4 Books From The New Yorker’s Briefly Noted, 2 April 2012/ The Travails of a Wednesday

May 23, 2012 at 4:55 pm (Books, Calls, Conversations, Family, Lists, Weather)
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

The first two books on this list are novels; the last two are nonfiction:

A Partial History of Lost Causes, by Jennifer Dubois

“An American woman, fleeing a slow and humiliating death from Huntington’s disease, arrives in Russia in search of an answer to a question posed by her dead father:  What is the proper way to proceed when playing a game one is destined to lose?”

These Dreams of You, by Steve Erickson

“An unemployed professor and former novelist finds himself ineffectually resisting bankruptcy and foreclosure; his wife becomes obsessed with finding their Ethiopian daughter’s natural mother, who may be alive and in trouble.”

Brave Dragons, by Jim Yardley

“Yardley provides incisive accounts of basketball’s history in China and of the N.B.A.’s desire to monetize its popularity there, alongside colorful portraits of the players and hangers-on.”

Monty and Rommel, by Peter Caddick-Adams

“Near-contemporaries, both men were wounded in the First World War and became Field Marshalls in the Second.  Both, Caddick-Adams suggests, were master communicators, and perhaps should not have been promoted from the battlefield, where they excelled, to a strategic level, where they did not.”

*     *    *     *

This has turned out to be quite a trying week, dear blog readers.

For one thing, the husband has been playing this tiresome charade where he pretends to be sick and coughs right in her face.  This, she knows, is because she is about to leave for Scotland, where he imagines she is going to go wild downing bottles of Talisker (On the other hand, things could be worse:  the man could actually be sick, in which case, it will only be a matter of hours — no, minutes! –  before she herself is laid flat with the viral flu)

Self has told him time and time again that she is going away to work.  Not only that, she has looked up the temperature in that part of Scotland and the lows are 43 degrees.  She decides to compare to Redwood City (which is quite chilly today, self is wearing three T-shirts and one pullover, as well as thick socks, and because the wind is so brisk, she has decided not to step out of the house at all) and feels quite faint when the temperature for her area, right now, is 70-something degrees.  She thinks back to Dharamsala and remembers how she shivered under four comforters, even with the heater right next to her bed and going all night (It was one of those old-fashioned coil ones, it reminded her vaguely of a Westinghouse electric fan, and she dreaded knocking it over in her sleep because she was sure she would end up burning to death), and she’s already decided to pack sweaters and thermals and thick socks and woolen scarves, etc etc etc

She happened to give a call to British Airways and was informed that there are no airports in the vicinity of Cambridge (where she has a friend she’d like to meet), and she’s better off going to London and catching a train south.  “Cambridge is south?” self repeated, rather stupidly, and the British Airways woman said, “You are heading to Edinburgh, which is north.  And Cambridge is in the other direction.  South.”

This reminds her of the time, just a week before she left for her first trip to India, when she ended up asking the husband whether New Delhi was near Calcutta. (Her brain feels like it’s been on hold for the past year, dear blog readers.  Perhaps one day, she’ll put it all down, in a book)

Bella The Ancient One got stuck three times in the doggy door.  But it is The Ancient One’s heroics that truly move self, for the dog is about a hundred-plus years old (in equivalent human years) :  still she crawls manfully through that damn doggy door, up and down a flight of stairs to the backyard, to pee.  Self has suggested to hubby that we put a ramp over the stairs, but he thinks it is good exercise for The Ancient One to go up and down steps.

The vet just called, asking why self had not yet picked up The Ancient One’s pain pills ($86 for a month’s supply)

Son called and mentioned that he wanted to know how much it cost to rent a car for a week, and self replied that she couldn’t remember but suggested he try Dollar.  She reminded him to mention that he is a Triple-A member, for the 10% discount.

What else?  She got form rejections from Third Coast and Tin House.  She persists in thinking that the one from Tin House was slightly encouraging.  It was worded:  “Sorry to have to turn you down this time.”  It’s those last two words, “this time,” that self keeps re-playing in her head.  They must really want her work, self thinks.  Or why would they even bother to put “this time”!!!  Perhaps she didn’t get the standard standard rejection, just the medium standard rejection.  Or the slightly standard rejection.  Whatever it is, self is sure she didn’t get the out-and-out rejection from Tin House.

(Which neighbor is it that keeps trundling trash cans back and forth across the sidewalk?  She swears she must have heard that dragging-the-trash-can sound at least five different times in the last two hours.  Every time she peeks out, the sidewalk is empty, and the trash cans are still in place.  Maybe it’s just some kid, dragging his skateboard across the cement . . . )

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Leave a Comment

Talked to Margarita, Happy Happy Joy Joy

May 18, 2012 at 7:00 pm (Calls, Conversations, Publishers, Surprises)
Tags: , , ,

Margarita Donnelly, founder of Calyx — nothing in the world sounds as good as hearing her laugh.  Self called her today, and found out that the memoir self and others have been urging Margarita to write, for years and years, has just gotten a tremendous boost by the discovery –  of course in an attic, probably even a mice-infested attic (Now why, self, would you think about mice just because you keyed in the word “attic” a few moments ago, and now where do you think you are going with this you started out writing about Margarita, remember???)

Oh yes, the memoir in the attic, very yellowed, nibbled at the edges, turns out to be about Margarita’s memories of her mother, who died too young.  And now an agent is interested in helping Margarita get her memoir published, and there is no doubt at all in self’s mind that Margarita’s memoir will be an instant feminist classic!

And then self found out that Margarita has a plan to go to Venice early next year, and before self had fully realized what she was doing she found herself blurting out:  “Venice is great!  Can I join you?”

And Margarita said, “Of course you can join me!”

And now self has to figure out how to break the news to the husband, but as usual self gets ahead of herself, Margarita might just have been thinking aloud.

So, hmmm, what else was important about this week?

Marc who cuts her hair was wondering aloud if he should invest in Facebook shares.  Until that moment, self had never thought of Marc as the investing type.  Shows you how easy it is to misconstrue people!  Just because a guy is 30 years old, good-looking, and works in a beauty salon does not mean he can’t be interested in Facebook!  Especially Facebook shares!

Yesterday, Tiffany, the woman who’s been applying this wonderful gel-like nail polish on self’s hands and feet for months, suddenly up and asked self if it was true that the Philippines was the best place to get sex change operations.  Picture this:  dear blog readers.  It was 2 p.m., on a warm day in Redwood City, California.  The sun was shining.  All sorts of people were passing by the nail salon:  teen-agers, women in yoga attire (There is a yoga studio right next door, in the Andrew Building –  self kids you not, the name of the building is on a sign, that’s how self knows the building has the same name as her son), business people out on lunch break, even firemen (There is a fire station nearby).  And suddenly, this gorgeous young woman who self has known for several years decides the time has come to ask self about –  sex change operations in the Philippines ???

“Hmmm,” self replied.  “I don’t know much about sex change operations in the Philippines, but I do know you can have plastic surgery for something like $3,000 US.”

“Really?” Tiffany exclaimed.  “How much does plastic surgery cost here?”

And self, really reaching now, said “$10,000 US!” (which is probably way off the mark, self’s never been interested in this particular form of surgery)

But OK, she can pretend to be an expert, for Tiffany’s benefit, that is.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Leave a Comment

Accomplished: Post-Bacolod, Week 1

April 5, 2012 at 6:25 pm (Calls, Food and Drink, Movies, Niece, Recommended, Surprises, television, Writing)
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

  • Called Kathleen B, just back from her own Magical Philippine Memory Tour
  • Got Super-Nice Rejection from The Paris Review.
  • Learned that a tornado hit Bacolod on the day she left.
  • Learned that Niece G was in Arizona recently, with her parents and younger brother Chris.
  • Learned that northern California in early April is still cold.
  • Learned that Jeremy Lin had surgery recently.
  • Perused Nicholson Baker novels in local Barnes & Noble.
  • Saw Niece G in the City yesterday evening. Ate at Indian restaurant on Valencia (Udupi Palace, 1007 Valencia: they only take cash).  Discovered Modern Times moved to a new location (According to niece, years ago).  Told Niece about her adventures in Bir and Dharamsala. Sprang for bill, which came out to a grand total of $11.83 (This was a main dish –  vegetable/pineapple chapati w/ three kinds of curry, and a small bowl of lentil soup — and two desserts)

Niece G, Wednesday Evening, at Udupi Palace on Valencia Street, San Francisco

  • Began revising an old story, “Ambition.”
  • Sent out xx stories.  Self forgets exactly how many.  But it feels like she sent out a lot.
  • Re-wrote pig story.
  • Sent author bio to another magazine.
  • Watched “Animal House” (last night).  Was reminded of how pretty Brooke Allen was.  And how cute Tim Matheson was.  And how hilarious John Belushi was.
  • Cleaned the bathroom.
  • Went to Costco, purchased ground beef, Nyquil cold pills, Salonpas.
  • Made for dinner: chicken curry; ground beef and tofu (Korean-style); chicken stir-fried with asparagus
  • Dropped by Pampelmousse, successfully avoided buying more than one coconut macaroon.
  • Saw “The Hunger Games.”  Grade:  B
  • Watched penultimate episode of “Justified.”  Grade:  B
  • Did three loads of laundry.
  • Fertilized camellias, clematis, ferns, hydrangeas, roses.
  • Swept away all the dog hair and dust balls from the kitchen, dining room, and living room.
  • Paid a bill.
  • Deposited an author payment check, HOORAY!
  • Checked Facebook at least once a day. Chatted with Margarita Donnelly.  Who sounds as chipper as ever (Margarita is attending a Poetry Concord in May!)
  • Lost her favorite pair of earrings. Bought a new pair for $12.
  • Researched when next new episode of “Revenge” is set to air:  April 18, YAY!
  • Watched “1000 Ways to Die” (aka the Stupidest Show on Television). The husband was laughing so hard, self didn’t have the heart to demand that he change the station.
  • Watched Stanford women’s basketball team get trounced by Baylor in the NCAA semi-finals.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Leave a Comment

The Joy of Reading Luning Bonifacio Ira

February 14, 2012 at 12:19 am (anthologies, Authors, Books, Calls, Family, Filipino Writers, Places, Women Writers)
Tags: , , , , , ,

Self has discovered a new kindred spirit and Filipino writer!

Of course, this writer is very well known in the Philippines, but self only discovers her now.  She is Luning Bonifacio Ira.

Self is reading her story, “Tell Me Who Cleft the Devil’s Foot,” in The Best Philippine Short Stories of the Twentieth Century, edited by Isagani R. Cruz.

Self promised to finish this book, finally, this week, but every time she begins a new paragraph in the aforementioned story, she has to stop, it is so beautiful, and fills her with so much nostalgia.  (The phone rings, a rare occurrence.  Self lets it ring.  She will check momentarily to see who it was that just called)  Take, for example, this paragraph:

Rounding Luneta’s manicured acres, she turned right at Del Pilar, left at Padre Faura, and right at a side street whose new name she could not recall.  She felt at home in this part of town.  South Manila was was where an ambience was compounded of old acacia trees which shed their leaves gently like confetti, breezes that might carry the tang of salt (for, south, the sea was never far away), and a tranquil quality which went by the name of “Before the War.”  She parked her car in the shade of an acacia which trailed lush green fern plants, for sale by sidewalk vendors parked there day after day.

Dr. Twig’s clinic was in the back portion of a hotel which had bloomed before the advent of tourism and was now shrunken in the shadow of the skyscraping internationals.

“Dr. Twig will see you in a little while.  Please be seated,” said the mini-skirted young receptionist.  She looked fifteen, though of course she couldn’t be.  Filipino girls just looked younger than their age.

Dr. Twig’s equipment had always impressed her, even aroused a proprietary feeling due partly, she supposed, to all the past bills she’d been paying.

Her last visit had been when she’d had reading glasses fitted two years ago.  But when Dr. Twig came in, lean, stooped and shiny-domed, she was not prepared to find him so aged.

(Boy, and what self wouldn’t give to be one of those young-looking “Filipino girls.”  Right now.  But, alas, here she is in northern California, where the dry heat robs the skin of its elasticity and results in hundreds of minute lines at the corners of both self’s eyes –  Ahem!  Where were we???)

Self now checks the phone:  No blinking message light.  Perhaps a solicitor?

Self was dealt a cruel blow in the wee hours, when she received the bad news that son would not be able to go with her to Bacolod.  The news was so dire it quite put her in a depression.  Everything she does there, really, is to preserve a legacy for the future –  which is to say, for sole fruit of her loins.  But he has many, many responsibilities now.  He will go another time.

And now self can’t seem to stop wondering:  Who was it who just called?  Who?

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

2 Comments

To Claim (or Proclaim), One Must Proceed With Caution

February 12, 2012 at 6:57 am (Calls, Conversations, Relatives, Surprises, Women Writers, Writing)
Tags: , , , , ,

You send your messages across the ocean, like feelers, probing.

In the rare calls from someone “back home,” you search for wordless clues, the hesitations that will tell you whether or not the speaker is on “your” side –  because, when you are raised in a Filipino family, there are always two sides, yours and “theirs.”  It’s always a question of allegiance.  To whom?

For years you’ve been talking about it, “my island.”

You blush when people ask you to name it.

Because here the word sounds ugly:  Negros.

You always end up explaining that the Spanish named it, not you.  Not any of your ancestors, either.

You hesitate to commit everything.  You will not, until you are sure whether or not these feelings are simply nostalgia.  Because who wants to build a future out of nostalgia?  Not self.

In the meantime, there’s a back and forth turning, between worlds.  So fast sometimes, the edges blur, and you are dizzy.

This evening, you watched “Kung Fu Hustle” with the husband.  You read an absolutely incandescent story by Luning Bonifacio Ira (in the anthology Best Philippine Short Stories of the Twentieth Century).  The husband became inexplicably cranky.  You resumed reading yet another book you had begun long ago, JoAnn Balingit’s poetry collection, Forage (Wings Press, www.wingspress.com).  You received a strange rejection from Ampersand which, in abbreviated form, said “sorry for the tardiness of this response, we appreciated the poignant imagery of XXXX, but we’ve already got dark and depressing covered for the next issue.  We’re looking for bright and weird now to balance things out.”

!!!!

Here’s an excerpt from JoAnn Balingit’s piece, “The Pitch”:

My father was not jealous of my mother’s garden.  Thank goodness.  He was jealous of imaginary suitors.  He failed to see her garden as the lush triumphant suitor.  His failure gave her more time.  His failure laid to waste her time.

If you were to replace the word “garden” in the passage above, with the word “writing”, it would amount to something very close to your experience.  Here in America, you are fond of telling people that you sometimes feel like “a Stealth bomber,” the bombs in question being your three story collections and the anthology you co-edited with Virginia Cerenio, Going Home to a Landscape.  By the time people notice, it’s too late.  You’ve become that which you didn’t think you had the courage to become.

To most people, you are one thing.  In your heart, another.

For all aspiring writers out there, you offer one heartfelt word of advice:  Stealth.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Leave a Comment

Reading ONE STORY in Dharamsala

January 31, 2012 at 6:42 am (Calls, Conversations, Family, Places, Surprises, Traveling, Weather, Writing)
Tags: , , , ,

Self ditched her group in Bir.  All she could tell Mrinalini was:  I just realized, I want to be alone!

Mrinalini said, “You only found out TODAY?”

Yes!

Self got a driver to take her to Dharamsala.  She kept making the driver stop at cell phone stores they passed along the way, so she could buy a phone.  But no one would take dollars.  So, she arrived in Dharamsala, all by her lonesome, with nothing but crap Verizon phone (on which she has already placed two expensive phone calls to the husband, who is completely unconcerned, who figures she will just show up back in Redwood City one of these days)

Last night was cold.  As in, FREEZING HER BUTT OFF cold!  The hotel people were nice, but could do nothing about self’s extreme sensitivity.  So self slept in three pairs of pants, five sweaters, and two pairs of socks.  Never mind showering.

This morning, she awoke at 4 a.m.  The sun did not come over the lip of the mountains until almost three hours later.  But when self looked out the window, oh what a sight!  Her hotel, Snow Crest Inn, is just down the road from a school.  And, after the school, the road ends. And after that, mountains.  Snowy peaks.  Great, mighty mountains!

Unfortunately, the hotel has no internet.  Self is at an internet cafe next to a sacred lake.  A family of  French tourists passed her as she was meandering (She asked for a taxi, but there were apparently none forthcoming, perhaps all taken by richer — Japanese or American — tourists).  She doesn’t have a way to transfer the pictures from her camera.  Those will have to wait until she gets back to a more wired place.

Here there are monks (Surprisingly tall monks, even an American woman who was dressed in monk’s clothes and had a shaved head).  Also, dogs.  Also, Japanese and Korean tourists.  Also, Chinese restaurants.  And mountains of trash.  And snow drifts.  And self’s mind is going in all directions at once.  This morning, she began writing a story and got to five pages (She’ll call it “Searching” for now — BWAH HA HA!).

She also began reading a story by Benjamin Solomon in ONE STORY, Issue Number 154:  “Who Cycles Into Our Valley.”  A grown son is visiting his father, who he is apparently not close to.  Here’s an excerpt from p. 3:

“The son, who is visiting his father for a week before flying to the States, is an English teacher in India.  He chose India because it was the furthest place from home that he could imagine, although having been there now for two years and settled into a life with a woman, he understands that actually he is closer to home in India than he ever was in the States, and that in fact home becomes inevitable when you arrive in a place lonely and decide to stay there.  He tries now to construct his girlfriend’s face in his memory but it refuses to assemble, and he can only think that she was unhealthily skinny when he left, and that she was angry at his leaving, and her anger made her look wasted and ill …

Then, father and son think of a trip they took “long ago”:

“…  of the hostel they stayed at in Madrid where the son got nosebleeds on the pillowcases both nights, and how worried and attentive the proprietress was, bringing cold washcloths and suggesting herbal remedies that the father didn’t trust.  The hotel doubled as a hospice for the very old, and at dinner the father and son would listen to the sound of an ancient woman at the table next to them breathing as if repeatedly answering in the affirmative — mm-hmm! — “

And now self must stop, for her tour guide/companion is sitting right behind her, and she fears he has something better to do than hang around with her in an internet cafe all afternoon!

Another thing self has learned from this trip?  That it is absolutely essential for a woman in her position — traveling alone, not knowing the language — to have a really, really top-notch driver.

Self, why do you always end up doing the craziest, most foolhardy things?

Because she is a writer.  A writer.

Stay tuned for more adventures, dear blog readers.

Leave a Comment

Sightings: Green Library, Stanford

January 12, 2012 at 1:31 am (Calls, Conversations, Surprises, Weather, Zack)
Tags: , , , ,

Self has been most undisciplined:  she’s been back from Bacolod since early October, and not once has she gone to the Stanford libraries to continue her readings on the Philippines.  Stacks and stacks of books, waiting for self’s hungry eyes, and Stanford only about six miles south from her house.

Today, she whipped herself into shape:  she got herself out of the house bright and early, and went directly to the campus — no stopping for anything along the way.  After she’d parked, she started to walk with grim purposefulness.  A bunch of men in suits asked her where the Bookstore was.  “Over there, diagonally to your right,” she said.  They didn’t look reassured.

She approached Green, just over the rise.  There was a crowd milling around the outdoor kiosk that sells coffee and pastries.  As usual, the courtyard in front of the Halo was jammed with bikes.  She went inside and got a Visitor Registration Pass.  She asked for specific books, and was directed to the second floor.  She found a carrel (No slouching in inviting bean bag chairs, self decided:  she has to work!).  Then she read, for almost four hours.

At about 2 p.m., her stomach grumbling insistently, she wandered outside to grab a drink and sit in the sun.  She’d barely settled herself and snapped on her phone when she saw she had two messages:  one was from the Apple Store on University Avenue, reminding her that she’d signed on for a tutorial tomorrow on how to use her iPad’s many features.  The other was from Zack, and she called him back immediately.  It turns out that the both of us have the same problem with insomnia.  Self knows that hers is caused by anxiety, from not being sure she can do what she has set herself to do.  But we’re both writing, so that’s good.

She was still chatting away with Zack when she looked up and saw a familiar, stoop-shouldered figure shambling into the Library.  “Professor Dien!” self shrieked.  He didn’t turn.  Self practically bellowed:  “Professor Dien!  Professor Dien!  Professor Dien!”  Finally, just before he was about to pull open the glass library door, he turned.  Self left her bag, her books, her phone on the bench and went running up to him, stammering:  “It’s ME!  I used to work for you!  You don’t remember me?”

He looked exactly the same.  Well, maybe his hair was a little more gray, but his face was still essentially the Dien face.  Self was so happy to see him!

Shortly after that, self headed home.  It was truly a beautiful day!  The sun was shining in all its glory, it was warm, almost like spring.  She swung by the Redwood City Library on her way home, and picked up two books about how to write your own will (!!!)

Now she’s about to start cooking dinner:  arroz con pollo.

In other good news:  self thinks she may have finally found the right gardener to help her tame her front and backyard.  His name is Keith.  He drives a beat-up old truck.  He looks to be about 70.  He came two days ago and ended up spending the entire day.  Self treated him to burritos from Tacos El Grullense on El Camino at Jefferson.  Though resident in the area, he said he had never been there before.

“This is the best place for burritos in Redwood City!” self assured him.  (At least, that’s what niece G used to tell self, when she was still a Stanford undergrad, and self puts great stock in all of niece G’s recommendations)

Self ended up telling Keith about her upcoming trip to India.  The first thing he said was, “Got your shots yet?” Then self told him that, even though her doctor had recommended she get hepatitis shots, she had refused (She hates needles.  Besides, she had a suspicion she might get sick from the shots).  “Don’t drink the water,” he said next.  Self was curious about these very emphatic pronouncements and asked him if he had ever been to India, and he replied in the negative.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Leave a Comment

On Journeys

December 30, 2011 at 2:17 am (Authors, Calls, Recommended, Surprises, television, Traveling, Women Writers)
Tags: , , , , , ,

A new year is about to begin.

This new year will find self in India (New Delhi, Udaipur, Mumbai, and many many other places), Washington DC, Bacolod (of course)  …  oh, 2012 will be a lovely year.

Today, self was on the phone to Drew, who was on a bus heading back to New York City after spending Christmas with his parents in the family home in Yellow Springs, Ohio.  (Self thinks of Drew as being so New York.  She has a hard time picturing him in Yellow Springs.  She’d love to see Drew’s home some day.  Life is constantly amazing!)

Today, one of self’s aunts (on Dearest Mum’s side) was laid to rest, and self could not attend the funeral service.  But she is pretty sure it was this aunt who blew in the front door and sent all the Christmas cards flying off the wall where self had taped them, over a week ago.  Something came in self’s home that day, and never left.  But it is not a bad thing.  Self feels a strange comfort.

Today, self began reading the latest bulletin from the Stanford English Department.  Self was musing that she is almost invisible to Creative Writing, but her work has found a firm home in the Feminist Studies Program.  She is visiting a Feminist Studies class (for the third time) at the end of February.

Self also received a missive from Vagabondage Press, who will be publishing her novella in 2012.  Can you have the manuscript ready by early February?

To which self could only utter a silent scream:  ##@@!!!!!!!!!

Pause.

@@!!##@@!!!!!

On p. 5 of the Stanford English Dept. news bulletin is the address by a new Ph.D. grad, Jennifer Harford Vargas.  Self reads the entire address and finds herself very moved.  Here are some salient quotes:

Graduate school, we have discovered, requires a great deal of esperanza.  There is no word in English that captures the dual meaning of this Spanish word.  Esperar means both to wait and to hope.  We have spent 6, 7, 8 years in graduate school waiting patiently and hopefully for the day we finished our dissertations and became PhDs.  We did not do so passively though.  For difficult thinking requires lots of time.

*     *     *     *

John Steinbeck once wrote, “We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”  Similarly, we find after years of struggle that we do not complete graduate school; graduate school completes us.

*     *     *     *

At the end of Sandra Cisneros’s novel The House on Mango Street, the narrator Esperanza imagines her escape from the inner city streets in which she grew up:  “One day I will pack my bags of books and paper.  One day I will say goodbye to Mango.  I am too strong for her to keep me here forever.  One day I will go away.  Friends and neighbors will say, What happened to that Esperanza?  Where did she go with all those books and paper?  Why did she march so far away?  They will not know I have gone away to come back.  For the ones I left behind.  For the ones who cannot out.”

And self is so moved because that perfectly sums up her feelings about Bacolod.  Why else would she have returned, four times in one year?  The first time (in almost two years) was in December 2010.  She returned three weeks later, in January 2011.  Then, for two weeks in July 2011.  The last trip was September – October 2011.  Husband was too stunned to offer a peep, and son was stoic and also distracted by the start of graduate school.  Meanwhile, her Bacolod relatives looked at her and remembered the five or six-year-old girl self had once been.  They, too, had wondered, what had become of self?  Now they had their answer:  Self became a writer!  A crazy person, who values books more than money!

When self calls L’Fisher to tell them she is coming again, they seem to have been expecting her call.  That is, they seem to recognize her voice (ha ha ha!).  She knows they recognize her even before she says her name.  What is it –  a tone?  A pitch?  Who knows.

Here’s another reason to cheer the beginning of 2012:  Season 3 of “Justified” begins January 17.  Until that date, feast your eyes on the Mother of All Sheriffs, the Big O himself.

Stay tuned.

1 Comment

The First Most Gorgeous Day of Winter 2011

December 21, 2011 at 1:32 am (Calls, Conversations, Family, Flowers)
Tags: , , ,

Self was at the San Francisco Airport.  It was still a most gorgeous day.  That is saying something.

The sky was so, so blue.  She was on her way to pick up son.  “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” was playing on the car radio (It is so odd to be listening to reindeer songs while stuck in traffic on the 101!)

She missed her exit because, just at the moment when she should have switched to the furthermost right lane, she was diverted by a thought of the photographer Stella K, who told self just a few days ago that she will be in Bacolod in February.  And self had just e-mailed her about visiting a sugar central.  And then, whoops!  She saw the sign for the airport, but to her right was a senior citizen in a bright red jeep, and this feisty elder just would not give way, even though self kept waving her arms and smiling and going yoohoo.  Self finally made a mad dash to the right (luckily, no police cars in sight), and suddenly

BEEP!!! BEEEP!!!! BEEEEEP!!!!

All hell broke loose on Highway 101 South.  And who was it causing such a ruckus?  A lone Asian woman in a beat-up grey car who was furious because self was trying to edge into her lane.

Hey, Asian woman!  Can’cha see there’s another Asian woman here?  We Asian women have to stick together, be like sistahs!

But no way!  Asian woman in beat-up grey car was definitely not into the holiday spirit.  So self ended up having to take the San Bruno Avenue exit.  Then she was in some building with the rental cars.  Then she was in a parking garage that was off limits to all but police cars.  Then she was seeing all sorts of freeway signs sprouting all over the place.

Self wanted the terminals, dammit!

Then, her cell toodled.  And because self knew it was son, she picked up, even though she knew it was AGAINST THE LAW!  And son had arrived!

And self bleated, “Just a minute!  I am parking!” (Self, you are such a liar!  But one must maintain one’s image of cool to sole fruit of one’s loins!)

And son said, “I’m out here on the curb already!”

And self replied, “Then I won’t park!  I’ll loop around!”

And son said, “OK!”

Then, just as self was looking madly for any signs pointing to the terminals, she found she’d somehow arrived at Terminal 2/ Arrivals Level.  And not one minute after she’d spoken to son, she saw him waiting right in front of her.  Like a mirage.  A veritable miracle.

And self was all so Happy Happy Joy Joy!  But she couldn’t show it, because it is essential for a mother to maintain at all times a mien of imperturbable cool.

Anyhoo, how very strange because, after that, even though self’s neck had begun a tell-tale throbbing hours earlier, when she was madly circling the parking lot of the Main Post Office on Broadway, she felt suddenly pain-free. And when she got home, she even managed to do a little work in the garden. And noticed that a small abutilon in the side yard was suddenly blooming with the deepest orange flowers. And there is just no explanation for such a phenomenon, because self has not watered in weeks.

She also ordered a Shooting Star from the Solutions catalogue (20% off!) even though there is no way it will arrive by Christmas.

*     *     *     *     *

On another front:  Self had a piece picked up by Rhino!  She just learned from a message from Angela Narciso Torres!  Thank you, Angela, you just made self’s entire month!  (That’s the fifth piece self has had picked up for 2012.  Funny, she’s always had this superstition that her “lucky” years are odd-numbered years.  Maybe not.)

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Leave a Comment

Last Thursday of August 2011

August 26, 2011 at 2:09 am (Calls, Food and Drink, Surprises)
Tags: , , ,

These are a few of the things you observed today:

  • The man who was handing out $10 racks of pork baby back ribs at the San Carlos Farmers Market (in front of Biancini’s supermarket) had red eyes and looked exhausted.  He was being assisted by a young boy, taller than him, with clear eyes.  Hubby asked for extra barbecue sauce (He always asks for “extra” everything, as much as he can get away with, without actually having to pay anything extra).  The man who handed over the ribs was indulgent and handed over two plastic tubs of barbecue sauce, and he still managed a smile.
  • You managed to return to the Hoover Archives.  It’s been months.  The whole summer went by too fast, you missed going there.  You saw a flyer taped to the entrance:  something about an exhibit of memorabilia from China, in the Hoover Pavilion. And you thought:  This is why you graduated from Stanford, so that you could savor the pleasure of coming to the Archives and spending whole afternoons there, reading.

When you went down to the reading room, you didn’t even have to ask to be buzzed in, the staff waved you through the stile.  And then you started reading, and taking notes, and reading, and taking notes, and suddenly you were in Manila while Japanese planes were dropping tonnage on Clark Field, and you were reading letters by American soldiers who were watching the mayhem, and right next to you, sharing the table, was an Asian woman who was very smartly dressed:  black cardigan, white tailored shirt, grey pants, black pumps.  (She’s Japanese, you thought.  I’m sure of it.  What would this woman say if she knew what you were reading?)  The pages the woman was poring over were a pale green, filled with neat columns of heavy black calligraphy.  And the two of you stayed side by side, reading, for almost two hours.  You left first.

Let’s see, what else about today?  You were standing in line at the Menlo Park Post Office.  Naturally, you were mailing out a story.  A story set in Cambodia.  You really like this story.  It’s the only one you’ve written about Ying.  Your new Droid sent out its space-y ring (not really a ring so much as an echo.  Like an outer space vibrato or something).  You answered, and it was son.  Wow, you thought:  this is truly my lucky day!  He told you he’d found an apartment.  At the very very last moment.  And of course, since school was only days away, it was –  ahem!  — kinda expensive.  Sigh.  But what can you do?  He is the sole fruit of your loins.  OK, you said.  You agreed to send some more money.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Leave a Comment

« Older entries

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 95 other followers