Exhaustion, and a Movie

Dear blog readers, take note: Since no one read last night’s post, “Nostalgia Post I: A Brother’s (Short-Lived) Restaurant,” it has now vanished into blog-world ether, though self must hasten to assure readers that it still lives (somewhere in self’s brain)

Thursday night, self got maybe two hours sleep. Perhaps it was all the excitement of the week: the start of spring quarter and meeting a new class of students — a number of whom were apparently eager and willing to discuss André Dubus’ short story “Killings,” and it was only the first assignment of the quarter (!!!) — and the Wednesday night reading at Book Passage in the Ferry Building (The store’s setting is to-die-for, not to mention there is a really good gelato place in the Ferry Building where self treated herself to a mango/lychee/banana smoothie)

In addition, hubby stayed up until 3 AM. Since self was so consumed by curiosity about hubby’s web habits, she herself could not sleep, even after hubby shut the light (His laptop remained on, a blue cube glowing in the darkness)

So, self resumed reading E. L. Doctorow’s Welcome to Hard Times. And, since she was liking it so much more than Billy Bathgate, she decided to read all the way to the end. And, wouldn’t you know, the ending was the most violent, horrific set-piece self has read in any novel in decades. And, after finishing it, self was so angry at its lame-brain protagonist that she wanted to throw the book against a wall (Only, it was a library book, so she had to restrain herself). And, scenes of mayhem and violence kept re-playing in self’s head every time she laid her head down on the pillow. Which meant that self could not sleep at all.

Still, yesterday was not bad. First of all, it was hot. To self’s way of thinking, any day that recalls heat of self’s beloved home country is already halfway good.

Then, self got to check out another book from the library: Jane Smiley’s novella and short stories, The Age of Grief (Upon reading the purchase date, stamped on the inside front cover, self had to do a double-take: 1977??? Jane Smiley is a lot older than self thought!)

Then to the real highlight of the day: During a brief stop at the Redwood City Nursery, self splurged on a two-gallon ‘Pieris Flaming Silver,’ the mere sight of whose reddish leaves set her insides to glowing. Self carted it to the side yard and then went all over the back and front yards, watering. (Her roses are getting enormous! That is, most of them are way taller than self! And the red freesias under the loquat are blooming!)

Late last night, after hubby returned from the office, we watched “Check, Please! Bay Area” and saw ourselves. That is, the backs of our heads. For the camera was really more interested in cuz Maitoni and her son Enrique. And we were very tickled to hear the restaurant critics say how good the food at New Kapadokia was, and how lovely the Redwood City downtown area is (as if self needed to be told — !!)

Then, hubby went on webcam to converse with his Mum, and self overheard him telling her about self’s recent trip to Tel Aviv, upon which self came out of the bedroom and handed him her (crap Nikon digital) camera, and hubby did a slide show of the pictures and described them for his Mum.

Then self fell asleep. And she awoke five hours later (at 3:40 AM or thereabouts). And she immediately checked her blog stats. And her e-mail. Cuz Maitoni says she bawled like a baby while watching old Redford flick, “The Way We Were.” In fact, cuz informs self, she bawled so hard — she was all alone in the house — that her blind dog Flora grew quite agitated.

Self tells Maitoni that if she likes weepers, she should watch “Once,” which self had to force herself to return to Netflix yesterday (otherwise, she would watch it a third time this weekend, and she has no time, as she still has to send back her contract to the Mendocino Coast Writers Conference. And take Gracie for her annual physical. And hubby and she have a concert to watch in Davies tonight).

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

A Few E-mails Self Has Received (Since Returning From Tel Aviv)

Self very proud of herself: only a few days after getting back from Tel Aviv, she downloaded the pictures from her (cursed Nikon digital) camera and sent a few of them to the following: son, Ying, her favorite aunt in Manila, and dear cuz Maitoni.

The first to respond is Ying, who e-mails: “I think I don’t look too bad.” Self realizes that what she means is, “Or do I??” In the picture self sent, Ying is sitting up in her hospital bed, and Dearest Mum is sitting just behind her. Naturally, Ying is bald, and thin. But both she and Dearest Mum are smiling, and not in a forced way, either.

Self immediately replies: “You do not look bad at all. You are beautiful.” Which she is.

Self receives several e-mails from Sandy. First she sent self a picture of a brown animal cupped in two hands. This animal had huge black eyes, little paws (with sharp nails at the end). In fact, self thinks it is a squirrel.

Sandy’s accompanying message says: “Look what Dave found!”

Self e-mails back: “What is it???”

Sandy then confirms that it is indeed a squirrel.

When self tells hubby, he suddenly remembers that Sandy had told him about it, when he was in her dentist’s office (Sandy is a dental assistant/ hygienist), getting his teeth cleaned.

Sandy then e-mails various jokes, and then self gets e-mail from Dutch Gardens (“Spring Perennials Sale!”). Yesterday there was further e-mail from Sandy: the baby squirrel has died.

Then self hears from dear cuz Maitoni, who reminds her that she should Tivo “Check, Please!” because we happened to be eating at New Kapadokia the night the restaurant hosted a TV crew from said show.

Self also receives e-mail from cuz Mike V who lives in Calgary. Mike used to live in Glendale, and self and hubby used to drive down to visit him every year or so. Then, suddenly, he decided to move his family to Canada. Self confesses that she finds Calgary a rather strange choice of abode — for a Filipino, that is, since we usually hate the cold.

Since cousin moved to Calgary, over a decade ago, self has not laid eyes on him, but she knows what his daughter looks like, as he sends pictures every Christmas. And she has seen all the houses he has lived in (He sends pictures of those, too).

His latest e-mail, received just a few days ago, lists the “most livable cities in the Philippines.” And here’s the list:

1. Bacolod
2. Makati
3. Davao
4. Marikina
5. Iloilo
6. Las Piñas
7. Pasig
8. San Fernando
9. Mandaluyong
10. Quezon City

Self wholeheartedly agrees with the choice of Bacolod as # 1 “most livable” city in the Philippines: it’s very green, there’s hardly any traffic, and the restaurants are fantastic (In fact, self thinks it is the only city in the Philippines — or, for that matter, the world — where the McDonald’s carries fine pastries — !!). At the same time, self must admit to a certain bias, since Mike is one of her Bacolod cousins.

Self wonders, too, how Makati earned its # 2 ranking. When self grew up there, it was a wonderful place: uncrowded and comfortable. Now, the traffic is such that car-owners are assigned certain color codes, and can drive their cars only on the days allotted for their particular color group. And the air quality is horrible: self sees the evidence in the fine layer of dust and soot that seems to settle on the plants in her mother’s house, during her occasional visits home.

Most of the listed cities comprise the a behemoth called the “Manila Metropolitan Area”: She means, aside from Makati, the cities of Pasig, Mandaluyong, and Quezon City.

As for the rest, it’s literally been decades since self has visited Las Piñas (which she always associates with “the world’s only bamboo organ!”) and Marikina (where she used to go shopping for shoes), and San Fernando, which her family used to visit only when they were on their way to Baguio.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Self Asks, “Why?”

Blog views back to pre-Tel Aviv levels. Self watching glumly as the flag on the Carinis’ front lawn, across the street, snaps and crackles in blustery winds. This afternoon, students trudged around xxxx community college in parkas trimmed with fake fur. Only a few days ago, self was sweating while wandering the Neve Tzedek neighborhood of Tel Aviv with Dearest Mum. Why, oh why?

The Olympic Torch arrives in San Francisco tomorrow. Which should be extremely exciting, as protesters will be sure to try and grab/douse it. Did anyone see what happened to that poor woman who was holding the torch aloft in Paris? Why, she was practically clobbered by a group of very tall men in track suits. She momentarily disappeared from view and self was sure she had bought it. Also on the news last night was an extremely entertaining clip showing a daring Frenchman attempting to douse the torch by flinging a bucket of water over it. (Self, have you completely forgotten? Tomorrow, you will be in the City, specifically in the Ferry Building, where you and Nona will be reading and discussing the short story writing process. Let’s hope torch relay is over by then)

In the mail today, a furniture catalog, addressed to Dear Hubby. Now everyone wants to sell him stuff, ever since he ordered self-forgets-what from Hammacher Schlemmer last year. And self now recalls that almost the first thing she heard husband doing, the day after she got back, was placing a phone order with Hammacher Schlemmer for: a) Something that looked like a giant green Pogo stick, which hubby explained he would strap on his feet for the purpose of aerating the lawn. You see, one maneuvers on the thing by jumping, and so hubby will be jumping — hop, hop, hop — all over our front lawn, like a giant Easter rabbit, and b) a special rear view mirror that is so wide it successfully eliminates those blasted driver “blind spots” and c) an exceedingly interesting gadget which– self knows not what it does, but it did look interesting.

Also in today’s mail is the latest issue of Vanity Fair with — hallelujah — a person close to self’s age on the cover. This is none other than the Material Girl, looking very hip in black unitard and almost-thigh-high leather boots. The caption is: MADONNA: UNBOWED, UNCOWED, STILL TAKING ON THE WORLD.

Oooh, and here’s Condoleeza, popping up on the Ch. 2 news. She was in Tel Aviv last week, and that city’s Hotel Row, Hayarkon Boulevard, was crawling with cops and security details. Now it seems there is a rumor going around that she is interested in being McCain’s Vice President? But even more interesting is the gossip self heard that Oliver Stone is about to direct a Bush movie, with Josh Brolin to play Bush, Thandie Newton to play Condee and Welsh hottie Ioan Gruffud to play Tony Blair. Say what?

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Poetry, Poetry: A Reading in Boston, A Book Launch in New York

Aaah, so many poets, so little time. 

First up, Luisa Igloria, the author of nine books including Encanto (Anvil, 2004), In the Garden of the Three Islands (Moyer Bell/Asphodel, 1995), and Trill and Mordent (WordTech Editions, 2005), reads at the Barnes & Noble at Emerson College with fellow poet Eamon Wall, the author of four collections of poetry, Refuge at De Soto Bend (2004), The Crosses (2000), Iron Mountain Road (1997), and Dyckman-200th Street (1994), all published by Salmon Publishing in Ireland.

Details:  Barnes & Noble, 114 Boylston Street, Boston, on Thursday, April 10, at 6 p.m.

Second, Language for a New Century:  Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia , & Beyond, edited by Tina Chang, Nathalie Handal and Ravi Shankar, and with a foreword by Carolyn Forché, launches at New York’s Rubin Museum, on Apr. 25, 7 PM.  The Burmese poet Kyi-May Kuang, who self met over two years ago now, in the 2005 Berlin “Sending Signals” conference, has some poetry in this one!  Here are just a few of the to-die-for blurbs: 

“This extraordinary, library-in-one-volume: what a resource! Those to whom poetry is essential as the supreme use of language will find the work of many poets they have never before come to, and those readers who have limited themselves to prose have the opportunity to discover how the poet outreaches everything prose can illuminate in who and what we are, no matter where, on the map. Nine thematic groupings of the work bring us wonderfully, almost perilously close to ultimate experience in childhood, love, war, exile, the inextricable relations between politics and the personal, the tragic and the ironic, the wisdom in sorrow and humor, that only the most intense imagination can plumb. That of the poet. The realm of imagination is one. This anthology gives entry to its vast _expression in the Middle East and Asia , including the changing sensibilities of poets in the ever-growing world of immigration. Assembled here not the Tower of Babel , but the astonishment and subtlety inherent in many languages and their experimental modes to expand the power of words. The introductions to each section offer perceptions engagingly, against which to place one’s own readings. The editors have boldly envisaged and compiled a beautiful achievement for world literature.”
                                                —Nobel Laureate, Nadine Gordimer
 
“Language for a New Century is a symphonic sweep of beckoning cries, praises, prayers, curses, ruminations and revelations.  An ensemble rich with diverse voices, here the old and the new converge, and something wholly human and futuristic emerges—something that possesses a robust lyricism—shining its light, its illuminated certainty into the twenty-first century.  This marvelous anthology assembles a multitude of voices intent on a purposeful, deep singing.”

7:24 PM, Redwood City

Self fell into bed, finally, at 2 PM. Now, it’s more than five hours later, she doesn’t know what happened in between, only that she was dreaming, and when she woke up and went outside to the living room, hubby was sitting in front of the television set, smoking.

The garden had changed. Now all the trees that were bare before self left are in full leaf. Self sees that one of the maples in the front yard is being bothered by something, because the leaves have come in on only one side.

Self had to throw away a small 4-inch pot of lamium maculatum, and some woodruff that had expired in its ceramic planter.

The dogs were fat.

The weather was cold and overcast.

Self had to spray her roses: the Sunflare was absolutely over-run with small green aphids.

This morning hubby accompanied self to the Mountain View Farmers Market. There self purchased: bok choy, green snap peas, new potatoes, green onions, apple cider, onions, tomatoes, brussels sprouts, and a 10-lb. bag of navel oranges. Afterwards, hubby took self to a new Vietnamese noodle place, which was more bustling than old haunt Pho To Chau, and he appeared distracted and in a hurry to leave and self couldn’t finish her pho. Then, on the way home, he was very upset because they seemed to be hitting each and every red light, and then he slowed down considerably, perhaps he was testing the glide mechanism of the car who knows, but self was already halfway out: that is, her head kept falling over and her eyes kept closing.

At home, self declared she was in need of a nap. A five-hour nap, it turned out.

Only two rejections in the mail. In the wee hours of this morning, because self could not sleep, she finished Penelope Lively’s The Photograph and began E. L. Doctorow’s Billy Bathgate and is now almost halfway through it.

It was self’s first time to read Penelope Lively, and maybe her third time to read a Doctorow (the first and second times were way back in the early 80s), and though self remembers being astonished by everything Doctorow did, once-upon-a-time, she now finds his writing fussy and predictable.

But she’ll probably finish the novel, what the heck. Self thinks it is absolutely amazing that tomorrow is already the first day of spring quarter at xxxx community college. Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Last Day in Tel Aviv: Visiting Ying

It is so wonderful to sit and chat with dearest sister-in-law, who is now on her third round of chemotherapy.  Dear Bro and nephew left last night, Mila the caregiver has the day off.  It’s just self, Dearest Mum, and Ying in the room, and we’ve been talking non-stop for hours.

Self wishes this had happened sooner, but let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.  Ying is contentedly munching on the 2-lb. box of See’s chocolates self brought from California (technically, she’s not allowed to ingest any food that isn’t cooked, but what the hell, we are all in a strangely celebratory mood), and leafing through a Vogue magazine.   We all started watching a movie about a couple of young Beatles fans, and now we are watching “Billy Elliott,” the movie about a young boy who dreams of becoming a ballet dancer. Not once has anyone mentioned Dear Bro.

It was a beautiful day in Tel Aviv!  This morning, Dearest Mum and self walked around the Neve Tzedek neighborhood. After lunch, we walked along Allenby until we found a bookshop self had read about on the web, whose owner turned out to be a transplanted American (originally from Newark, New Jersey).  On the web, the bookshop (on 87 Allenby) was called Bibliophile, but it’s actually called Halper’s Books, and the owner said he’d been running the bookshop for 20 years.  Dearest Mum bought a couple of books by Doris Lessing, including one that self recommended because she remembered reading it while she was in the Stanford Creative Writing Program, The Golden Notebook.  Self bought a book by an Israeli writer who the bookstore owner said was very good (But since self doesn’t have the book with her at the moment, and can’t remember the name, she’ll have to post about it later — apologies, dear blog reader)

Later, self and Dearest Mum had lunch of hummus, olives, eggs, and garbanzos in a small café that was large enough to accommodate only four small, round tables, and the manager was kind enough to turn on the airconditioner because he noticed self was perspiring. 

Self so half-in-love with this city, and so drenched with worry now for her sister-in-law that she almost can’t stand it.  

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned. 

Head in a Muddle

Dearest Mum arrived last night. 1 A.M., self was sleeping on the couch. She has a vague memory of seeing a skinny woman enter the apartment in skintight jeans (reminding her of Oprah-surrogate in “The Brunch”, who also has a penchant for skinny jeans, though self doubts very much that Dearest Mum’s are Dolce & Gabbana) and a pink top.

Then, morning. It’s a beautiful day! Apartment’s environs are rather busy and noisy, and the cafés apparently keep going until the wee hours. If self were 20 years younger and much richer, she would be down there, participating in the life of the street.

Self told Dearest Mum all about the dear boutique on Gordon Street, and the little coffee shop next door, and self agreed that after Dearest Mum returned from visiting Ying, self would take her there. But Dearest Mum has returned with brother and nephew (who has a humongous appetite: show him a piece of anything and he’ll gulp it down faster than you can say — than you can say, whatever. This morning, self examined the jar of Nutella that nephew has been feeding from, the last week. She still doesn’t have any idea what it tastes like. Should she give it a try? No thanks.)

Anyhoo, self now declares she has a headache, for she simply can’t bear the idea of her last hours in Tel Aviv being spent in the company of Dear Bro, and especially she doesn’t want to have her last meal at favorite coffee shop in the presence of Dear Bro, and just as we are all setting out together, self declares she feels “sick.” Suddenly, brother is extraordinarily solicitous, wondering if it was the bed in the apartment, perhaps she should try the bed in the other room (At Ruppin self slept on the sofa in the living room for 10 days straight, her clothes scattered on armchairs, and brother paid her no mind). Then he says, still in solicitous mode, “Does your stomach ache? Can we get you anything?”

And self just stops dead in her tracks and stares at him with vile loathing. She backtracks and starts walking back to the apartment and Dearest Mum tries to detain her with those strong fingers of hers that are honed from decades of piano-playing and her grip is really very hard but self shakes her off and just keeps going. The last thing self remembers seeing is Dear Mum’s face, boiling over with fury.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Self Wishes the Ruppin Apartment a Fond Farewell

Alas, self is being booted out of Ruppin apartment, not by the mysterious owner, Mr. R, who has conveniently failed to surface, but by self’s very own Dear Bro, who said to her that he wanted her out by today. Why? Because, according to Dear Bro, self is “abusing the hospitality” of Mr. R (who doesn’t give a fig; he’s not even on the same continent. As of this writing, that is).

Self suspects the real reason is that Dear Bro needs her in the new apartment so that she can baby-sit nephew while Dear Bro spends his last night with sister-in-law Ying. Yes, indeed-y, Dear Bro is leaving Tel Aviv AHEAD of self but, lest dear blog readers get too giddy with excitement, it is only, like, 24 hours ahead. And in the meantime, Dearest Mum is arriving tonight to assume Dear Bro’s place as monitor of self, to see that she “stays in line,” “doesn’t get Ying too shaken up,” and is responsible for no more of sister-in-law’s (possible) relapses.

So, self flounces back to the Ruppin apartment, very exercised (but at least the No. 10 bus showed up within 10 minutes of self’s getting to the bus stop, which has never happened in the history of self’s two-week stay in Tel Aviv, dear blog readers) and is now very tearfully packing her bags. If she had $200 left in her wallet, she’d get a ticket TOMORROW to California. And at the same time, she realizes how very ridiculous it is that she, a grown woman, should be reduced to almost-tears by thick-headed Dear Bro (who, by the way, is also harassing self to e-mail hubby picture of delightful Carmel bungalow, going for only $990,000 — a veritable “steal,” Dear Bro says — that he thinks we ought to be able to manage by going 50/50 on the down. Self said she would discuss it with hubby, but she’s already deleted the picture of the house from her message files. And she’d rather rip her tongue out than admit that, really, $990,000 is a bit rich for the likes of hubby and self, who are, as the saying goes, poor as church mice. Why else would she have put the whole trip on her credit card — adding to the already humongous bill for last year’s car repair which she is still paying off at snail-like pace of $100/ month? And why else, despite Dear Bro’s extremem mean-ness, would she still be here, subjecting herself to his mysterious and dictatorial moods?)

If only self could run to her nearest Oprah-surrogate, young man who tends “The Brunch” boutique on Gordon Street, to tell him of this latest kink in her evolution. Her first night in Tel Aviv, while self was walking around the block to cool down, she encountered this store, where she began trying on dresses in a rather distracted, haphazard fashion. Then, this man (who reminded self so much of Jake Gyllenhaal — a younger version) came up to self and said, “Darling, put that away. You look like you are getting ready to clean house.” And since then, self has dropped by the store whenever she is feeling low (which is, like, every day). The other day — or perhaps it was just last night — Oprah-surrogate said, “Darling, you need to find a way to get more money out of Mama.” Which made self laugh so hard she almost cried.

But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. Or, as someone else, perhaps Forrest Gump said, “Life is like a bowl of cherries” blah-blah-blah.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

The Looming Return

Almost as soon as self stepped into the Ruppin apartment, she heard from Ying. Self apologized for not seeing her, but was in Bethlehem and Jerusalem all day. Self told Ying she’d bring her Tom Yam soup today, from that restaurant Ying loved, on the corner of Ben Yehuda and Bograshov.

Already, California looms large. Self misses:

her garden
The Economist
The New Yorker
The New York Times Book Review
watching movies

(and, goes without saying, everyone in her family there which includes — aside from hubby and son — the two li’l crits)

A few days after self arrives, there is her reading in the Ferry Building (Apr. 9, 6 PM, for those of you who are interested in meeting self. In person. In full-on comic mode). And then there is her visit to Valerie Miner’s Women’s Studies class at Stanford (Apr. 23– Valerie tells self her students have prepared presentations on Mayor of the Roses, and seem to really like the book. Whew! That’s such a relief–!!!)

Self asked hubby what movies were showing in the local cinemas, and hubby replied that he didn’t know, he was too busy working! Self tells herself she will make it up to hubby by becoming a domestic diva for the remainder of 2008.

And now to re-visit the old Trumpeldor Cemetery, which was closed when self dropped by last Friday or Saturday. The days of her trip are already beginning to run together in her head. All she knows is that the friendliest people in Tel Aviv are taxi drivers. It’s amazing the kinds of things they feel impelled to share with her. One old man showed her an 8 x 10 glossy of his dead son, killed at the age of 33 by a fare who directed him to a dark, gloomy section of the city. Now the driver carries the picture around with him all day in his cab. Heartbreaking.

So, taxi drivers of Tel Aviv, self salutes you. All of you. From the oud-playing driver who took her to Trumpeldor, to Eli who drove her home late one night from Bialik Street and insisted on giving self his phone number, even after self told him she was married, had a son, and moreover was not one of those nice and caring Filipinas the taxi driver seemed to like so much.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

The Latest

Well, Dear Bro hied himself off to an apartment on Rothschild Avenue today, and self returned late after a trip to Bethlehem (of which self will impart more later, dear blog readers, as it was a most stimulating excursion), and self decided that she would just spend the night at Ruppin, and keep on spending the night here until either: a) owner shows up; or b) she returns home.Because self absolutely loves this neighborhood! With her new “best friend”, the boy who runs the boutique called The Brunch, just off Ben Yehuda, who always invites self to stop in and chat (Self is saving him up for Zack), and the cute coffee shop a few steps away, which serves the most delicious macchiato.And tonight she’s meeting a young South African woman who self met on her Bethlehem tour, who happens to be moving to Hong Kong in a month.Self missed seeing Ying today, but she talked with her on the phone and promised to give her a very lively account of her adventures tomorrow, along with plentiful take-out from Ying’s favorite Thai restaurant.Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.