SIGN: Flash Stories by the members of Seventeen Syllables, curated by Grace Loh Prasad for Jellyfish Review

From the Introduction by Grace Loh Prasad:

A hand or patch over one eye. A rainbow flag. A kneeling athlete. An eggplant emoji. A thumb pointing down.

What do these have in common? They are all symbols, representing something more than what is literally pictured. A symbol is a kind of sign — at its simplest, a unit of meaning. Whether they’re labels for places or ideas, indicators of prestige or health, or warnings of what’s ahead, signs operate at a level deeper than language. A sign is like a boat, but instead of water it navigates through meaning, through a shared set of references within a community.

Read the rest of the introduction, here.

Stay tuned.

#amwriting historical fiction

It took his men ten months to make it through the Straits of Magellan. By the time they did, Loaisa was dead, one of his captains murdered, and twenty-five of his crew held for ransom by the Portuguese in Pernambuco.

Doreen G. Fernandez: Fruits of Memory

from Doreen’s Introduction to Fruits of the Philippines (Bookmark, Inc.: Manila, 1997):

I remember gathering lemons in our farm: they were large and lumpy and not like the neat American lemons in supermarkets, but they were fragrant, and basketfuls of them made cooling lemonades. Right near these trees were aratiles, which we called seresa, low enough to climb, and almost exclusively for us children, since adults did not usually bother to gather the little berries, although they willingly ate what we shared with them.

During the Pacific war about ten families, all related, lived on the farm, and, guided by a young uncle, we children picked wild fruits called tino-tino and maria-maria, which I have not seen since then and cannot identify. The tino-tino looked like the cape gooseberry, except that it was usually not eaten raw, but sliced and fried like tomatoes. The maria-maria was delicately sweet, but where is it now? The farm never seemed to run out of guavas, which we ate green or ripe, or of nangka, also delicious both green and ripe (cooked into ginatan or eaten fresh).

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Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

 

Sentence of the Day: SILENCE IN THE AGE OF NOISE

p. 89:

  • Back in Norway, as I was washing the dishes, I decided to start a publishing house.

Self entertained similar thoughts, at one time in her life.

She even had a cool name for her fantasy venture: VENDETTA PRESS.

But now, looking back, she is so glad she never tried to. Because she would have ended up with heel marks on her face. She would be having meltdowns while everyone around her would be telling her not to sweat the small stuff.

Self really regrets that she did not bring Sally Rooney’s Normal People with her to the Philippines. Because now the only thing she has to read is Silence in the Age of Noise and she’s finding it very thin, in terms of content.

But anyhoo.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Quote of the Day: Erling Kagge

  • The secret to walking to the South Pole is to put one foot in front of the other, and to do this enough times.

— Erling Kagge, Silence in the Age of Noise

FOR Lens-Artists Photo Challenge # 62: SILHOUETTES

Lens-Artists Photo Challenge # 62: SILHOUETTES

Silhouettes “are a marvelous technique to add to your photographic repertoire because they can add drama, mystery, emotion, and atmosphere to your photos.”

Can they ever. Self’s favorite types of shots are silhouettes.

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A Little Past Midnight, Jollibee Drive-Thru, Manila

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Reading Nook, Self’s House in Redwood City, California. The lamp is one of her favorites: She bought it several years ago from Harvest, a furniture store in Menlo Park.

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Menchit Ongpin, wearing jewelry of her own design, at a dinner with former college classmates, Fely J’s, Greenbelt 5, Makati. Self asked Menchit to turn her head so she could capture her in  silhouette.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

 

 

A Photo-A-Week Challenge: TRADITIONS

This week’s Photo-A-Week Challenge asks us to “share photos showing a tradition you have.”

Self is visiting Dearest Mum in Manila. Been a whirl of activities, since there are many people to see.

She had a small get-together with her college classmates, and lunch with one of Dearest Mum’s oldest friends, Tita Ateta Gana.

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College Reunion: Fely J’s, Greenbelt 5, Makati

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Tita Ateta Gana and her daughter Tessa treated self and Dearest Mum to lunch at Romulo’s

Finally, self’s  headboard back home in Redwood City: made by a metallurgical engineer, to self’s own design: an atis tree!

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Self’s headboard in Redwood City, CA: Made in the Philippines

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Landscape: California

Hidden Valley Loop Trail, Joshua Tree National Park:

  • In the distance were giant boulders and, everywhere on the plain beneath them, Joshua trees. I had always loved the oaks and pines and redwoods of the Bay Area, with their long and leafy limbs, but I had missed the desert trees: stout, prickly, wild-armed, and yet utterly fragile.

The Other Americans, by Laila Lalami, p. 137

Tuesday Photo Challenge, Week 176: FALL

To self, FALL means changing weather and fading summer flowers.

It is rainy season in Manila, which means grey skies:

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Self loves the light:

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As the weather turns, the hydrangeas on self’s front porch are starting to fade:

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Hydrangeas on Front Porch, September 2019

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

“It is better to travel in hope than to arrive.” — The Guardian’s review of THE OTHER AMERICANS, by Laila Lalami

Began reading The Other Americans two weeks ago. With all the distractions of the past month, self is only at p. 132! But she is enjoying this novel hugely. She especially likes the main narrator, an Oakland-based female jazz composer. (Oakland is definitely the place!)

The point of view in this section is Efraîn, an accidental witness to the death of one of the main characters, “the old man” referred to in the passage below.

After the old man robbed me of the pleasure of watching my daughter’s performance in the school play, he invaded my dreams. Nearly every night, I returned to that little stretch of the 62, my hands covered with grease, and watched his body roll off the hood of the car and land on the pavement. I thought of him now as Guerrero. Merciless in his campaign against me. Early in the morning, when I shaved by the yellow light above the bathroom mirror, he bumped against me and made me cut myself. In the van, while Enrique read the map, Guerrero was in the back, sabotaging our equipment by poking a hole in the carpet-cleaning hose or raiding our food supplies. I couldn’t find my Inca Kola when I opened my lunchbox, even though I had put it there myself. “You can have some of mine,” Enrique said, handing me his can.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

 

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