiful lives so long.
You had feet to dance with
and hands to hold and none of this
was ever enough, no words sufficed,
the future was a hollow furnace where all things burned.
And that, too, you would survive.

There was Paris and Salzburg
and the Lower East Side.
There were nights when you thought
you knew, and suddenly
the universe was wide open,
but all this was a dream,
a dream that you survived.

You are here, at last,
and you are close, so close: I gaze in disbelief
at the marvel of you. I, too,
have lived this long.
I have traveled this far to reach you.

books i found in thrift shops in the last 30 days

2009-02-16T11:50:00.003-05:00

1. H.P. Lovecraft: The Thing on the Doorstep and Other Weird Tales

2. Spinoza: On the Improvement of the Understanding

3. Umberto Eco: Kant and the Platypus: Essays on Language and Cognition

4. Haruki Murakami: The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

5. Harold Pinter: The Proust Screenplay

6. Nikolai Gogol: Collected Tales

7. John Steinbeck: East of Eden

8. Bartolome de las Casas: A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies

9. Cabeza de Vaca: Adventures in the Unknown Interior of America

10. Pier Paolo Pasolini: Roman Nights and Other Stories

catharsis, a poem by diana t. gamalinda

2009-02-15T10:32:00.004-05:00

this might be any street

on any ordinary night

and yet i feel the vapors rising

out of human gutters,

i can almost cup it in my hands

and i totter with half my eye trained

on a vague somnambulist flicker.

the open-eyed groping ignites my lust for effacement.

while i walk i feel the sorry scraps of shadows falling.

tonight i feel myself propped up

by the steady lunar rain.

i asked that i be shuttered out

to consummate this brief catharsis.

--Diana T. Gamalinda, 1959-1978

what i'd really like to see on a valentine card

2009-02-14T18:09:00.003-05:00

you float like a feather

in a beautiful world

you're so fucking special

i wish i was special

but i'm a creep

i'm a weirdo

what the hell am i doing here

i don't belong here

the arrow of time 1

2009-02-11T21:08:00.001-05:00

At the age of eighteen, Bartolome de las Casas first witnesses the genocide of the natives of America. It’s not known whether this experience led him to the faith, but he would soon become a lay cleric and devote all his life defending the rights of these people. Like Paul, he is struck down—not by the voice of God, but of the text, specifically Ecclesiasticus: “The bread of the needy is their life, and he who defraudeth him thereof is a man of blood.” Outraged by the atrocities, he predicts that God would punish Spain for the suffering of the Americas. At fifty, he publishes the massive History of the Indies detailing the horrors of the conquest. But he himself forbids the printing of the manuscript until forty years after his death, and only if it served the interests of both the Americas and Spain. At that time, Spain, besieged by the Protestants and the Turks, would not tolerate anything remotely disloyal to the empire. De las Casas’ history would not see print until 1875—more than three centuries later. Less than two decades after that, with the secession of Puerto Rico, Cuba, and the Philippines, the last fragments of the empire would disappear. The ineffable power of the text has been released; de las Casas’ 300-year old prediction has finally come true.

almost zen 2

2009-02-10T08:50:00.005-05:00

I have a particular relationship with the words I put down on paper and the characters which emerge from them which no one else can share with me. And perhaps that's why I remain bewildered by praise and really quite indifferent to insult. -- Harold Pinter.

radiohead rocks the grammys

2009-02-09T09:01:00.007-05:00

No matter what the band does, they outshine anything within radiant distance. Last night's performance of Radiohead at the Grammys--with the USC Trojan Marching Band--was no less than phenomenal, and made every other performer next to them seem, well, so last century. And who better to introduce the band than fellow uber-intellectual Gwyneth Paltrow, the unofficial spokesperson for geek chic?

what's your background?

2009-02-06T23:17:00.003-05:00

The past life of immigrants is annulled. Before it was the warrant of arrest, now it is intellectual experience that is declared non-transferable and impossible to naturalize. Anything that cannot be reified, counted or measured ceases to exist. Not satisfied with this, reification spreads to its own opposite, the life that cannot be directly actualized--anything that lives on merely as thought or recollection. For this a special rubric has been invented. It is called "background" and appears on the questionnaire as an appendix, after sex, age and profession. To complete its violation, life is dragged along on the triumphal procession of statisticians. Even the past is no longer safe from the present, whose remembrance of it consigns it a second time to oblivion. -- Theodor Adorno.

the cavernous sounds of words

2009-02-05T20:33:00.006-05:00

Whenever I hear from my buddy Fidel, it's always a beautiful day no matter if it's below zero out there. I don't want to embarrass him by quoting his message, but anyway, he says a friend of ours gave a talk on poetry and science in his science and society class and read Zero Gravity, although Fidel wished he had read it himself, as he loves "the cavernous sounds of words" etc. Fidel speaks poetry so effortlessly. He says he's planning an STS (Science, Technology and Society) reader and wants to include an excerpt from the talk and the poem. Thanks, Fidel. I would love to hear you read my work someday. I bet you'd make it sound like the music of the spheres. And being included in a reader on science, technology and society is so awesome. It's awesome to know there's always somebody who gets it.

the street where i live

2009-02-03T21:50:00.000-05:00

another shoe in!

2009-02-02T19:54:00.002-05:00

A shoe was hurled at Chinese Prime Minister Wen Jiabao during a speech at Cambridge University. Mr. Wen called the incident "despicable." Yeah, Mr. Wen, and your massacre of Tibetans is not?

dostoevsky's x files

2009-01-31T19:41:00.003-05:00

This segment from Crime and Punishment is my idea of sci-fi, perhaps one of the spookiest vignettes ever written:

"Some new trichinae had appeared, microscopic creatures that lodged themselves in men's bodies. But these creatures were spirits, endowed with reason and will. Those who received them into themselves immediately became possessed and mad. But never, never had people considered themselves so intelligent and unshakeable in the truth as did these infected ones. Never had they thought their judgments, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions and beliefs more unshakeable. Entire settlements, entire cities and nations would be infected and go mad. Everyone became anxious, and no one understood anyone else. Each thought the truth was contained in himself alone. They did not know whom or how to judge, could not agree on what to regard as evil, what as good. They did not know whom to accuse, whom to vindicate. People killed each other in some sort of meaningless spite. They gathered into whole armies against each other, but, already on the march, the armies would suddenly begin destroying themselves, the ranks would break up, the soldiers would fall upon one another, stabbing and cutting, biting and eating one another. In the cities the bells rang all day long. Everyone was being summoned, but no one knew who was summoning them or why. The most ordinary trades ceased, because everyone offered his own ideas, his own corrections, and no one could agree. Here and there people would band together, agree among themselves to do something, swear never to part--but immediately begin something completely different from what they themselves had just suggested, begin accusing one another, fighting, stabbing. Fires broke out. Famine broke out. Everyone and everything was perishing. The pestilence grew and spread further and further. Only a few people in the whole world could be saved. They were pure and chosen, destined to begin a new generation of people and a new life, to renew and purify the earth. But no one had seen these people anywhere. No one had heard their words or voices."

ERIC GAMALINDA

eric gamalinda has moved to tumblr

"Filipino" on Googlelab

20 fun facts about the Nobel Peace Prize, mostly according to China

The Air-Conditioned Inferno

says it all

a banana republic of our own

By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF

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Resurrection: Notes towards a Journal

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In Health Care Bill,

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terry riley / kronos quartet /young people's chorus of new york city at carnegie hall

my brilliant 2 minute solution to the health care impasse

books acquired in the last 60 days

Manila in 6 days after 16 years.

hong kong photo album 2

hong kong photo album 1

books i bought for my birthday

books acquired in the last four months

The Manila I Want My Kids to Grow Up In

eileen at 102

venezia senza i turisti, 4 (piu o meno)

alexis tioseco

venezia senza i turisti, 3

president obama caves in to the health care profit seekers

why president's obama's health care campaign is foundering

venezia senza i turisti, 2

italia, day 10, or what happened when I missed my flight

italia, day 9

last day in venice

italia, day 8

day 7, continued

venezia senza i turisti

italia, day 7

day 6, continued

italia, days 5 and 6

italia, day 4

italia, day 3

on cory aquino

italia, day 3

italia, day 2

italia, day 1 pics

italia, day 1

my poems in romanian

The Beauty of Sorrow, after Pauline Oliveros

books i found in thrift shops in the last 60 days

two nudes in paris

poem

sublimation

alors, viens!

among the exoplanets

terry riley: mozart stoned

books found in thrift stores (and elsewhere) in the last 30 days

my secret agenda

sono stanco

kit smart on the VOICE

dante's tomb, ravenna

today is the day dante enters hell

1-minute question to the G20 leaders

where i was today (california time)

san francisco, day 4

where i was today

san francisco, day 3

where i was today

poem written at 6 AM Pacific Time

san francisco, day 2