We are Suffering

The suffering that has been brought upon us, while it does not necessarily redeem, nor is worshipped, becomes an expressed aesthetic. A loquacious, grouchy teenager, and a middle-aged New Yorker who wears his scarf in the most sensible fashion – these are the protagonists, these are the suffering.

Flesh out the suffering in us, dramatize its complex layers so that we do not just watch passively, compel us to actively perceive, and you’ve got a movie that makes a stain in our minds. And it’s a stain we don’t want to wash away.

Shame

My favorite scene from the movie covered in a spot-on review by Anthony Lane of the New Yoker: "Take the wordless subway ride, early in the movie, that finds Brandon, impeccably swathed in coat and scarf, sitting diagonally opposite a young woman. To witness the back-and-forth of their flirtation is like watching Nadal versus Federer on clay. Topspin smiles are dinked across the car, lips are slyly moistened, and McQueen even lobs in a late twist, as the woman proves to be wearing not just a kindly smile but a wedding ring—a combination guaranteed to stir our hero’s loins. The entire sequence is perfect, and PG-rated, and if “Shame” had stopped there it would have been a poem." Read more here.

Margaret

On the final scene, the mother and daughter sit on a performance of Offenbach's Tales of Hoffman in the New York Opera House. In catharsis, they both explode in tears. Thomas Caldwell of Cinema Autopsy described this scene in a most interesting review:  "... a strong case that narrative art – like cinema – still has the power to transcend reality and emotionally connect with people when everything else feels muted by cynicism and resignation." The full review is here.

Perhaps the suffering is conquerable. It might have been a feeling of transcendence from narrative art, or contemplating the poetry in the scenes. I couldn't rationalize my sense of optimism after watching both of these movies, but I am relieved that the optimism isn't feigned.

Little Fish

In the heart of a busy avenue in Quezon City normally clogged by cars and jeeps, a corner leads to an exclusive village of uniformily-built, four-story townhouses. The gates are tightly secured, and despite the pollution, this place had the tall, manicured trees you'd typically find in Tagaytay.

It's a Sunday afternoon, not too blazingly hot, and the clubhouse is where our niece J. is celebrating his 4th. We had home-cooked spaghetti, chicken, along with ice cream and pork barbeque while children frolicked in the pool. It was the stuff of our own childhood dreams, their earth-memories in the making.

The little one loves the water and smiles with pure joy. Mommy, especially in a bathing suit, shows her beautiful flesh in the sun. Today, I'm the Daddy who drives the big van, then sits by the poolside reading a back-issue of the New Yorker.

I amuse myself with how the patrons of farm-to-table resturants in New York wait an hour for a table. When the hour is up, they get a text message. They scramble, as though they're about to miss a flight, as the table is held for five minutes.

I read the feature about a face in the crowd in Occupy Wall Street. Inside my head, my thoughts do their own swimming. Corporate greed has such a powerful feorcity that it diffused and drove out the occupiers in Zuccotti Park and dispersed the movement. A line in the article goes: "You worked all your life and you're a good person and it doesn't matter. You're really prone to getting fucked." Months later, the 99% kept getting fucked while economies endure gut-punching recessions. The corporations are unscathed. Despite my awakening as part of the 99% who kept getting fucked, I am still guiltily thankful for the job I love to hate.

I've always thought about what Fathers think as they watch their kids enjoy in swimming parties. I'm glad it's not all feelings of fluff. It's not a self-congratulatory thought, and it's also note one of desolation and desperation that drives the greedy. It is always of hope that these little ones by the pool will do it right. And so we do.

At Twenty-Seven Months

When we have children, we become (more hopeful) children all over again. As though all this time (until now), we only pretend/ed to be adults. 

I didn't learn to draw well enough, but here's what we drew together. (Mommy does it so much better!) I guess re-learning is a much as a treasure as learning.

While reading the other day, you described the pictures in the books: "monkey eating an apple." "Santa holding a present." From the books, you even recognize personalities: Jesus, Van Gogh, Nietzsche. But mostly, you'd rather see animated characters from cartoons or talking animals. We won't take your childhood away from you by teaching you what is Post-Impressionism or Existentialism. You'll find that out on your own. 

Before you sleep and I take off to work, you say "Good night Daddy . Take care, Daddy. I love you, Daddy." When you get naughty and we respond to your naughtiness, you counter with "Hug Mommy. Kiss Mommy." 

Together, we learn and re-learn. From ABCs to counting, the names of things, grasping language, singing nursery rhymes. Together, we do the silliest things and the sweetest things. 

In the blink of an eye, you'll be a whiny teenager sporting an unruly haircut. Maybe you'lld read Nietzsche and Camus, maybe you won't. You might say things like: the hourglass of existence runs quickly. But these days, we live in a realm of discovery and fascination that's inherent to a child. Magical is an honest emotion to describe what we are going through. So we insist to be always with you. In the theory of eternal recurrence, all this magic is happening always.

And all over again. As you sieze the day, you'll understand you don't only live once.

10/01 - Today in History

October 1, 1975 - Thrilla in Manila.  “Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos offered to hold the bout in Metro Manila and sponsor it to divert attention from the social turmoil that the country was experiencing, having declared martial law three years earlier (1972).” ^[1]  

This beautiful distraction, the conclusion of the Ali-Frazier trilogy, became one of greatest fights in 20^th century boxing. No amount of distraction derailed those who fought on. 

We fight many different fights now. There is one against the ignorance of those who think that the RH Bill is against life. There is one against lawmakers (and plagiarists) who created laws to limit our freedom.  We fight against a collective forgetfulness as we watch the wife of a dictator, who squandered the nation’s wealth, shakes hands with a President who pledged to relieve government of corruption. The senator who is believed to be the chief architect of Martial Law looks on, flashing the smile of someone who lived long enough to rewrite history.

The Thrilla in Manila happened over thirty years ago today. Let’s not be distracted. Let’s never forget.

To my kindred spirits, the mediocre lower-middle class folks who do nothing but pay taxes: raise your fists, oppose despondency and fight on.

  

Wikipedia Citation:

^[1]  ^ Thriller in Manila, Oregon sigs, Retrieved on 31 March 2007.

Shoes & Sensibility

"You've been contemplating on buying that for six months now." D. says. I never imagined how selecting a pair of running shoes would be as complex as the conundrums of characters in Jane Austen novels. 

I've utilized the shoe finders, compared and constrated specifications, studying the so-called science. After having determined what suits me best, I window-shopped what's available in local stores. I tested what I selected and took a foot arc and video gait test. As a final, pathetic gesture, I posted in Facebook.

I’m a slight overpronator (still weighs within BMI) who’s looking to switch to a minimalist shoe, along the lines of Saucony Kinvara 2 or Brooks Pure Project (Cadence) line. I’ve been running recreationally for a few years (40-80km a month, 2:10 21km PR) on shoes with a lot of “dynamic support” and cushioning, particularly Nike’s Lunar Glides. I’ve been pretty used to a soft landing.

Did anyone of you folks make this switch to minimalist and come off injury-free? Does it really help in developing a more natural gait and midfoot strike? I’m deciding if I should settle with something safe for my profile, such as the Saucony Guide 5.


My joruney within a jorney, my history in running shoes:

So I bought the first pair that keeps my slightly overpronating, low-arc feet within 4mm from the ground, with considerable support and stability. It would be good transition shoe. The box of the Brooks Pure Project, Pure Cadence line promised that these shoes will be the "megaphone for the roar of your run. A connect- with-the-ground and hug-every-turn joy ride for the senses. These shoes are an ultra-light, anatomically fit tribute to the freedom you feel on the run... put them on and run happy." 

Running is my metpahor made physical, and that's my favorite thing about running.  I didn't even read what I quoted in the box until bought the pair, but I knew I would have felt whatever they said and more, no matter what pair I wore. I've reviewed the supposed science and the literature's an inspiring bonus.

It's pricey, but I also bought at the right time and got the pair on a 10% discount with a 3-month installment. I would have had around 150 km on it before it gets fully paid. Perhaps to compensate for the time I've lost in the choosing.

So I say again, or paraphrase Nietzsche as I've had before, I no longer run on worn soles. 
 

Whistles and Whips

Now, the wind whistles
blades of grass sing, dance along
A while, the wind whips


I took my break early today - almost as soon as I arrive. I'm enjoying the calm before the storm.

While the shift's email is downloading, I'm having the office concessionaire's coffee - freshly brewed robusta with whole milk. I rip open a pack of blueberry pop tarts. A pervasive LSS rings in my head: Zooey Deschanel's voice singing "The Pooh Bear takes care of its tummy." D. and I have been seeing a lot of Winnie the Pooh with the Little One.

There's an indecipherable hum of agents' voices in fake American accents collectively answering calls that swam through undersea cables in the Pacific.

I barely take my breaks, or I still work on my breaks so I’m happy for the time I have right now that I'm truly making my own.

I stare at the send/receive progress in the status bar of Outlook but I don't open any email. I turn to some happy thoughts: the bike+run this afternoon, the excellent prepared by D., and playtime with the little one.



Bike+Run

Through the kindness of the Kingdom of Netherlands, a bike parking rack has been installed in CCP’s Harbor Square. It serves the purpose perfectly for my bike+run set-up.

I bike to CCP to beat the traffic-congested roads that are either too dangerous or non-conducive for running. The wind blows against your face when you’re biking. There's pollution of course, but I still prefer this over a spin class or a stationary bike warm up in an air conditioned gym.

Late in the afternoons, the half-kilometer (or so) stretch from the abandoned Film Center to GSIS and the Senate building is almost free of cars. Foot traffic is also low. Along with the nearness of the bay, the trees along the stretch gives it a strong provincial feel. The air smells fresh and moist. Other than the sound of rubber pounding against the asphalt, what's better than hearing nothing else is the occasional noise of an insect. Along the road, lines of Joyce Kilmer's Trees are posted up.

I run farther along the wide, still-under-construction road that lead to a bridge with a view of the bay. The emptiness of the place makes you feel like this is all yours. You hear the water swishing underneath. The bridge leads to the Esplanade and the Mall of Asia.

When construction completes, the scenery of this running path will alter completely. Before the cars and establishments congest this place, I run here as often as I can.

Belated photo by my brother , O. 1.15.2013

Back in Harbor Square, I cool down, hydrate and stretch. CCP is staging the Phantom of the Opera. Some of the guests must have had the brilliant idea of coming early for coffee or a light dinner to beat the Friday traffic or secure a decent parking spot. I see several of the guests parading around, some of the gentlemen in suits and the ladies in fancy dresses. I see a couple holding hands and seeing them so poised to enjoy the evening is in-itself pleasant.

Before heading back, I grab a classic glazed and chocolate cream cake with Oreos from the newly-opened Krispy Kreme. D. and the little one lights up when I arrive, seeing the paper bags. The little one smiles, rummages through the paper and says, "Eat donut."



Hide & Seek and The Cheesy Adobo

D. prepares our dinner, and I watch over the little one. Everyday's a miracle with a little one and what's even more amusing is how picks things up and gains his milestones.

We played Hide and Seek tonight. He cups his hands to the edge of his eyes and turns to a wall. We help him out on the count to 10, reminding him of what number follows and he mimics. He bursts into big laughs when he finds or is found. He was still asking and saying "again" by the time we were eating. So we play some more.

D. puts a twist to an already delicious dish by adding some shredded cheese on an all-drumstick chicken adobo. The sour, salty and sweet sauce went perfect with pink rice. We have conversations on the side and look forward to the weekend. She tells me, "We've got a six-pack of Heineken. I'll take them out of the pack and start chilling them for the weekend."

We clean up and shower and they go to bed. I have time for a short nap before heading off to work. D. indulges me to a soothing massage for legs and back that labored in a lot of running. It sends me off to that nap.

I dress up, and kiss my wife and son goodnight.

I whistled, and the wind blew my way tonight. In a little while the wind will whip up into a storm. But that will be a while, and I'm starting to think that since it already blew my way I'll be resilient enough to not even mind how badly the wind whips.